Letter

I’m sitting outside a coffeeshop on a bright August day. I watch a schlubby guy cross the street to the restaurant across the way. Tuesdays since the plague began they’ve been giving away box lunches. This guy used to be a regular at the bar. He’d weasel drinks out of whoever sat next to him. Always cried poor. Paid with mountains of coins held together with lint. Of course he lines up for the free lunch. Would be shocked if he missed a week.

I hated him for the transparent look of calculation in his eye. Anyone who sat within a few seats got appraised. What could they give him? How hard could he push? What sob story will loosen the purse strings?

I know he has a job. Works at some restaurant in the West Loop. Two kinds of restaurant workers went to the bar. The first buys everyone rounds. Spends all they’ve made. Blacks out. Does it again. The second hangs around with the first and only reciprocates when shamed repeatedly. Springs for PBR after getting Three Floyds all night. Stays sober pretending to be trashed. Has to keep his wits about him while on the make.

I know you know this guy. You work at enough places you meet him or his clones again and again. Must be a factory on the outskirts of town that manufactures them. But what is his purpose? In the animal world a parasite might clean dirt and debris off the surface of the skin of whatever it has attached itself to. My friend wasn’t carrying any cleaning products.

I’m trying to restart work on a book I started a few months back. It’s a series of long-after-the-fact responses to letters I’ve kept for decades. Instead, I’m watching the parade of free lunchers. One old man is so happy he stops passersby and points them toward the restaurant door, insisting they get one for themselves. 

It’s delicious!

I’ve never gone over there. I’ve been fortunate not to go hungry in a long time. Doesn’t feel right to take food in place of those who can’t afford it. My friend from earlier made me think bad thoughts about the people across the street but I doubt most are freeloaders like him. I hope not, in any case.

—I was interviewed on Salt Lake Dirt, interviewed Brian Case last week, will interview Mick Collins this Wednesday. Mallory and I interviewed each other about Get Out. I contributed a short tribute to Gil Roth’s epic 500th episode of his Virtual Memories and made a love/hate list for Hello America. Also wrote about a forthcoming book I truly enjoyed. 

I saw a girl who used to work at the coffeeshop in my neighborhood. I looked back after passing her on my bike and she turned, hesitated a moment, then smiled and waved. 

I used to sit inside but now mostly sit outside. Probably plague thinking. I used to be able to get a lot of work done here but now I’m often distracted by passersby or their dogs. Or a woman sitting at a neighboring table. I make aimless drawings and drink my coffee then leave.

I don’t know the people who work at the shop like I used to. They were at least acquaintances before but only bring me coffee and breakfast sandwiches now. I’m just another customer to them. Lockdown made people more wary. The new counter people aren’t as open as the ones from before. Maybe I’m not either. I spend much fewer hours here now and I spend most of them out on the sidewalk in the cul-de-sac rather than inside like I used to. Why would they remember me? They only see me long enough to take my order.

I used to paint inside the coffeeshop. Now I only draw sometimes. Haven’t brought the gouaches here since before lockdown. Now when there’s color in my pictures it’s from bits of old paper or markers rather than paint. The subject-matter is the tension between past and present rather than the view in front of my face.

Used to be different. Maybe there’s a way back but do I want to go there?

If you’re an artist who works on paper you dread frames. I’ve paid hundreds of dollars for a few simple wood mouldings, cut glass, a window mat, and some foam core more times than I can recall. In many of those instances, I sold the artwork for just enough to pay off that expense; sometimes, not even that. 

You can save perhaps 20% of a typical custom job by going to a u-frame-it place. There, a tired, often sarcastic framer will give you materials, maybe pound in a nail or two, then leave you to it. I once spent a full three days at the Great Frame Up assembling twenty or so pieces for a show. It was exhausting and a little crazy making and at the end of it I was still out a couple thousand dollars.

I’ve always been a frustrated perfectionist in matters of craft. Tasks like picture-framing bring out some very negative personal qualities. All I see in my efforts is the flaws and mistakes. In my mind I should be a master even though I haven’t put in enough time, nor possess the natural coordination, to even be a competent journeyman. The gap between expectation and skill is a gaping maw. I can see myself chainsmoking on the Broadway sidewalk, trying to calm down enough not to go back into the shop, aiming the framers point gun at my forehead rather than some cursed piece of wood.

There’s a domino effect too with how I price my pictures. Obviously, a drawing in a $400 frame has to be what? $600? $800? Now a thing that seemingly has nothing to do with drawing or painting is having a significant influence on the very important process of getting artwork out of my life. It’s hard enough without extraneous hurdles.

I’ve gone to thrift stores, yard sales, resale and junk shops for as long as I can remember. I like looking through dead people’s things. They have a patina or aura that a new thing never does. Scuff marks, rips, and yellowing would be a flaw in most stores but are selling points here. 

At some point in the past decade I decided to ask much less for my pictures than I used to. The time left has become more and more of a factor in my thinking. The idea of an apartment full of art destined for thrift store or dumpster is not an appealing one. I’m very aware while flipping threw the rack of frames and canvases at Unique on Halsted that each of these pictures was made by someone and likely hung in someone else’s home. It had pride of a place. Was chosen with a particular person in mind. Now it’s worked itself through its lifecycle and gotten spit out the other end a little worse for the wear.

Now I never spend more than $20 on a frame. Usually, it’s under $10. I trim down the painting or collage to suit the frames I have on hand rather than building or buying one to fit the picture. Oftentimes, especially if I’m working on a commission, I’ll measure the paper to fit before making a single mark. Unique has become an art supply store as much as Blick. When I find a good one, I start thinking of what I can put in it. The dread of the frame shop is gone, replaced by the creative possibilities of the thrift store.

On my last visit, I found a large wooden frame with metallic trim and a beige mat. Inside was a hideous drawing of an 80s woman done in pink and rose pastel. She was rendered head-on and in profile. The orange price-tag on the back said $19.99 but the cashier rang it up for half-price. I wonder how much the original owner paid? Balancing it carefully on the back rack of my bike, I rode home slowly, thinking what picture I could use it for. I found a collage called Dream from a couple years ago that was the right height but the wrong width. I looked at it awhile, then trimmed it to suit the new frame. I think it’s a better composition now. I wouldn’t have revised it without the trip to Unique. I never felt that way in the old days after running up a credit card to make pictures ready to hang. There was never any creativity involved, only debt and bad feelings.

I like this new way better.

—I reviewed documentaries on a Chicago school and musician Courtney Barnett and wrote about Joe Meno’s forthcoming Chicago-set novel and talked to West Virginia-based writer Scott McClanahan. Look out for the episode with musician Brian Case (FACS/Disappears) this Wednesday.