NYC Pandemic Portrait

NYC Reluctant Quarantine No. 2

9" x 12" acrylic on paper

Prints in various sizes available here.

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Starting something, gotta be starting something

Inspired by the wonderful artist Nicolas Uribe. as seen here on Instagram and here on his  newly launched series on Youtube, Our Painted Lives, I decided to tackle a portrait using his some of his techniques. The result will be an oil painting on paper.

Following along with his first of 3 steps for a portrait I began with pencil drawing, using Faber Castelli, on a page of my sketchbook - Canson Multimedia 7"x 10." The sketch could probably have used some more detail but I was impatient to get to the paint. 

The next step consists of first preparing the paper by adding layers of clear acrylic binder to the surface of the paper.  I added  layers on the drawing side, letting each layer dry for at least an hour before adding the next layer, and then one more layer on the reverse. This immediately added more depth to the drawing as the pencil pigment spread slightly.

Next step is to create an underpainting

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Oil Portrait Study " Peter" with Process

This final 5"x7" oil painting came to be after a lot of stops and starts, scrape downs and wipe offs, re-shapes and adjustments but I'm content with this result:

First steps were sketches in charcoal and some light washes :

Gradually building up layers:

I was pretty happy at this stage, since it was very loose and expressive:

 I revisited it the next day because I wanted more detail and also felt there wasn't enough volume to the head, the darks and highlights weren't quite right yet - I wiped down the forehead and neck/shoulders:

And then attempted to bring the shadows/highlights back in but it was still a mess:

I also felt the likeness was off - I was working from my own reference photo and knew it was off. I took this last pic of the painting into photoshop and compared it to my source and could see where the position of some of his features were off and the width of the face was wrong. Had to wipe elements away - that was scary but I knew instantly that it was the right thing to do:

As I re-worked the face, I could see it coming together - the head was more of a 3/4 turn (as it should be) whereas the first efforts had mistakenly flattened the face to the viewer:

And done:

"Peter Study"
5" x 7" Oil on wood panel

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Basquiat

NYC Metro Card Basquiat No. 1
2" x 3x25" oil on Metro Card 

Available here.

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Better than ever.............

Been busy with plans for the summer -- much to report! WIll upload more pics of new works, new mediums, new every THING this week!

Thanks for your patience.

Redlocks
Charcoal and watercolor on paper

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Painting of a Painter

When in Negril, seek out Ras Husmo. He walks the beach with his rolled up canvases and will gladly sit and chat, buying or not, to discuss the arts........yours or his.

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Monday Morning Mashup #6 - Rastafari Gothic

See more dreadlocks and other portraits here.

"Rastafari Gothic", 10"x14" Mixed Media Collage

Hmmm, no pitchfork? 

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Monday Morning Mashup #2

"A Pirate of the Caribbean", 8"x10" mixed media collage SOLD

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Yuh Know Mi?

"Yah mon, yuh know mi. Mi remembah yuh. A lang time you a come a Jah-mey-ka, riiiiiight?"

I'm that smiling dread who Touch Fist with you the first time we meet because, "Yuh cool, seen?"

I'm that smiling dread who told you, "Yuh one Original Ragamuffin, a dat mi know," as I nodded to my bredren and we all laughed that knowing laugh, eyes wide. Made you feel like you were one of us, right?

Yah mon, yuh know mi.

I'm that smiling dread who said, "Nuff respect, souljah, big up di EYE, seen suh?" as I effortlessly rolled you the fattest skliff you'd ever seen. But as I drew my tongue across the edge of the rizla and then twirled the tip of that fatty inside my mouth to seal it up tight, you wondered if this was really A Good Idea.

"Bless up", I said as I handed you the sacrament. "Tek it, mon, tek it," I said as I waved away your offer of a few jays. "Jess gwan an' bun some weed, mon." After all, you're one of us, right? And after a few deep draws on that skliff, you decided it was indeed a good idea.

Yah mon, yuh know mi.

