The Card Board Creations

Cardboard Creations

         

  I saw him today; in the same manner I’ve seen him every day for what seems like forever. He was sitting on a ledge, looking around with eyes that seemed to contain every ounce of humility and a deep sadness that was almost liquid. I could see the misery emerging from his pupils and spreading through his eyes, like blood spreading through water. He had a beard that seemed to add to his sorrowful persona, as it grew down in a way that sheltered him from the outside world. Everything about the man; his face, his clothing, even the way he sat, spoke volumes of the defeat he felt.

Seeing this man again as I had so many times before quickly sparked a flood of emotion in me. It made me want to do something, but I had no idea what I wanted to do. To simply run up and give him a firm handshake, as the procedure was with a new client, seemed improper because I had seen him many times, and he had seen me, but we have never talked.  I knew that to simply hand over a few dollars would only make me seem arrogant and possibly upset the man, as he had never asked for money. I didn’t know what to do, but still the urge was there. I had to interact in some way with this man today. Today was the day I was going to satisfy my hunger to converse with this man who finds his home outside my apartment. Today, I was going to find out who my unauthorized neighbor really was.

I started toward the man, at an angle and looking around casually. He glanced at me and then quickly seemed very interested with the ground. My flood of emotion turned into a cascade of determination. I was going to talk with this man, if it took me all day. He looked up slowly, obviously expecting no one to be there, and jumped with fright when he realized that I had not gone but was in fact standing about six feet away.

“Hello” I said.

He glanced behind him quickly, and then looked back at me. The sadness in his eyes remained, but a sense of terror had been added.

          “I h-have permission to be here.” He said defensively.

         “Oh, no,” I said, “I was just wondering…. well, I suppose I just wanted to say hello. I mean, I see you here every day and I think its time I introduced myself. So…. hi, my name is Trevor Guessman.” I held out my hand.

          He looked at my hand, then at me.

         “You just want to say hello.” It was not a question, but a distrustful statement.

         “Yeah.” My hand remained extended for a few more seconds, and then quickly withdrew as I realized it had not been accepted.

          “…. Hello,” he said in a monotone.

         My mind sped through different subjects of conversation. The weather seemed irrelevant today, as it was a dreadfully average day. Clouds hung low, but were bright with the sun just peeking through the foliage of central park. People strolled around us and some even stared openly. I suppose there were always the Yankees…but then again, how far could that conversation possibly go...

         “You’re standing on my work.”

         I looked at him, wondering what he was talking about.

          “Oh, sorry.” I stepped back quickly, then looked down to see what I had been standing on. All around me were pieces of paper of every shape and size. There was notebook paper and what seemed to be pieces of ripped poster board, as well as a few clean sheets of artists paper. When I looked closer and focused instead on what was on the paper, my breath was taken away.

         On the papers were drawings and paintings, but not just everyday works that you might see in a newspaper or magazine. These were alive with vibrant colors and figures that jumped off the paper in a way that was almost frightening. These pieces had feeling and emotion that was incredibly unique and I, being a business man, also saw that they most certainly had a potential for profit.

         I looked at my new friend with disbelief, and he looked back at me with obvious contempt.

         “You step on it, you buy it.” he said.

         And sure enough, one of his beautiful drawings had a large muddy footprint protruding from the edge. Not wanting to anger the man, I pulled out my wallet.

         “How much?” I asked, trying to keep the dread I felt out of my voice. I knew that most vendors in New York, in this situation, would probably empty my wallet. I only had about thirty dollars inside. Looking at the ruined drawing, I probably would have considered paying more for an undamaged version anyway. It really was an incredible piece of artwork, even though it was on a tarnished piece of paper. It was a bird's eye view of a fishing community drawn with hypnotizing detail, complete with seagulls and a lighthouse, even a market square with people, all perfectly shaded and perfected until the perfection was abruptly ended by the muddy footprint. Surely this drawing, on clean paper, would be worth more than thirty dollars. I wondered if I was going to have to go back to my apartment to get more money.

         "Three dollars,” he replied.

         Relieved that I had enough with me, I handed him my thirty dollars. He looked at me, puzzled, and handed it back. I didn't understand.

         “I didn't say thirty dollars. I said three dollars.”

         What kind of merchant was this? I looked at the man's work again. There was a perfect portrait of a dog catching a Frisbee in it's mouth. Beside that, on a piece of white cardboard, was a painting of Central Park complete with a city skyline and sunset in the background.  My estimate was that, with proper framing and garnish, art like that would sell for competitive bids in a gallery or at an auction. Instead this man was selling his artwork on pieces of cardboard outside my apartment. How was it that a man with this much talent was not more successful financially?

         “If you step on it, you have to buy it,” he repeated.

         “Listen,” I uttered, still bewildered by the price of the masterpiece I had just bought, “Let me give you a loan, some sort of investment. I think you have incredible talent and I certainly don't believe you deserve to be creating these works of art on pieces of cardboard. You should not be here on the street. You are an artist. You should be in a studio!”

         He looked at me, still seeming to be a little bit overwhelmed by the fact that I was still standing there. He looked down at his drawings and paintings, then up to the skyline.

         “You really think those things?” He asked with timidness. For reasons that I didn't know, he had tears in his eyes.

         I took a moment to look around. People were walking past, hailing taxis, talking on cell phones, conversing through the city. I wanted to scream at them, beckon and plead with them to come look at this man's art. I wanted to stand this man up and walk him to an art gallery and show them this perfection that I had stumbled upon. I wanted to do a lot of things, but most of all, I wanted to sit down on the ledge and admire the cardboard creations.

         “Yes. Your art is extraordinary,” I replied with sincerity.

         He looked at me for a long time, and I noticed suddenly and undoubtedly that his eyes were no longer saturated with the misery that I had seen before. He slowly examined the people that were walking past him so ignorantly. With a look of satisfaction, he stood up. He collected his supplies and other possessions, and began to walk down the sidewalk towards Central Park. After a moment he stopped and quickly turned around. I was still sitting on the ledge, holding the drawing I had purchased.

He looked at me with eyes that were brand new.

"Could you tell me your name again?"

"Trevor Guessman."          

“Thank you, Trevor Guessman, for your words.”

         He held out his hand, and I shook it.

         I never saw the man again, but occasionally I would see art that I knew could only be his, and the best part about that was the fact that it was no longer being sold for three dollars on the street, but for rightful prices, hanging in art galleries. Three weeks ago I found a package on my door step. It contained a watercolor with perfect shading and detail, dancing with incredible yet perfectly real colors. The watercolor was a sunrise portrait of the Statue of Liberty, and by looking at the painting I felt like I was there. The frame was a simple but beautiful cardboard garnish, the type of cardboard that reminded me of sitting on the ledge that day. In the corner was a brand name. “Cardboard Creations” was printed in bold black letters. On the back of the painting was a hand written note:

         'Thank you for reminding me that anything is possible'

         Taped to the back of the package was an invitation to a fine art showing. That was the moment that I knew that I would see my unauthorized neighbor and new found friend again, and that his eyes would not be full of  uncertainty and sadness, but a new found happiness and joy.