(Tyler on Display)
(Karl Marx, Allen Ginsberg & Father Christmas)
(You'll understand if I don't)
We moderns live in compartments not apartments. At least this was the conclusion Solomon, Grant_2 and I joked about the other night. Architecturally speaking we are an isolated people.
There is something fundamentally wrong with the way we interact with our neighbors. I say fundamental because we hardly see it as a problem. This problem has gradually nestled itself under our lives. It has become far too common. It has happened very subtly, but let me warn you that it is very deadly. It’s deadly, not only to ourselves but to everyone around us. No neighbors, means no community. Something profound in us will die if we ignore our neighbors . . . and something profound in our neighbors will die if they ignore us. Something has gone wrong. Meanwhile our humanity hangs in the balance.
Why don’t I know the people I share walls with? Why don’t you know the people down the street? Who are they? Who are we?
If there’s something wrong with us . . . then there’s something wrong with them. For neither of us has made the effort.
All the while we remain far apart while close together. I regress. Am I allowed to use the word “we?” There is no relationship here. Maybe I should stick with referring to "them" as “those people” “they” "theirs" etc...
I’ve seen him several times. You can’t miss him, with his bushy-white-Father-Christm
He lives seven steps away, but we’ve never spoken seven words to each other.
Recently, Tyler put some of his Chicago photos on display at the Blue Sky Gallery (www.blueskygallery.org) downtown on 8th street. It was payday and I had the day off so I got on the bike. The Blue Sky Gallery is a place that is staffed by volunteers. They have a couple of rooms that are lined with the work of professional photographers, they are the main features. But they also support local/poor artists. They give people like Tyler a small section to put up their work for about a week or so. So Tyler signed-up and here I was checking it out and who other than our neighbor Father-Christmas behind the counter.
I say to him, “I think you are my neighbor.”
I knew full well that he lived down the hall so I used “neighbor” as a word strictly to connote proximity, because we weren’t neighbors in any other way. We just lived close by each other.
To clarify I asked him if he lived in the Web Plaza apartments.
He said yes.
I informed him that he lives down the hall from me. He was impressed. And then I told him that it was my friend’s photographs in the back. Out of courtesy he went with me and took a look at Tyler’s work. I joked that our walls were bare at home because our pictures were all on these walls. He gave a Father-Christmas chuckle.
To help you picture him, imagine a cross between Allen Ginsberg and Karl Marx. And that is my neighbor Paul.
We made small talk and I found out that next week he’s turning 80 and publishing his first book. He said he’s been shooting for years. He shoots a little bit of everything (city life, nature, people and nudity). I can’t imagine Father-Christmas or Karl Marx shooting nudity, but nonetheless, to-each-his-own (I mused in my head that the nudity thing was the Allen Ginsberg part of him). He said that this book was a bit lighter in content, so that it could be eligible for libraries, schools and bookstores.
He repeatedly thanked me for speaking up.
I nodded and said, “No problem.”
“Come over tonight, I have friends in from Seattle. I’ll show you some of my work and we can talk more.”
I said “sure” and went outside to unlock the bike. It was an unusually nice Portland day outside. I was wearing a t-shirt . . . go figure.
Who knows maybe in the future we can actually become neighbors. I wonder what it will be like. I wonder if “we” will be different. Who is he? Who am I? Who are you? Who is down the street?
I think I’ll knock on his door tonight. But I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t.
-e.p.allen
