17 April 2020. The Beast.
That's what he called it, when I approached him from across the street. I'd been standing and watching as Doug unfurled a large rain slicker--some kind of light-weight nylon, light blue in color, which he was draping over his baling-wire effigy. The most important part being the hood--it took on an animation when he pulled it over the top of the wire form--came alive--even from a distance. I've exaggerated the height just a bit--but the whole thing must have been seven feet, and I realized that I wanted to go across and tell him how much I liked it. Give him something, too--it's probably been a month since that first night of the lock-down, when I saw him standing in front of the lighted shop window.
An encounter with Doug always takes its own direction--or maybe his direction. After all, living on the street as he does (I think he finds a place to sleep on the Key Route strip, or maybe under the Bart tracks, a choice on his part, rough, no doubt), and yesterday, as I got close, I saw that he was now missing some teeth. Like the Rastafari elders, Mortimo Planno even--and Doug has something of that gravitas, even as a lone American black man.
I told him I liked seeing what he was doing. He looked up, gruffly (always), "You mean the beast?" With that characteristic emphasis--a kind of challenge, like a cutting session among jazz musicians. But the emphasis was also for himself--came out of Doug's own inner world, a reminder of what he was about. Inner world--that's the right phrase, actually--part of the life he's chosen--a kind of street monk, or public hermit--always present, like a witness--and always working, making something with his hands.
With his tools, that is. Like the old lineman's pliers. After all, his materials are metal and plastic and wire, so the cutting and bending and forming involve sharp edges. Gloves notwithstanding. But he's out there all day, seated against a wall, creating...
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I'd taken the twenty out of my pocket--folded up in there over the last weeks for when I'd need it. And usually I'm not eager for these encounters--the way you have to gear up with Doug. (Having my own inner world as well.) However, yesterday was right, so, from across the street, I pulled out the bill, looking around for a rock--a weight--so I could leave it on the metal bin top near where he was standing. I told him what I was doing, of course, as a way in--holding out my hand. He nodded, and I put the money down nearby. When I turned back to him, Doug asked, "You want something?" I always forget that this will be his question. The reciprocity being only fair. "No, I just wanted to say hello, tell you I liked what you're making." He thanked me, humbly, actually. Words are meaningful. "You want a spinner?" A moment's hesitation. "I have one in my yard!" Insufficient. "But yes, another time." (Why get into the complexities!) This he accepted--it seemed we'd found a righteous accord. Then I told him that what got me was the moment he clothed the figure in the hood...
"You're an important guy in the neighborhood." Disbelief. "Who, me?" "A lot of people are aware that you're here..."
Did I add, "They like you...?"
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Note: Other thoughts. Goya's hooded figures in the Caprichos and the Disasters of War. El Coco--an unnameable fear. And the pliers--remembering from years back when Claude Stoller, at school, told me he wanted his students to draw tools. Because Claude himself loved them so much--what they meant to him, almost metaphysical. But he couldn't convey this to a bunch of eighteen-year-olds, so he'd sought out my advice--as a younger friend, someone (then) closer to the students in age... But what I recall most was how important this was to Claude... Like the Henry Bertoia sculpture in his living room--hundreds of brass rods inserted into a hardwood base--the point being to run your hand over the top, letting them sound...
