West Side Canvas: A Place To Play

Painting and Essay by Robert Beck

New York is a city of subtleties and of excesses. There is the constant crush of people doing much the same things day after day in stores and restaurants, on sidewalks and subways, and in parks. All accompanied by a predictable amalgamation of sounds, from sirens to jackhammers. Yet in the chaotic swirl you can find moments of individuality, and people finding a place and way of their own. Small stories in a ponderous narrative.

There is a triangle of grass just inside Central Park, behind the stone wall that runs along Central Park West. Long a favorite of dog walkers, Tai Chi-sters, toddler soccer practice, the occasional small blanket bachelorette party, as well as a selection of people who travel to the beat of their own drums, the small plot serves a diverse crowd.

One chilly morning this month at quarter to seven, I noticed a young man unpacking an upright bass in the middle of that plot. He unfolded a stool and a music stand, pulled a bow out of a quiver, and placed a score on the stand. I was a distance away from him, in my apartment, and still in my pajamas, and it was just chance that brought him to my attention. He started sawing at the instrument, pausing now and then to reach for the score. I just can’t let things like this go. I threw on some pants, a fleece, and shoes.

An upright can get its hooks in you. Just a few bars of a walking bass line, ptum-ptum-ptum-ptum, and your head is bobbing, foot tapping the floor. It conjures images of fedoras and smokey lounges. A Harlem elevated. Ella.

I was pretty close to him before I heard the sound from his instrument— a deep whuuum…whuuum…whuuum. It wasn’t melody—more like practice strokes by somebody learning to play, or maybe warming up. I introduced myself, told him I write for the Rag, and mentioned it was uncommon to find people playing instruments in the park that early.

The young man—Beau is his name—told me that he got a late start on learning the bass and needed to get in as much practice time as he could before he went to college. I asked where he goes to school, and he said, LaGuardia. That figured. 

I pointed out my building in the distance, saying I’d seen him set up while writing in my den. Beau asked if I had heard him from there, and I told him no; I couldn’t hear him playing until I was near him. He said that was good—he was practicing here before school so people didn’t get annoyed. 

His classes began at 8:00, so I left him to continue in peace. People came along the paved sidewalk in the park, walking and running, most plugged into or watching their phones. I didn’t see anyone notice Beau despite him being only 40 feet away and…well…playing an upright bass. A bus went by beyond the wall, and it reminded me of Pauline Oliveros’s comment, “Any space is as much a part of the instrument as the instrument itself.” I considered whether my painting should have a bus or taxi in it. Not this time.

It was 58° and blustery, and I was underdressed, so I scooted back to my apartment. I poured a warm cup of coffee and went back to my desk. From my window, I saw Beau zip his bass into the case, fold the chair and stand, put on his pack, and head across CPW toward school. When he walked in front of my building, I opened my window and called his name. He looked up, smiled, and waved his stool at me.

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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