The Revolution is long over, but is there not something past this non-resolve? Holding this in-between space calls for some kind of action. Ride the rails? Waiting. I hate this waiting “in-transit” time.
I transfer to the “N” train and decide to get out at E57th Street because I can’t take it anymore. Get out and up into the city air. All anxiety evaporates. How does the city do that? I get a coffee. Walking north in an ogling crowd of out-of-towners with the studio bumping behind me rolling over simulated cobblestones. Misty rain. Sea breeze. Horse drawn buggies. $50 passenger fee maximum. I claim a spot on the path next to a woman who is vending these masonite signs that have images printed on them like a caricature of an excited man advocating water conservation through drinking more beer. She is noticeably nervous as I wheel my cart up next to her booth. I’m instantly hyper self conscious and tense. I thought it was a good spot next to a huge oak tree and I like being near the other vendors and artists. She’s eying up my bric-a-brac operation. Compared to her I am an amateur. I blurt a friendly “Hi” and gesture with my hands like I’m drawing on a piece of paper. “Caricature,” I say. This puts her more at ease. She smiles at me, nods in agreement, then gestures down the path to all of the other open vending spots closer to a group of professional caricature artists. I sort of nod, smile, and pack everything up. There are little green plastic medallions set into the composite hexagon stonework paths in Central Park marking where the city prefers vendors to set up shop. I choose another spot and begin to set up the portable studio. Two chairs, a folding TV tray, disposable pallet, brushes, rags, watercolor paper, box of paints, India ink, plastic yogurt container, and my cardboard “Caricature” sign. I’m anxious to start painting.