sitting quietly he felt his solar plexus as a dark tunnel. a cold wind, a funnel of debris and shit and hopelessness. sure, his heart was rent and in his mind, nothing but dark thoughts; and the day had just begun.
s. was on the third floor of a dollar a day "single room occupancy"; dirty shower down the dim hall. there was something so depressing
about that corner of manhattan. third avenue and fourteenth st.

then there was the anonymity of the "horn and hardart", the last of the 'automats'. put a nickel in for a cup of coffee and a dime for apple pie or a bowl of soup. this was s's office. he had started a journal.




sipping his second cup of coffee he gathered his thoughts. this was a serious diary, black, 14"x 11"; no lines, so he could add sketches.
he wrote on the inside of the cover:
"this is a journal of the events, emotions and thoughts i have experienced during the period between 1966 when i first began to try to find something (in life) more than what was automatically mine and the time that i did find something and no longer need to do this.
this journal is a discipline and a reminder."

the first page is dated 1/19/66
some bullshit about a girl named ruth, a meeting with bob f. and carolyn where s. talks his head off spewing ideas for a movie they plan to make together.
and one line: "called julie, venice, ca..---- same as ever."

the next day he talks effusively about his job in the 'messenger service' , the injustices at the hands of the owner mrs. altman and the movie "darling" which he reads as the existentialist futility of an aimless life and compares his relationship with julie to that of the hero 'robert'.

on the 24th of january, s. complains about a rash of weeping sores on the palms of his hands, gigi and bob f. and the movie, sue bertram is around and tells s. a little about entering the 'work'. that night s. has a dream where he meets this white haired man behind his desk who asks him, "why have you come? what do you want?"
..... from the journal: his dream: " i want to become clean." he said, "why don't you wash yourself? i asked how? and he stopped and thought a while and i thought he was going to tell me something but he gave me some soap instead.
i am so sick of being nothing---- i must do something .

*************************************************

at one of their many instructive meetings at the automat, f. says, "julie is in town." they agree to meet at her apartment the next day. they agree to work together for a fund to pay a lawyer to regain the boys from the foster home in woodstock. bob would rent a car and be a gypsy cab driver at night. s. made a pretty sign for him to flash in the theatre district. it said 'TAXI' in giant ornate colored letters.

nancy romagnoli, a new friend s. had met at the "paradox", a macrobiotic restaurant on the lower east side, helped s. with his costume. a bright green over-sized angora sweater, with a collar they made together, a pair of bright red dancer's leotards, a crepe paper red and orange large flower with a butterfly pin attached.

s.'s idea was to buy dozens of red roses in the subway, where they were cheaper by the dozen. beautiful fresh long stemmed roses which hadn't even started to bloom. he would sell these for a dollar apiece in the high class eastside restaurants on saturday night.

with all of these things s. was made-up, all white faced with a red dot on his nose and a perpetual smile like a mime (he did this himself) and dressed (by the girls) at seven o'clock that evening with four dozen roses in a flat box, s. stumbled into his first restaurant. he would never say a single word or it wouldn't work. he had to use sign language through-out the night.

a short white mustached armenian stepped out of a bar. s. was just walking by very fast. the man stopped him impulsively, "what are you doing?"
s. waved his hand indicating the roses in the box.
"ahhh, you're giving them?"
s. rubbed his fingers together; the sign for money.
"oh, i get it. you are a clown." s. nodded demurely, smiling his biggest smile.

the armenian bustled s. off to a liquor store. from the back of the store, some children came out with their mother. they were greatly surprised and pleased. s. bowed and capered and gave them each a rose. during this performance the kind father surreptitiously placed a dollar in s's hand.

although s. was supposed to be selling roses for a dollar apiece, he thought it was best to say nothing.

another time s. was rushing around a corner and surprised a young couple coming towards him. she said,
"where are you coming from?", as if in a fairytale. s. gesticulated that he had these flowers to sell and held up his index finger; meaning one dollar apiece.
delighted, this beauty, in a fine evening gown, turned to her indian escort, expectantly. the lucky man reached for his wallet.

s. went to bars and restaurants. at first they made him leave. but he wouldn't. the patrons sometimes insisted that the management let him stay. after awhile, he learned to sort of come falling in as if someone had shoved him. then trippingly he would regain his balance dramatically in a room full of people. and the antics between the maitre d's and s. always brought roars of laughter. s. would pout and stomp around as if he wouldn't go.

s. observed that the girls were all enchanted with him, or the idea of him, and wanted a flower, no matter the cost was one dollar--- they would insist on having one. even the hatcheck girls, the waitresses and the showgirls expressed their sympathy. some would buy a flower themselves, some even tipped him. but they all helped. at one big party in a french 'haute cuisine' restaurant, a man at the head of the table paid for six roses for the ladies in his company. the pretty waitresses shamed the managers who tried to throw him out. they invited s. to meander around to all the tables. they helped with the flowers, passing them out.



what woman's love or friendship is not worth the cost of a long stemmed rosebud?

that night s. returned to grand central station for more roses two more times. he made $132 at a cost of $12 .

julie got the boys back. it took a while longer than they expected. but she got them back.