I'm that smiling dread who told you, "Wi muss tek one trip inna de hills an' see deh ganja fields dem, cuz you a one-a mi I-dren, you a ragamuffin fi true, seen?" And then I told you where to rent one criss cyar so we could make a serious tour to the country and you could see the Real Jamaica.

Yah mon, yuh know mi.

I'm that smiling dread who told you that tourists,"Couldn't hangle deh ruff roads" as I instructed you to slide over to the passenger's seat while I slipped behind the wheel. And then I said, "We muss mek two more stops fi pick up chree more bredren," before we pulled into the gas station with the "T+E+X__+O" sign to fill the tank. My friends and I share the wealth. When one of us hits the Tourist Jackpot, we all climb aboard the gravy train.

"Ragga, wi wan some Guinness fi di drive, seen?" I said. It took you a moment to realize I was speaking to you, calling you "Ragga". But when you realized you had acquired your very own yardie street name, you smiled a little smile. And moved quickly to provide me and my three friends with drinks. You didn't realize that I just had forgotten your real name.

Yah mon, yuh know mi.

I'm the smiling dread who took you so far beyond the boundaries of Negril (or so it seemed) that you couldn't believe you hadn't had the courage to do so on your first three trips to the island. What a story you would have to tell your friends back home. You got so high you knew you could never find your way back to Negril if you had to drive yourself, so you were happy to have us guide you and show you the runnings and give us a likkle change when we brought you back to your hotel and buy each of us plates of brown stew chicken and a round of heinekens because we told you it was the right thing to do.

"Come I-dren", I reminded you, "We showed you the Real Jamaica. Yuh muss tek care a wi, a chru?"

Yah mon, yuh know mi.

But that's the sad part of this story. Yuh nah even know mi real name. Yuh nah really know me a-tall.

And I'm not really smiling.

Yuh Know Mi?
 Ink and watercolor on paper
Print available here.

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Bikini Bandit

I'm not just a city person, I'm a New Yorker. Not by birth but by choice. And New Yorkers don't typically just drop in upon one another to visit, or to "give a check," as they say in Jamaica.

We schedule, we plan, we make appointments to do lunch. We keep our guard up and we're cynical by nature. And frankly, when we are cocooned in our apartments, an unexpected knock on the door or, more aptly, a startling ring of the buzzer gives us pause. We glance at one another.

"You expecting someone?"

"Noooooo, not me. You?"

"Nope." Brows furrow.

But when we are in Jamaica, there seems to be an endless stream of folks passing through, dropping in, giving us a check. Only a handful have been given the closely-guarded secret of our arrival date, an even smaller number have actually been invited to come visit us. But many have heard through the sea-grapevine that we are in town and they come, seemingly by the dozens, day after day after day.

I'm a bit of a recluse myself. It's an adjustment.

Don't get me wrong. There are folks I'm delighted to see, to catch up on what they've been up to since we've seen them last. We gossip and laugh about life in yard. True friends.

But then there are the rest.

You know who I mean. You've heard of Empty Nesters? Well I call the unwelcome visitors the Empty Guest-ers. They come empty handed. With empty bellies. And empty wallets. Guess what else is empty? Their schedule! They come to spend the entire day with us, wonderful news, no?

And so it was with Nadine, who knocked on our door early one morning. Still groggy from sleep, I was less than thrilled to find a sullen 15-year-old girl on our doorstep, making the typical Empty Guester announcement: I've come to spend a day at the beach with you.

Yippee.

Well, at least she was alone. But that also struck me as odd. Nadine is usually with her mother Denise, a relative of my husband. I've always liked Denise. She's a hard-working, married mother of 3 and has a full-time job. Denise typically phones us first, asking when she can come and visit us. As you might imagine, that's a huge bonus in my book.

More importantly, Denise has always seemed genuinely interested in just coming by to say hello, to catch up with our family and see how our girls have grown. She wants our children to know one another, to keep the American "cousins" in her children's landscape. She never asks for a thing and never complains about her own struggles. Denise is cool and kind.

