Lower Manahattan, August 20, 2021
I make my way through the winding streets of lower Manhattan enroute to the Traffic Violations Bureau. Running late as usual, I hasten to make my 8:30 hearing so I can plead 'not guilty' to a ticket received early in the pandemic while racing on my bike to a doctor's appointment. I pass the newly built World Trade Center, Trinity Church, and The Wall Street Bull. Tourists scrambling for photos, taking turns standing beside the larger than life bronze beast. This neighborhood is one with which I have a history. I am tempted to say 'much' history but how much can one person in one lifetime really have? I ask myself this as I walk amid the civic buildings punctuated by their Grecian columns and classic sculptures of strong-bellied bare-chested winged ladies holding hands with cherubic babies - a simulacrum of those from the days of yore. I make my way to the 10th floor of 17 Battery Place, and when my number flashes on the digital screen, a desk clerk informs me that the officer who gave me the ticket is sick, and I am rescheduled for January. I take the elevator down to the street and wander across Broadway, eastward to the South Street Seaport, noting the the many changes that have taken place in the past years.
My history with the seaport began in 2003. For six years, I owned and operated a caricature kiosk. From the middle of May until the end of September, I drew tourists by day, and locals by night. For those months, along with the other seasonal workers, I kept hours through the lengthening shadows of the Summer into the chill of early Autumn, when the crowds disappeared.
I was still very new to New York City, and had just moved on from a teaching position, which had proved to be a poor fit. I approached the South Street Management, when I noticed a portrait artist drawing tourists in the center of Pier 17. He was only there occasionally I had observed, and I wondered if there was a way to join forces with him. Seaport management explained that the Pier was the exclusive domain of the portrait artist, as it had been for years, but they would allow me to sign my own contract for a different location. They charged me a paltry $600 a month , the caveat being that I would be allowed no secure storage, only a spot in the mall building service hallway near the elevators. Here I could keep my display cabinet, its contents locked inside, and my umbrella. The young woman representing the management said I would be positioned at the end of Fulton Street, where Water Street becomes Pearl.
I built the cabinet myself, modeling it heavily on those in use at the amusement parks where I trained as a caricature artist in Denver and then Sandusky, Ohio. I affixed framed demonstration drawings to its exterior - some based on celebrities and some from imagination. Three doors opened to three cubbies, where I would keep my supplies and personal items. Casters on its base would allow for easy rolling across the short block of cobblestones, to my designated location. Back then, the Fulton Fish Market was still operating under the JFK where it had been for 180 years. The busy merchants were mostly gone for the day when I began my own, but the smell of fish hung heavy in the air as I pushed my cabinet along rough hewn cobblestones, passed historic brick buildings to my designated spot on Water Street, at the far end of the seaport property just beside a small monument. Shaped like a lighthouse, this was a monument to the victims who perished on the Titanic in 1911. I hoped that this not bode poorly for my enterprise. Water Street gets its name from the fact that beginning in 1626, when NYC was purchased from the Lenape Indians, builders and engineers created bulkheads from sunken ships, and then adding landfill which created new maritime borders for the rapidly growing city. Water Street became Pearl Street to the south of my location, this named after the many oysters found in this area in the 1600's.
Early on, I noticed that my day's beginning coincided with that of the hot dog vendor across the street. I would see the stand being pushed along Pearl, its stainless shape glistening in the morning light. The figure pushing the weighty wheeled structure was a small-statured lady built like the powerful wooden boats docked along the pier -her face red with effort and short grey hairs straining from beneath a baseball cap. I learned that her name is Sophia, and she has been selling hot dogs at Fulton and Water for 16 years. She was of Greek descent and knew all the good Greek restaurants in Queens. I could easily see my cabinet from Sophia's hot dog stand, and kept an eye on potential business while sitting on a crate, and speaking with her about our latest topic. I enjoyed her company, and sustained myself with a steady diet of hotdogs during those first months of business, which were meager, to say the least. I happened to be situated in a wind corridor created by the buildings rising vertiginously before me. The windy days were murderous, causing me to chase my umbrella and struggle with flying paper. Rain came fast out of nowhere on some days, and I would need to pack it all in quickly, and push my cabinet back to its storage spot, with greater speed than I had ever anticipated.
