The Artist

A true story.This NYC fortune chronicle will tug at your heartstrings.

Photo by Jeffrey Blum on Unsplash

Radiohead

Our man was alone, broke, and turning grey. If he was an artist, he was one without any classically useful materials and subsisted at the mercy of the elements.

In the dumpsters of New York’s many art schools and studios, he would find used canvasses—sometimes even a blank-ish one—maybe dented— decidedly “not good enough.”

He’d paint a bright red surface and stick a soda can dead in the middle, with a butterfly on top. His canvases were bold and bright, and seeing them as l hurtled by on some errand made me smile.

He sculpted too. And when he did, he sculpted BIG! A human-sized sculpture of newspapers—wrinkled and interleaved stood in the shape of a disjointed pyramid. Parts of the big, bold headlines wrapped themselves into obscurity — on purpose, teasing. He set that in the street. This original form of click-bait had me tilting my head to read more. Others came by, twisting their necks too.

But it was “Radiohead” that really did it. Confiding in me that he thought people in NYC were “robots,” he stated definitively late one afternoon that he “needed a third man” and beckoned me to follow him to the closest city firehouse—where the guys knew they were helping out a special person.

Out back, under a protective tarp, stood an enormous metallic, bakelite, plastic, and—I don’t know what else—sculpture. He’d amassed a huge collection of broken radios, arranged them to his liking—their antennae blazing disjointed patterns in all directions—and welded the lot.

The result was an unwieldy and immovable stack of radios and parts of every size, shape, and era—new ones laughing at the old. All topped off with a 1960s television set. A friendly fireman was standing at the ready. He had promised to help our man drag the unwieldy monstrosity into the street.

But the old guy had gauged it right. It was just too heavy and awkward for the two of them. So, the three of us set about putting our shoulders into it.

We arrived back at our man’s outdoor digs just as the rain was beginning to steepen into “Newspaper Wraps,” black and white and colours all over—becoming increasingly a wash that blurred those headlines to even greater provocations.

Just before they vanished forever into oblivion, we dumped the new, as yet untitled work beside “Newspaper.” The fireman made a final gesture and sacrifice—throwing his engine-red poncho partly over the fading paper sculpture—while the amassed radios shone alive with the weirdness of magic hour light and the damp.

Just then, a young man, well-equipped for the rain with an English MacIntosh over a dark suit, a black umbrella, and a copy of “Art & Auction” magazine tucked under his arm, passed us, passed the sculptures—and walked briskly on by. Well, almost on by...

The cape's red movement caught his eye, and his mind remembered what it might never have noticed except for that arcing motion in scarlet. He stopped still, looking like he might have forgotten something. Then he turned on his Italian-made heels and looked. I held my breath. I looked, too, really looking at the sculpture for the first time.

The fireman waited as long as he could—a long pause it was. Then he tapped his cap at the well-dressed stranger knowingly. That tap and the look in his eyes said, “Sure, the old guy is maybe a little ‘loco,’ but probably also ‘a genius.’”

Then, grinning, the fireman said one word—with a sense of conviction that took me a little by surprise. Before turning for the stationhouse, he said that one word:

"Radiohead,”

I gaped. Did he mean our man or the sculpture?

And the art dealer, who had taken steps towards the work, then three steps back, had, by this time, composed himself. He nodded once, in agreement with the fireman's suggestion.

Then he looked us over and, oh, so politely, brushed aside the red plastic poncho. He took three steps back again and looked. He took a fourth step back and looked again.

Passers-by stopped. Several stood still for quite some time, just looking. He, the expert, needed time, so no one moved.

Finally, as he breathed in and out again, I stepped on tiptoe, away from the sculptures and the other works… They weren’t mine. I sort of waved my hand in our man’s direction--not much of an introduction, l guess. I was about to sneak off to attend to my own business when Art-dealer-man breathed in deeply, smiled at our man and said,

“Every great piece needs a name, no?”

The old man’s eyes grew round.

“’Radiohead’ it is,” he cheerfully announced to onlookers. Now let’s get these works out of the rain, shall we? With your permission, Sir… Mr.,” he added, nodding to his newest artist.

“Larry,” said our man.

“Larry! It's Wonderful to meet the multimedia artist himself,” he said. He grabbed Larry’s hand in a quick handshake as he removed his Mac and covered as much of Radiohead as he could, finally crowning the television topper with his umbrella. I pulled the remaining canvasses out of the rain.

“Come with me,” the gallerist said to Larry. We’ll commandeer the van. I’m right around the corner.”

He bowed slightly to me, “Would you be so good as to watch over the artwork? It’ll just be for a few moments while I have them pull ‘round. Excellent timing! They’re still on duty from a shipment.”

He and Larry set off, with Larry sending a backward look of gratitude my way as I found my eyes tearing up. I was beginning to cry in the rain—but Larry, well, Larry looked just fine.

~o~

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~o~

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