So why was Nadine alone on our doorstep? She was suspiciously empty-handed for a full day at the beach, even for an Empty Guester. No purse, no bag, no towel, no change of clothes. Nuttin.

Brows furrow.

I told her we're still getting ourselves up and sorted out. I suggested she could go up to the front and sit at a beach-front table at the Whistling Bird bar while we get dressed.

"Have you had any breakfast yet, Nadine?"

She only raised her eye brows, pouted her lips and shook her head. Ok, I'll make some breakfast and bring it up to a table at the front. The girls will join her in a minute, as soon as they get into their bathing suits.

So I whip up some scrambled eggs and toast and haul a big platter full up to the beach. I see that my girls are sitting alone at a small table while Nadine has planted herself on a tall bar stool, flirting with the bartender.

And drinking a Red Stripe. On our tab.

"Nadine? No more Red Stripe," I say, as she tips the brown bottle up and drains the last of it. "Your mother would hardly be happy to learn that I plied you with Red Stripes while you were under my watch at the beach. You're only 15. No more beer."

She shrugs her shoulders and slips off the bar stool, headed for the eggs and toast. I glare at the bartender, hissing "Juice and soda only, ok?" He starts muttering about Jamaican pickney drink young and it's only Red Stripe and American pickney "jess cyan hangle it like Jamaican pickney dem an'"--- I stop him. "Look, if she's under my care, she's not drinking, ok?" Now the bartender shrugs his shoulders.

After devouring more than her share of the scrambled eggs and toast, Nadine asks for the key to our cottage. She needs to use the bathroom. Sure, I say, handing her the key on the long, blue nylon cord. She turns and strolls back along the sandy path toward our cottage, swinging the key around her finger in big looping circles.

"Mommy, she was drinking BEER!" my oldest daughter whispers. My little one, sitting next to her, is wide-eyed and nodding her head.

"Yeah," I sighed, "I know. It won't happen again. She must just be feeling a little feisty, being down here alone without her parents. But I told her it is NOT permitted. No more Red Stripe for Nadine." My girls look at each other and snort, starting to giggle. Not only is Nadine bold enough to order a beer, stunning in itself, but to put it on Mommy's bill is too much for them to imagine. They are clearly in awe of Nadine, their very first Bad Gyal.

I'm disappointed that I now have a 15-year old to wrangle and entertain all day. I was looking forward to just setting myself up in a quiet corner of the property to draw and paint. My girls, however, are now looking forward to whatever surprises Nadine may have in store of us for the day. I typically dread having a day-long Empty Guester in the first place, nevermind one who clearly was planning to push her teenage boundaries.

Brows furrow.

Nadine returns a few minutes later, handing me the key and slumping down in a chair. She's quiet and clearly bored, considering her options. "Cyan mi haff one pepsi, miss?" she asks. Sure.

She walked over to the bar, got a Pepsi from the bartender and returned to our table. She then announced that she was going to "tek a walk 'pon de beach. Mi soon come." Giving the girls a little wave, she spun on her heel and briskly walked off in the sand, heading up the beach. Part of me thought I should stop her but part of me was relieved that she was gone. After all, she'd gotten to town by herself, clearly she could handle a walk on the beach alone. And clearly she really had no interest in spending the day with an 8-year old and a 10-year old, let alone the American Auntie who wasn't going to buy her any beer.

So now what do I do?

"Don't be too long, Nadine," I rather lamely called after her.

Although not from Negril, she knew this town as well as I did if not better. I figured she'd return by lunchtime. As soon as she was hungry. Still, I felt uneasy. I walked over to the the bartender and asked him if he thought she'd be alright alone. Of course HE saw no problem with her drinking Red Stripes all day, so I don't know why I valued his opinion of the situation. I guess I just wanted to hear someone else say "she'll be alright, nah worry yuhself."

Which is exactly what he did say. And now it was my turn to shrug.

Still, it gnawed at me that she was left in my care and was now cavorting up the beach. I called Denise but her phone went straight to voicemail. I left a message, saying that Nadine had arrived safely and eaten breakfast, but had taken off up the beach. I just wanted to let her mother know that I really didn't feel as if I had much control over her.