In July of that year, I learned that the portrait artist had taken leave of the seaport. His spot at the center of the pier was available and I could have it right away. I was delighted to be free of the trip across the cobblestones as this was quickly destroying the casters on the bottom of my cabinet. Now, the distance from my storage spot in the mall building to the center of the pier was only a few short feet. When it rained, I could quickly and easily stow it away for a few hours or for the day.
The mall building, demolished in 2013 after getting badly damaged in hurricane Sandy, had a reputation for being the largest corrugated steel building in the country. In other words, it was a gigantic tough shed. During rainstorms, the ceiling leaked and buckets would appear, situated in puddles catching drips. Just outside the doors that lead to the pier were two stands selling jewelry and custom license plates operated by a Turkish family. They played pop music from a small speaker. We became friends over the years, leaning on each other to watch over each other's stand when a bathroom break was needed.
The seaport hosted a busker program, and throughout the day and into the evening, a rotating cast of street performers would appear, entertain, and disappear - creating a void for the next performance. There was the Jamaican yogi, a waif of a man who fit himself into a 1' box, drawing frenzied crowds with his energetic muscle-bound fluffers. The early shifts brought several human statues. A purple fairy held hands with tourists and twirled a parasol as onlookers took rapid fire snapshots - across the way, her boyfriend, clad in a metallic costume of his own creation, his face painted in silver, vocalized polyphonic electronic sounds of an exasperated robot, these becoming triumphant when a dollar landed in his jar. They were both from Brazil.
One morning after pushing my cabinet out into the center of the pier, I was counting the singles I had acquired as change, when I heard the swooshing sounds of a burlap bag being dragged across the wooden planks in my direction. “Well, hello Money Bags!” said Alan, the Balloonatic, a tall swarthy man, hands on hips. The burlap sack he dragged behind him issued with elongated balloons which spilled from his rear like a peackock's tail. He astonished me with his sales banter, which drew the tourists in like flies to the lamplight. "Give with your heart, and not with your mind - and dig deep!" He talked baseball with the men and made the ladies blush. He made his money quickly and effortlessly, but his balloon repertoire was somewhat limited. When asked to make a dragon or a ship, he would charismatically convince the child that what they really wanted was a sword or a flower. Alan's Cheshire cat grin was accented by a false front tooth, which he removed with his tongue to show distain or shock. He became my companion for the early parts of the days, as he fell into the habit of wallowing his downtime away in my guest chair. He gave me laughter and I gave him shade. Alan had been a member of the Street Performer Program for 15 years, and came and went as he pleased. He knew all the security guards, bartenders, and other performers. He generally lingered and extra hour past his allotted time to make a little extra "gravy".
Alan generally left when Nancy, the evening balloon artist, appeared. Nancy was a diminutive big-blue-eyed lady who was known for being hawkish about her time slot on the pier. Nancy had trained with Marcel Marceux, the famous mime, in Paris where she spent her youth. She was well past 55, but still an uncommon beauty with high cheek bones and radiant skin. Nancy had developed an act in Paris called "The Human Doll", which consisted of herself, dressed as a frilly-dressed doll, standing perfectly still in a ballet pose while imperceptibly turning herself, as if on a turnstile. She retired this performance after getting harassed by groups of kids after moving to New York. Unlike Alan, she could make anything out of a balloon, and she also painted faces. When she talked about her past as a mime, her voice became wistful and haunted with lost desire.
In the evenings, the performances attuned themselves to the rhythms of the nighttime. The boat tours ceased, and a large swath of pier, used in the daytime to corral tourists waiting for their ride on the Shark or the Clipper City became empty spaces surrounded by the the creaking sound of the floating boats. The human statues disappeared, and a spotlight shone on a performer named Michael Shulman, who also went by "BlackWhite". Of Eastern European descent, his long black hair fell backwards while he leaned into his electric violin playing sumptuous gypsy ballads. Later in the season, there were tango lessons on the far side of the pier where patrons sipped margaritas and danced into the long hours of the night until they were all danced out and stumbling toward their taxis. My guests in the evenings were mainly locals and many of them were giddy from a day spent with their families and the romance of the beautiful Summer nights. I was as well! I drew until the business ran out and rode my bike home, covered in marker ink.
