Meaningless to the point that we all add our own meanings based on the situation. Out of the blue and old friend of mine called me. This was a graffiti writer who I met when I was 13 and he was 21. That was a big age gap, but only a fraction of the gap between us and our mutual friend Henry Chalfant, who is now 68. When I met him, I was 13 years old. We became friends.
How does a 13 year old high school student befriend a 40 year man? In our situation, we had a connection through an underground sub-culture called graffiti. I was an ambitious young writer and Henry was the photo man. He was on a mission to capture the transient art that was being aggressively applied to the inside and outside of the NYC Subway trains.
There was something mature about Henry, stoic perhaps, but it was non-judgement and selective accessibility that made him safe and informative to talk too. Long before I knew the term mentor, I had found one.
During High School, I spent most of my time writing graffiti and working in the Food Emporium. I would work every hour that they would let me and push for more. It was mandatory to join the Union and it became a source of early capital. It was very hard to differentiate yourself in that environment. We all had menial tasks of unloading boxes, pricing things and labeling the boxes during the day. When the store would close, we would level the shelves by bringing all the merchandise up to the front to make things look full. It was a farce, because as soon as someone bought one item, you would see the gaping wholes in the shelves. If you did a good job of leveling, it would last for most of the day.
There was always some sort of breakage in an aisle, whether it was pickles or milk, something was always breaking. That turned out to be my break and opportunity to differentiate. When ever something would break, I would race to the aisle to clean it up. In the beginning, I would practically bump into the other workers that would be running away from it. For me, I wanted to go the extra mile and to get the OT (overtime). It worked like a charm. The managers loved me and I worked practically as many hours as I physically could.
With the money, I bought a 1975 Cutlass Supreme in auction. It was a fine car. It didn't do what I wanted in regards to the ladies, but it provided a lot of freedom to drive around.
It was now easy to drive to East Tremont Avenue to hang out with Seen and his crew and in a really bad trade with the late "sin", I ended up with a 1967 Camero Z28. It was a 4 speed stick that a barely knew how to drive.
It feels like yesterday, when I was driving up a hill in Riverdale, when the car stalled. I gave it to much gas and before I knew it, the car caught on fire as the extra gas engaged an exposed spark plug. I didn't have fire or theft insurance and the car crashed into a wall and burnt to a crisp.
I was deeply depressed that afternoon and then I had an idea. I would go back to the car, take off the vehicle identification tags and my license plate and go get a new car.
I was actually thinking about reading the classifieds, finding a car with the same make, model and color and stealing it. I felt that all I would have to do was put my plates on it and then it would be easy to get it away and call it my own.
The more I thought about it, the more troubled I became. It was hard to sleep or concentrate, I kept thinking about what would happen if I got caught. What about the person whose car it was. Would someone else rat me out who knew my car was in a fire...
By chance I called Henry to follow up about some graffiti photos and he asked what was up and I told him about my plot and how I was feeling. I was always totally honest with Henry and was precise about what was going on. He very calmly asked me if I could survive without the car? I told him yes. He then told me that what I was feeling was anxiety and as soon as I let the thought of stealing the car go, the anxiety would leave.
I did and sure enough, I felt a huge burden lifted. The thought of having that conversation with my dad would have been unconscionable. It's even funny to have thougt about that conversation.
Henry went on to document the graffiti subculture by writing books (Subway Art) and producing films (Style Wars) about it.
I got beat-up, set-up, jumped, betrayed, caught and released to the point that I was so fed up with the whole scene that I joined the US Army to get away from it. This was definitely the road less traveled for a 17 year, clean cut, jewish kid, but that's what I did.
Over the last 25 years, I have had very few contacts with that part of my life. Other than Jayson, Henry and Skeme, that part of my past is practically invisible. Jayson has a wife,three kids and lives in a house in NJ with an indoor half court basketball gym, Skeme has been in the army for 25 years and is presently in Iraq. We see each other every five-to-ten years. His mother has the same number and I call her to get his email periodically. Henry lives near by and we do chat on the phone and get together. He's far from a raw vegan, but has entertained the concept when we are together and by now, he's had at least 6 raw vegan meals with me.
The past came up when Jayson recently called and asked me if I still had this piece book with all Skeme pieces in it. I told him that I did, but wasn't sure where it was. He expressed an interest in purchasing it.
As I began my search for it, all of my cloudy past started to become clear. I found the book with some amazing and unique drawings and illustrations.
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I never really thought of selling it, but the thought entered my mind and it was worthy of consideration...
The skeme book had a story to it. I left the book at skeme's house one day for him to draw a piece in it. This was a customary process and usually you would get the book back in a week or so. This book got lost and totally dogged. Skeme wrote on practically every page. Most likely with the intention of not leaving room for anyone else.
About a year later, I saw the book in his house and quickly claimed it. I was disappointed that it was all bombed, but it had some good color and I put it away with the rest of my stuff. It's now 26 years later and it brings me back to a very humble and vulnerable time in my life.
In my storage facility, the same one that held original Paul Rand drawings, I found original Keith Haring drawings from 1980 and a one of a kind metal panel that's 20" wide. This was the year that Keith Haring found his voice and started to proliferate his now famous radiant baby and barking dog. I first met Keith in the Mudd Club in the Winter of 1980. He stood out like a sore thumb amongst the other graffit writers of the day. I remember meeting Ban 2, Futura 2000, Bilroc, Smiley 149, Alive 5, Zephyr and many other writers of the time period there. It was Fab Five Fred and Keith that were the most open and chill with me. It was a sureal time in my life. I was 13 years old and hanging out late night in same club with Keith Haring and Jean-Michel Basquiat. This was years before they were really discovered.
These are photos of what I found in my storage facility of Keith and the others of that day.
This was a very helpful exercise in remembering where I came from and forces my hand on thinking about where I am going...
Yet, the greatest challenge is to be present and am going to end this day with my vipassana meditation.
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