Sure enough, by the time lunchtime rolled around, so did Nadine. I don't know what she'd been doing for the past few hours, but she still looked bored. And she was hungry and in need of the bathroom. Clearly we were just the convenient service station for her day at the beach. After serving Nadine and my girls some lunch, she announced that she was ready to go home. And she needed cab fare.

Brows furrow.

"Your mother isn't planning to pick you up?"

"No, miss, she nah leff werk so soon and mi want fi go back a mi yahd." Alright, alright. I gave her the equivalent of $10 U.S., more than enough for a route taxi ride home and a snack for the road. She mumbled a "Tenks,miss," then glanced at the girls, jutting her chin out and up toward them. "Likkle more," she smiled. And she headed up the path toward the gate out to the road. Gone.

It wasn't long after that I got a call back from Denise. She was upset but also embarrassed -- she had never given Nadine permission to come check us at the beach today. In fact, she hadn't seen Nadine for nearly 3 days. "She run off, she a chobble mi so, Veek-toddy-ya. Mi nah know wha fi do wid dat pickney." She shared tales of more-than-typical teenage rebellion, tales that would curl your hair. She was worried and also disappointed to know that Nadine had just slipped through her fingers. If only we had known. I promised we would "hole her dung" and call again if Nadine resurfaced.

Dayam.

After hanging up the phone, I glanced around the cottage and noticed that something just didn't feel right. I went into the bathroom and noticed some small cosmetic items and toiletries were gone or, at the very least, not where I'd left them. And tucked into the corner of the bathroom, rolled up into a ball and stuffed behind the door, was my blue-flowered bikini, soaking wet. It left a large puddle on the floor.

So Nadine had a swim at the beach after all. If she'd asked me if she could borrow a suit I'd have gladly loaned her one; I was annoyed that she'd simply sneaked off into the bathroom and slipped on one of my suits without asking. She then had simply put her own clothes back on over the bathing suit and went to "tek one walk pon de beach." Pretty clever for an Empty Guester.

It soon became clear that Nadine had helped herself to a few more of my things -- a white linen blouse, a black camisole, and a pair of camouflage pants, all of which were now missing. I suppose she didn't steal the bathing suit because it was too wet to stuff into her bag with the other things.

But she had no bag. She was an Empty Guester. No purse, no bag, no towel. How'd she carry off so many pieces of clothing and toiletries?

Brows furrow.

It was much later in the evening that Nadine did resurface. She had, in fact, been carrying a very sizable backpack while on the road for 3 days, and she'd stashed it in the utility bathroom adjoining our parking lot. One of the groundskeepers tipped me off, after spotting her darting in and out of the tiny shack. I found my missing clothing shoved into the bag and dutifully retrieved them, feeling sad and angry.

The Empty Guesters always got under my skin. But I always tried to check myself, to try and put myself in their shoes and be more gracious, knowing that I lived a privileged life in comparison to most people I've met in Jamaica. It's a fine line to walk: am I a sucker if I open my home and my wallet? Am I selfish if I don't?

The Bikini Bandit put me to the test that day. She didn't strike me as a "sufferah", someone plagued by bad luck or bad choices. But what did I really know about her life? Not much. I got my things back, the day hadn't cost me much and I ultimately helped return her to her parents. So now my reclusive shell has become a bit thicker as a result and the other Empty Guesters will have a tougher time when they next cross my path. But it is Nadine who I worry about more, not myself.

Brows furrow.

Bikini Bandit
ink and watercolor on paper
Print available here.

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No more unfinished symphonies

I didn't think I was going to find a resolution for this painting. I'm not crazy about the composition -- I'd intended to incorporate much of the environment around him but ended up going with a more abstract treatment instead. But I do love the colors. I glazed the shirt with a warm yellow to help integrate it with the other colors a bit more.

It's been an unpredictable progression....





Cropping can change everything. I think I'm going to experiment with framing this painting (cropping it) a few different ways. I like this view ............