The same street performers appeared year after year, with only a few exceptions. Bethany Wild, a crystalline-voiced singer and song-writer, with bleached blond hair and a 1000 megavolt smile, worked the pier during the lunchtime hours. With her overly loud speakers, heavily produced soundtrack, and a fluffy lapdog, Harrison, in arms, she swayed to her own songs and often included sizzling renditions of jazz standards, such as "Fever", popularized back in the day by Peggy Lee. A blanket at her feet displayed CDs, which she promoted between sets. Her music radiated positivity but she would make catty remarks in her microphone addressing the people who walked by without acknowledging her tip jar. "Go ahead, everyone...just walk by that tip jar. Don't put in a single dollar," she said with her crystal voice. Street performing is a tough racket, and managing feelings of invisibility is one of the biggest challenges. Alan, sinking deep into my guest chair and smoking a cigarette said of Bethany, "She never did nothing for nobody." This made me laugh, as it hardly seemed deserved, but could possibly be true.
My third year, a new performer, a tall willowy mime strode out on the pier. Going by the name, 'Pearl', she was costumed in flowing white garb accented with a red sash and a floppy red hat, she carried a small red box - her podium. Alighting atop it, she stood perfectly still until the time was right to strike out in movement. She interacted with the adoring crowd with great warmth and endeared them with a blazing red painted smile that conveyed nothing except radiant love. The iconic gag involving a dropped handkerchief she made cunningly new: dropping the small red silk square in front of a passerby, yearning for it from her podium as if trapped there, and the expression of glee once it was returned. How people were beguiled by her kisses blown through the air and laughed at somersaults from which she rebounded with balletic grace! She occupied her spot across from me during the day, and was usually gone before Nancy appeared. Nancy, however, knew who she was, and was no fan. "She's really good, if you are into baffoonery Nancy once commented sneeringly, regarding the beautiful young mime.
So many things happened during this time. My cabinet got broken into twice. I forged casual friendships with many of the performers. Pearl became my friend and confided in me her Christian Southern roots, as well as a burgeoning romance with a much older gentleman. Years later, I would receive a postcard from Pearl, sent from the Tate Museum, and saying simply, 'Thinking of you." Sophia, the hot dog vendor, and I visited each other regularly, and I continued to eat way too many hot dogs. More than once, while sitting in my guest chair, she lamented her woes regarding her young son with learning and behavioral difficulties. Together we admired Pearl. "She is sooo beautiful," Sophia swooned. I was going through my own life problems, but was buoyed by my business, which seemed to get better every year. The tourists were challenging at times. The people who looked interesting to me usually did not want a caricature, but there was a never ending supply of cute little children. I don't think I ever drew someone without putting my entire heart into it. I reveled in the responsibilities involved with running my little business, and constantly experimented with new ways of increasing sales and visibility. I worked indoors one holiday season, and became acquainted with a tattered Santa Claus, who drifted among the buckets and puddles, and who was in the habit of pointing out that Santa Claus did not originate as the clean-looking red and white figure of which we often think. The seaport came under new management and required me to paint my cabinet to match the new brand colors. Alan and I became thick as thieves, and spent many an afternoon under my umbrella drinking and smoking away our tips. We talked about the other performers, and he once quipped regarding the tension between Nancy and Pearl, "Did you hear about the two mimes who got into a fight? They are not speaking!" Once, I cannot remember the details, but after getting overly excited about something, he pulled his pants down and then went running into the distance yelling, "I am like Tarzan! Swinging from tree to tree!!"
A new balloon artist named Brian appeared my last year. An enormously humble man who created breathtaking sculptures from balloons in his down time, he was secretly proud of being a member of the family which had established America's oldest balloon company, Pioneer Balloons. Though gentle and unassuming, he had a face that reflected a difficult life. I went on to learn about his past as a heroin addict. He occupied a spot on the pier not far from Nancy, and though she was known for being territorial, Alan and I observed her soften in the presence of this newcomer. Before too long, they were working together as a team. Nancy, Brian, and I were often the last people to leave the pier at night. After rolling my cabinet into the service hallway with my last bit of strength, I wheeled my bike toward where Water Street becomes Pearl, and just ahead, the two of them rolling their carts toward the train station. I could see their old bodies hunched over in fatigue, but their hands linked together, as they disappeared into the street lit distance.
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