Times Square is still there.  Ventured out last night with a minimal setup.  Didn't get there till after 1:am, so I wasn't expecting much, especially on a Monday night.  Sure enough, it was very quiet.  The caricaturists almost outnumbered the people with only a couple drawing here and there.  I stayed 2 hours and didn't get a nibble.  I did get to wiggle eyebrows with a lot of Chinese acquaintances.  It's been at least 5 years and I still recognized every artist I saw. 

I set up a quarter block from the largest cluster of artists, sat down and lit my pipe.  It wasn't two minutes before a chinese guy I remembered being one of the best came and set up 10 feet from me.  He nodded guardedly, producing a cigarette.  I gave a nod back that said, "I got no issues, I remember the code." with a flickered smile of "It's good to see you again."  These guys are not expressive characters and I try not to jangle with their composure.  I stared off down the block.

"You got light?"  He was approaching me.

"Yeah."  I stood up fumbling in my pocket.  This was a good sign.  I didn't expect him to be anything but indifferent to me, but here he was, honoring me with a chance to be the provider.  I handed him a lime green bic.  "Long time, no see!" I said cheerfully.  He half nodded and then set to lighting his cigarette.  "Must be about 5 years." I added.  This was too much.  He put one hand up and if to ward off anything else I might say and gave back the lighter with the other.  Then backed up nodding and went and sat down.  On reflection I should have held my peace until he'd gotten a good puff and then waited some more to see if he'd initiate some conversation.  Call me Mr. Eager.

We sat awkwardly for 10 minutes.  Till a lot of noise came from a small crowd across the street and this guy packed up and zipped over.  Emboldened by our interchange I carried my set up to the middle of the nearest cluster and took my place as 'one of the gang'.

When I was last at Arthur’s Studio his table hosted an army of half formed figures in clay.  Each one I examined offered a face or limb of exquisite detail emerging from the clay lumps and blobs.  The beauty of the protrusions was devastating.  “Have you ever finished one of these?” I marveled.  “Never!” crowed Arthur, “Finish and Die!”  Being accustomed to his outbursts, I smiled, preparing my debate, but became distracted by his arrangement of the figures.

A goodly number of hands and arms had gathered in a semicircle near a corner of the table all stretching toward and almost touching a central lump of mud.  Though it was much larger than they, it held no detail I could discern.  I couldn’t decide if the arms were attacking or worshiping the lump.  Their desire to lay hold was palpable.  From here my eye was drawn to another gathering near the center of the table.

***

This is the beginning.  To read the rest go to my artist's statement.

Once there were these two boys living in Brooklyn named George and Bob.  Now George was the older and he was Eight.  Bob was Four. Every morning when they got up, their Mom made them oatmeal.  Her name was Georgia.  This wasn't your Quaker Guy Quick Oats- this was like a multi-grain bird feed that had to be soaked overnight before you could cook it.  Their Dad called it 'Gruel,' but it tasted pretty good with honey and cream. His name was Bruce and he was a musician. Every evening after the boys brushed their teeth and cleaned up their toys, Bruce would play them a song before bed on his keyboard.  Sometimes it was one he made up and sometimes it was one someone else had written.  On this night he was making one up called Parasite Boogy about teeny worms that live deep in your sinuses and make you dance when they crawl.

This is 10 foot by 9 foot and is not yet finished.

 

This is from last year.

Micah Dave and Doug