"No More Unfinished Symphonies", 12"x16" ink and watercolor on paper $250

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I Heard It Through The SeaGrape Vine

"Yuh lookin fi Peter, right?"

I stopped dead in my tracks and stared at him. His face looked familiar but how could it be, really? I'd been to Jamaica just once before, a month earlier, and didn't recall meeting him. He was tall and thickly built, his skin an inky black, and his sun-bleached dreads gathered high up at the back of his head. I had no idea who he was. But he knew me.

I nodded, yes, I was hoping to find Peter.

"Yuh jess miss him, gwan and check pon di beach, check fi him at Club Kokua."

I stared at him. He smiled slowly and said, "Yuh nah remembah mi?" Nope. But there was something kind and gentle in his face, I knew he was just trying to help me out. I thanked him, and walked out of Xtabi on the cliffs, and hailed a taxi back to the beach. I was mystified.

I'd spent only one week in Jamaica on my first visit and let Peter know I was coming back, we planned to link up. I wasn't sure where I would be staying and so counted on the small-town nature of Negril to make sure our paths crossed. These were the days before every Negrilian carried a cell phone in their pocket, these were the days when nobody needed a phone to get a message out or to find a friend. And these were the days when everybody knew everybody's business -- or at least thought they did.

It was many years later, after Peter and I were married, our eldest daughter was two years old and we were expecting our second child, that I re-told this story to Cleveland. We'd become good friends over the years and he always spent time with us when we returned to the island. He smiled and nodded, yes, he remembered seeing me step onto the terrace at Xtabi and searching the crowd. He remembered me and knew Peter was looking for me, too.

That day was one of many that made me realize what a small town Negril could be and how closely people pay attention to who you are and how you move and how very tough it can be to slink below the radar.

Cleveland motioned me to follow him as he stepped off the verandah, away from the crowd that always gathered at our cottage. He walked slowly across the grass and stopped, pulling his wallet out from his back pocket. He pulled two, slightly worn color photographs from deep within it's folds and handed them to me. One was of a dark-haired, smiling girl with coffe-color skin. She looked to be about 4 or 5, and the other was a very young baby, clearly the other's sister, with a shock of black hair on a tiny wizened face.

"These are my dawtas," smiled Cleveland. I was stunned.

"What?? I had NO idea you had kids, Cleveland. They are beautiful. Peter never told me you had kids."

Cleveland kissed his teeth -- "He nu know 'bout dem." Stunned again. Peter, one of his closest friends, didn't know Cleveland had kids? How could that be?

"Their mom live in the States, mi know her lang time, he know she. But mi no tell everybody 'bout mi bizness." He then permitted me to share the pictures with everyone else and happily soaked up the delighted responses and smiles they elicited from the group.

So, I wondered, why tell me? And why now? He'd sure manged to guard that secret for a long time and from a lot of people. The SeaGrapevine never picked up that scrap of news.

I think because we were so happily returning to Jamaica with our daughter, who brought such joy and laughter wherever we went, and with a second child on the way, it gave Cleveland pause.

He'd mastered the art of subverting Negril's CIA-like informers, the SeagGrapevine that carried everybody's stories up and down the beach. But at what cost? Thankfully, he'd paid the price long enough and finally found the pleasure of sharing his secrets.

Well, maybe at least one of them.........

I Heard It Through The Sea Grape Vine
Ink and watercolor on paper
Print available here.

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Alphonso and the Coconut

She was a little firecracker, that Maxine, ready to party before the plane even touched down in Mobay. She left her husband at home in their small midwestern town, said Jamaica just wasn't his thing, he wouldn't be comfortable.

And she did behave herself.

She had a husky voice for such a petite woman, a testament to too many smokes. And a laugh that burst out of her like it was shot from a cannon. I enjoyed her company during the day, sharing cocktails in the afternoon, but I always begged exhaustion when she tried to coax me out after dark. The beach night scene just doesn't appeal to me. I'd rather sit on the verandah with a book, listening to the gleep gleep of the tree frogs and dodging the smoke of the "destroyer" I had to place at my feet. Party on.

