West Side Canvas: ‘It’s a Fine Line That Separates All of Us’

On Broadway
By Robert Beck

First, I stopped to buy coffee and a bagel at a street vendor. It was a cold seven-thirty and already the light was striking the top third of the Ansonia in the distance. I needed to find a place to set up my easel soon.

Trailing a cart with my easel and supplies up to 71st, I found a small patch of sidewalk on the shadow side of Amsterdam that I could claim for myself. The sun continued its angular path, poking fingers of light between buildings and down cross-streets, casting bright patches across building façades, then snatching them back again. The scene was different every time I looked up, and I struggled to establish a consistent pattern of light and shadow.

“That’s really nice!” The words came from behind me. I turned to see a man no taller than five-five, dressed most colorfully in what he had either been given or had found that week. His ensemble included a blue scarf, large white sneakers, and a number of sweaters. Layers, just like me. White hair stuck out from the earflaps of his red-and-orange striped knit cap, and gray stubble surrounded a pink face with uncommonly wide eyes. He sported a lime green plastic cartoon backpack over a yellow vest, from which plastic bottles and found objects hung by strings. He could have passed for a one-man band, even without instruments

“Thanks,” I said, ever appreciative of a compliment.

“I could be doing that,” the man beamed, “but I’m allergic to paint.” I nodded. He pulled on the strings and bounced on the balls of his feet, clearly excited to have chanced upon a colleague, and a sitting duck at that. I resumed painting.

“Not that kind of paint, house paint,” he said, ending the statement with a shrill whistling noise from his nose. His eyes glistened and a big grin stole his face. “The chemicals make me crazy!” I smiled back, thinking briefly of Van Gogh. It’s a fine line that separates all of us. He let out another whistle.

Vincent sat down on one of the benches and continued his monologue. “It’s the radiation. Radiation. Radiation!” A bus stopped close to me with a blast of air brakes. The driver blipped his horn and gave me a thumbs-up. I touched the brim of my hat with my brush. My colorful associate began to flesh out his thesis in earnest. “Neutrons, neutrons, neutrons. Electrons, electrons.”

A street-sweeping truck zoomed past in a nasty gray cloud, taking cursory lunges at the curb, too fast to be effective, casting the cups, wrappers and grime up onto the sidewalk. A few minutes later, three men in orange vests came along and pushed the trash back into the street with brooms.

My shadows were gone and I was painting more from recollection than what was in front of me. I dropped a brush, and as I bent over to pick it up the pink face appeared next to mine and gave me a spirited “Have a nice day!” The steam from his words hung in the space between us. He turned and danced off, waving his hand over his head, not quite blending in with the crowd, walking on the sunny side of Broadway.

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See more of Robert Beck’s work and visit his UWS studio at www.robertbeck.net. Let him know if you have a connection to an archetypical UWS place or event that would make a good West Side Canvas subject. Thank you!

Note: Before Robert Beck started West Side Canvas, his essays and paintings were featured in Weekend Column. See Robert Beck’s earlier columns here and here.

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