sue had both feet up on the windowsill. she aimed the luger at the clouds outside. she had rocked back in the fragile wicker chair and held it for sixty seconds. s. was drawing furiously on a big pad. the session was standard. twenty one minute poses, four fives, two twenties and a forty minute drawing at the end.

for the forty minute drawing sue was leaning on one elbow and aiming the stage replica lugar down into the street. after ten minutes sue got a little bored. she was only fifteen, just a kid, but a very precocious kid. s. noticed that her aiming had become more animated and the expression on her face was demonic. s. looked out the other window and saw the lunch crowd vacating the booths at the 'corner cupboard'. someone had noticed.

within minutes durphy came crashing through the door. his .45 searched the room for the sniper. durphy was a squat constable, about 300 lbs. of panjandrum idiocy. s. blithly looked up from his drawing. he almost laughed at the image of durphy to the rescue. the cop looked like a bermuda traffic cop with black pants and white short sleeve shirt. it was mid summer in vermont and hot. his cap was ornate like the chief of police in chicago.

he actually cuffed poor sue. sue had grown up in woodstock. her family owned the ski lift and durphy knew that. he now knew that the luger was plastic, but he still went through the motions as if he had captured a 'hitman'.
he glared at s., who was innocent, as if to say, "i've got my eye on you too, and i'll be back."

sue bertram had knocked on s's studio door a few months before. she knew bob anderson and 'babysat' for him sometimes, and wanted to meet his young protege'. she liked s. and he liked her. she looked like a young betty davis and could carry on an intelligent conversation. she had a sister and a couple of brothers. sue introduced him to the local teenage population who treated s. as a celebrity. he was often invited to their beer parties on saturday nights and bullshit sessions with the guys late into the night.

sue's father came and got her. she was released without charges. s's studio was declared 'off limits', but sue had a mind of her own, and came anyway. "om tat sat".



it's not that s. was bad or anything. smoking 'pot' now and then when he wasn't working because he was restless. he loved chaos periodically; disorientation inspired him. he'd learned that from arthur rimbaud....and he had a way of toggling from intense periods of dedication to disorderly conduct; even roguish behavior. his reslessness drove him to 'thumb' down to the city every couple of months to hang out in the village, get high with friends, sleep around. he always scored a couple ounces of pot before going back. then he would languish around or walk the bald hills for miles around.

yes, s. communed with nature. is that a sin. is it a sin to twirl around naked in hidden glens and expose himself to the summer sun? is it a sin to crouch in a cold mountain swimming hole and sense the animal life of him? maybe. he was shameless but not immoral. it was this natural sensation which gave mystical energy to his work. he would fill up his heart with pure love of the grassy hills, trees... the birds talked to him. once, he came upon a herd of wild cattle who charged him. he wasn't hurt but he was scared enough to run for miles afterwards.

s. did go back to that same hill with a sketchpad another day. on one page you see a sharp horned young bull in the distance looking at him. then you see the head quickly sketched, then bigger to the right, an eye. and even larger than life, the eye with eyelashes and an angry furiousness. he just kept drawing. these cattle were really wild; but all talk.

the 'enfant terrible' had an inherent perogative given by his inner 'angel' to disregard the power of any authority. if he reasoned with words about it, which he didn't, he would have said he was empowered by his dedication to live as a pure artist. s. didn't think about it. he didn't control anything. he was moved to do this or that and that is all. sure he read and thought and absorbed books on art, but he followed his own daemon.

half the time he led a life of elegant idleness eating when he was hungry and sleeping when he was tired. and there was some cunning to this technique because when suddenly, he would feel the urge, his heart was full. and he could work.
*******************************************************

bob tate came to town, with his wife, cheryl and daughter, jennifer. they opened an antique store on the second floor across the street from s's room.
in the fall they transformed the high ceilinged room into a coffee house and called it "the cinnamon tree". the bare brick walls now had five antique arches rescued from some demolished saloon. they were serving hot chocolate, pastries, teas, coffee and cider. it was just like a village coffee shop modeled with the help of a real coffee shop owner, bob fitzgerald. the brass and copper espresso machine culminated the visual ambiance of gas lamps on the walls and all the antiques hanging around; marble wash basins, scythes and saddles.

the tates wanted to fill the five spaces with murals. anderson recommended s. they made a deal. s. would retain ownership of the five murals but would do them in exchange for meals and the use of their shower. the only mural the tates commissioned was the centerpiece which should be conceived on the theme "the cinnamon tree".

s. was very enthusiastic. he painted the mural within the week. a winding tree surrounded by a train of children being towed through the air by a muse. some children sketched into the leaves and branches of the tree. s. took a picture of it and delivered the 4x5 foot painting to the tates. it was nice having a hot shower.



four more paintings followed in a timely fashion and everything was fine. he had a place to hang out, play chess read and listen to classical music. sometimes on the weekends they brought in local talent. the folksinger of the area, the harpist, even a pianist and ensembles. no big deal. no big posters just live entertainment.

s. sold a few paintings at the woodstock gallery. the winter seemed long and was incredible cold. sometimes it snowed for days in a row. s. read books and sat by the window watching the snowflakes fall.

s's angel was dedication to art.
but for the most part s. was an 'outsider'; an interloper.




come my fellow camels
the desert is wide
the journey is long
but while yet we breathe
the clean air. rejoice!
and rise again.

s.c. easter poem