One afternoon, Maxine was sitting out at the beach front of the Whistling Bird, chatting with Alphonso. Well, actually, Maxine was doing most of the chatting. Alphonso was quietly nodding and handing her pieces of his jewelery for her to examine. Alphonso is an elder dread and a master craftsman. He works primarily in tortoise shell and black coral, but also often adds in pieces of silver, gold and occasionally slivers of bright scarlet or turquoise corals.

Earrings and bangles, pendants and combs, guitar picks and rings, his inventory is always changing. The work is exquisitely crafted by hand. He carries them all wrapped up in a bright white towel, tucked into his backpack. He won't sell his wares to just anyone, the vibe has to be right, he doesn't walk the beach and unroll the towel at every place he visits. His work is a part of him, he once told me, his art is his life. He'd rather not sell a piece than let the wrong person haggle him down to a price that disrespects his craft and his sensibility.

He'd rather go hungry.

By the time I reached the table and sat down, Maxine was wearing a pair of tortoise shell hoop hearings, a thick black coral bangle bracelet on her left hand, a slender tortoise shell bangle on her right, and the showstopper around her neck -- a luscious globe of lignum vitae, or ironwood, carved into the shape of a voluptuous coconut and wrapped with a tortoise shell coil at the crown, threaded through a black leather thong. Lignum vitae is such a slow-growing, hard and dense wood it will sink in water. I don't know how Alphonso managed to carve it into such a beautifully curved orb.

It made me drool.

I always tried to purchase something of Alphonso's each summer and I was envious of Maxine getting to that piece first. But it looked perfect on her. The creamy caramel color of the wood, its slightly oval shape, nestled in Maxine's cleavage - it oozed femininity, fertility.

Alphonso stepped away from the table, letting Maxine just sit with a mirror and admire herself with his wares. Alphonso never gives anyone the hard sell. It is almost as if he'd prefer you didn't buy anything, as if he's reluctantly parting with his children. Maxine whispered to me that she really wanted to buy them all, but he was asking for about $500 for the lot -- the earrings, the two bangles, and the coconut pendant. She ticked off the individual prices he'd quoted, which came to slightly higher than that amount. He was willing to trim the total since she'd buy all four items.

Maxine winced. "Do you think he'll knock off another fifty bucks?", she whispered. Alphonso stood well away from us, gazing up the beach.

"I dunno," I said, "that's a pretty good price," knowing how Alphonso felt about hagglers. "Maxine, he does have a whole buncha kids," I said. "If you can afford it, I wouldn't try to get him to go even lower." She looked back in the mirror, softly caressing the coconut.

"Couldn't you just DIE for this piece?" she asked, her eyes widening.

"Yeah," I sighed. "It's just beautiful. You gotta buy it, Max." Maxine called Alphonso over to the table. He slowly ambled over to where we were sitting.

"Wha' chew think, Maxine?" he said, softly.

"I just LOVE them ALL," she gushed. "I'm just not sure."

Now Alphonso may have scruples but he's also a wise businessman, he's practiced in the art of the soft sell.

"You don't have to decide right now," he told her. And he started to pack up the rest of his pieces. "Wear them for a bit. I'll check back with you tomorrow." Smart move. He let her keep all the pieces, no money exchanged hands, and he offered to meet her there again the next day when she could purchase what she chose or return them all.

Maxine was delighted. She had accessories for her evening ahead. Alphonso knew that after "owning" those pieces for 24 hours, Maxine would be less likely to give them up. But, he later told me, he never considers a sale a sale until he's got cash in his hand. It's always a gamble.

I didn't see Maxine that night or the next day. I caught up with Alphonso at the Whistling Bird bar the next evening.

"Hey," I said, "did you see Maxine today? Did she come through for you?" He gave me one of those quick chin-up gestures, and looked at me sideways. "She give them all back to me," he smiled, "said she couldn't come up with that much cash, she only have credit cyard. She nuh buy nuttin. So it go."

