(no subject)
The Documentary Artist
By Jaime Manrique
PartIV
That Christmas, I took to the streets again, ostensibly to shoot more footage, but secretly to find Sebastian. It was around that time that the homeless stopped being for me anonymous human roaches of the urban squalor. Now they were people with features, with faces, with stories, with loved ones desparately looking for them, trying to save them. No longer moral lepers to be shunned, the young among them especially fascinated me. I wondered how many of them were intelligent, gifted, even geniuses who, because of crack or other drugs, or rejection, or hurt, or lack of love, had taken to the streets, choosing to drop out in the worst way.
The documentary and my search for Sebastian became one. This search took me to places I had never been before. I started to ride the subway late at night, filming the homeless who slept in the cars, seeking warmth, travelling all night long. Most of them were black, and many were young, and a great number of them seemed insane. I became adept at distinguishing the different shades of street people. The ones around Forty-Second Street looked vicious, murderous, possessed by the virulent devils of the drugs. The ones who slept on the subways - or Port Authority, Grand Central, and Penn Station - were poorer, did not deal inj drugs or prostitution. Many of them were cripples, or retarded, and their eyes didnt flash the message KILLKILLKILLKILL. I began to hang out outside the city shelters where they passed the nights. I lookedfor Sebastian in those places, in the parks, along the waterfronts of Manhattan, under the brdges, anywhere these people congregate. Sebastians smile - the one he had given me as he left my apartment - hurt me like an icepick slamming at my heart
One Saturday afternoon late in April, I was on my way to see Blake, a guy I had met recently in a soup kitchen where I had started doing volunteer work. Since I was half an hour early and the evening was pleasant, the air warm and inviting, I went into Union Square Park to admire the flowers.
I was sitting on a bench facing east when Sebastian passed by me and sat on the next bench. Although it was too warm for it, he was still wearing the jacket I havd given him in the winter. He was carrying a knapsack and in one hand he held what looked like a can of beer wrapped in a paper bag. He kept his free hand on the knapsack as if to guard it from thieves; and with the other hand, he took sips from his beer, all the while staring at his rotting sneakers.
Seeing him wearing that jacket was very strange. It was as though he were wearing a part of me, as if he had borrowed one of my limbs. I debated on whether to approach him, or just to get up and walk away. For the last couple of months - actually since I had met Blake - my obsession with finding Sebastian had lifted. I got up.
My heart began to beat so fast I was sure people could hear it. I breathed in deeply; I looked straight ahead at the tender new leaves dressing the trees, the beautifully arranged and colorful beds of flowers, the denuded sky, which wore a coat of enameled topaz, streaked with pink, and breathed in the air, which was unusuallt light, and then I walked up to where Sebastian sat.
Anxiously, I said, "Sebastian, how are you?" Without surprise he looked up. I was relieved to see the mad grin was gone.
"Hi," he greeted me.
I sat next to him. His jacket was badly soiled, and a pungent, putrid smell emenated from him. Hs face was bruised, his lips chapped and inflamed, but he didnt seem withdrawn.
"Are you getting enough to eat? Do you have a place to sleep?" I asked.
"How are you doing?" he asked evasively.
"I'm OK. I've been worried about you. I looked for you all winter." My voice trailed off; i was beginning to feel agitated.
"Thanks, but believe me, this is all I can handle right now." he said carefully, with frightening lucidity. "Im not crazy. I know where to go for help if I want it. I want you to understand that Im homeless because I chose to be homeless; I choose not to integrate," he said with vehemence. Forcefully, with seriousness, he added, "This is where I feel OK right now."
The lights of the building had begun to go on, like fireflies in the darkening sky. A chill ran through me. I reached in my pocket for a few bills and pressed them into his swollen, raw hands.
"I'm listed in the book. If you ever need me, call me, okay? I'll always be happy to hear from you."
"Thanks. I appreciate it."
I placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed hard. I got up, turned around, and loped out of union park
By Jaime Manrique
PartIV
That Christmas, I took to the streets again, ostensibly to shoot more footage, but secretly to find Sebastian. It was around that time that the homeless stopped being for me anonymous human roaches of the urban squalor. Now they were people with features, with faces, with stories, with loved ones desparately looking for them, trying to save them. No longer moral lepers to be shunned, the young among them especially fascinated me. I wondered how many of them were intelligent, gifted, even geniuses who, because of crack or other drugs, or rejection, or hurt, or lack of love, had taken to the streets, choosing to drop out in the worst way.
The documentary and my search for Sebastian became one. This search took me to places I had never been before. I started to ride the subway late at night, filming the homeless who slept in the cars, seeking warmth, travelling all night long. Most of them were black, and many were young, and a great number of them seemed insane. I became adept at distinguishing the different shades of street people. The ones around Forty-Second Street looked vicious, murderous, possessed by the virulent devils of the drugs. The ones who slept on the subways - or Port Authority, Grand Central, and Penn Station - were poorer, did not deal inj drugs or prostitution. Many of them were cripples, or retarded, and their eyes didnt flash the message KILLKILLKILLKILL. I began to hang out outside the city shelters where they passed the nights. I lookedfor Sebastian in those places, in the parks, along the waterfronts of Manhattan, under the brdges, anywhere these people congregate. Sebastians smile - the one he had given me as he left my apartment - hurt me like an icepick slamming at my heart
One Saturday afternoon late in April, I was on my way to see Blake, a guy I had met recently in a soup kitchen where I had started doing volunteer work. Since I was half an hour early and the evening was pleasant, the air warm and inviting, I went into Union Square Park to admire the flowers.
I was sitting on a bench facing east when Sebastian passed by me and sat on the next bench. Although it was too warm for it, he was still wearing the jacket I havd given him in the winter. He was carrying a knapsack and in one hand he held what looked like a can of beer wrapped in a paper bag. He kept his free hand on the knapsack as if to guard it from thieves; and with the other hand, he took sips from his beer, all the while staring at his rotting sneakers.
Seeing him wearing that jacket was very strange. It was as though he were wearing a part of me, as if he had borrowed one of my limbs. I debated on whether to approach him, or just to get up and walk away. For the last couple of months - actually since I had met Blake - my obsession with finding Sebastian had lifted. I got up.
My heart began to beat so fast I was sure people could hear it. I breathed in deeply; I looked straight ahead at the tender new leaves dressing the trees, the beautifully arranged and colorful beds of flowers, the denuded sky, which wore a coat of enameled topaz, streaked with pink, and breathed in the air, which was unusuallt light, and then I walked up to where Sebastian sat.
Anxiously, I said, "Sebastian, how are you?" Without surprise he looked up. I was relieved to see the mad grin was gone.
"Hi," he greeted me.
I sat next to him. His jacket was badly soiled, and a pungent, putrid smell emenated from him. Hs face was bruised, his lips chapped and inflamed, but he didnt seem withdrawn.
"Are you getting enough to eat? Do you have a place to sleep?" I asked.
"How are you doing?" he asked evasively.
"I'm OK. I've been worried about you. I looked for you all winter." My voice trailed off; i was beginning to feel agitated.
"Thanks, but believe me, this is all I can handle right now." he said carefully, with frightening lucidity. "Im not crazy. I know where to go for help if I want it. I want you to understand that Im homeless because I chose to be homeless; I choose not to integrate," he said with vehemence. Forcefully, with seriousness, he added, "This is where I feel OK right now."
The lights of the building had begun to go on, like fireflies in the darkening sky. A chill ran through me. I reached in my pocket for a few bills and pressed them into his swollen, raw hands.
"I'm listed in the book. If you ever need me, call me, okay? I'll always be happy to hear from you."
"Thanks. I appreciate it."
I placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed hard. I got up, turned around, and loped out of union park