Walking to Mama Buzz from the WC, I first saw a skinny man, elderly and black, wearing faded blue overalls spattered with white. Though I am friends with hundreds of artists and have been to countless art shows over the past 10 years, this homeless guy has to be my favorite Oakland artist. This was in the early summer of 2006. I was crossing MLK on 23rd St – there’s a freeway overpass and he was on the sidewalk in front of a fenced-in greenbelt of ivy. He was tall and had a small white afro and trimmed white beard. The St. Vincent Du Paul on 23rd provides free hot meals 6 days a week for anyone who needs to eat, so there are lots of homeless and poor people around. In this sense it was “normal” to see yet “another homeless person”. But he stood out from across the street. There was something I recognized in him…a trace of defiance, perhaps, as he moved about restlessly on long limbs. There was a blue tarp and piles of newspaper and a bucket of white liquid that appeared thicker than water.
His work was a sagging sculpture. He’d crafted a decent human form, but the scavenged materials were beyond their limits. I realized that he was working with the same principals in fashion with many young artists: found objects and garbage.
As I passed him, consumed in his work, he only gave me a depreciating look. And I was also thinking about the similarities and differences between us. I was certainly humbled by his display of artistic discipline and ingenuity. I felt conflicted about having my own warehouse space in which to do whatever type of creation I wanted, while he worked on the street. While I had little money for art, he literally had none. I thought about how shy I am of my failures, how private I like to be throughout the inherent process of trial and error when starting a new project. That he was out in public for anyone to criticize or look down upon was only one axis of vulnerability. He was further subject to violence or harassment from the police and/or criminal elements. And here he was, pants and chest covered in homebrewed plaster, like he’d had his arms wrapped around the piece.
I would see this guy around the neighborhood…a number of times that summer. He was always in those few blocks around the St. Vincent Du Paul, and I would pass him on the normal route I walked to my local cafe. More often then not, he was working. I saw 2 or 3 subsequent experimental sculptures. All were efforts at life size renditions of the human form. But elements were out of scale…it was apparent he continued to have problems with his medium. Details such as fingers and facial features were unable to be rendered. Also, the forms lacked support and tended to fall apart and/or disintegrate in the elements. This was understandable – as it’s not easy to make a recognizable human form out of garbage. But I remember seeing him with a new pair of overalls: some pretty cool tan Carharts. They quickly became spattered with his plaster mixture. It made me happy. And he, well…when I passed he seemed either angry or cold. I tell you, he had a spark to his eyes that was arresting. I caught glimpses of him interacting with other homeless folk and witnessed a quiet dignity and reservation as he held his own on the ghetto streets. I couldn’t help but take notice.
At the end of the summer, he realized his best work in the series. Right in front of the homeless shelter, slightly larger than life, a man stood. Protruding jauntily from the head, rather flag-like, was a no parking sign which served as the primary columnar support. The figure appeared to be made of cardboard and wire and newspaper, all covered in white plaster. Within the plaster he had carved details such as curly hair, eyes and mouth. There were fantastically large hands and shoes that were executed in a realistic and expressive manner. A newspaper jacket with curling lapels and buttons. This sculpture stood. It stood there throughout Indian summer. People asked about it – other artists especially. I told them who it was. We all respected this guy. If you can believe it, it stood all winter. Finally, maybe in January 2007, the cops or garbage men or some joint task force cut it down and took it away.
The lesson I took from this was a reminder of the cost of success. How the key to doing anything great (or even well) is, more than anything, practice. Especially allowing oneself to fail, adjust and try again. Ultimately I was inspired by these experiences to continue my own work. Art is this perplexing occupation in which we are compelled to make things we imagine and recreate the things we have experienced. Persistence and conviction is required, self-doubts must be overcome and put aside. We are channeling our passions here in Oakland, and I am proud to be a member of this community.