"Wait a minute," I said, "she could always get a cash advance on her credit card, or use the ATM over by the Hi-Lo. And I KNOW she could afford it." He shrugged.

"She's just not the right person for my pieces, that's all."

Damn straight, I thought.

"Hey, 'phonso, lemme see that carved coconut pendant." He smiled. He opened up his back pack, and unfurled the white towel, letting all of his pieces spill out onto the table top in front of me. He plucked the pendant from the center of the mass of tangled pieces and handed it to me.

"How much you want for this one, 'phonso?"

"One-seventy-five," he said, and he started to explain how he caved the lignum vitae and how he softened the tortoise shell into a coil.

I stopped him, shaking my head. "Two hundred," I said, "and not a penny less."

He nodded slowly and smiled. "I guess dat's the piece for you."

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Shades of Grey

"Mi cyan't find mi sista cell phone. A wheh it deh?"

We were driving back to Negril after spending the day in Sav La Mar. I had no idea where the cell phone could be. I had no use for it myself. This was the first year cell phones began to pop up all over Jamaica and I hadn't quite gotten used to the idea that you could actually reach someone without resorting to the rural grapevine. Which was, incidentally, a remarkably reliable method of contacting folks.

Frighteningly reliable, now that I think about it.

But cell phones had arrived. We'd actually brought this particular cell phone down for Felicia just so that we could stay in touch with the family directly, rather than depend upon the sole neighbor who owned an actual land-line phone. A cell phone became THE prized luxury accessory of the season, better than a gold chain. Even if you had no battery charger to keep it functioning, hell, even if it had no battery aTALL, wearing a cell phone prominently clipped to your pants waist was even better than a new pair of Clarks.

And ours was missing.

"I dunno," I said, "are you sure you left it in the car?"

"Yeah, mi leff it dehsoh," my husband said, pointing to the well behind the gearshift box, between the seats. "An mi mine tell me," he said, tapping his finger against his temple, "NAH let Sticks inn a mi cyarr -- { sound of kissing teeth} - but mi let him a move it, mi let him put di cyarr inna de shade," {more kissing of teeth} "mon, mi know 'im a tek mi phone outta mi cyar."

"Sticks? But I thought he's one of your friends? He wouldn't take your phone." I was a little puzzled by this conclusion.

"Yeah, mon, mi know Sticks lahng time, he a grow up amongst we, mi know him since we a likkle yewt. And he's a teef. He always been one likkle teef."

We drove silently for a few minutes.

"Mi guess he the man who tek the cigarette lightah fram the cyar, too." We'd noticed that the car's cigarette lighter was gone after our last trip to the country. " Mi nah know what he cyan do wid dat lightah, it cyan't werk pon it's own, not widout de cyar," he chuckled.

"Well," I said, "perhaps he'll steal a car to go with it." I rolled my eyes.

I was still trying to digest the fact that my husband was so matter-of-factly accepting the notion that his friend stole from him. It annoyed him, but didn't seem to surprise nor upset him much.

"But we just spent the better part of the day with Sticks", I said. "We fed him and the other guys, and we all sat on the verandah eating a meal together, and now you're telling me he's a thief? But he's your friend? He's a thief AND he's your friend?"

Although my husband knew better than to call me "one eeediot", he shot me a look that said essentially the same thing.

"Mon, sometimes you look like yuh jess nah know wha-gwan," my husband said -- {more kissing of teeth, which is the equivalent of a new yorker rolling her eyes}.

I had to admit that, frankly, he was right. When in Jamaica, I just never really DID understand what was going on, particularly when it came to the rather fluid boundaries of friendship.

"Next time, jess nah let Sticks inna de house, seen?". Next time? So we were still friends with Sticks, but with necessary precautions. Alright.

Sometimes I just wished the good guys would wear white hats and the bad guys would wear black, just like in those old politically-incorrect westerns. That's me all over, I'm afraid. I've been told I tend to see things in strictly black and white terms, but Jamaica, contrary to it's turquoise waters and emerald hills, is really just a whole heapah shades of grey.

Shades of Grey
Ink and watercolor on paper.

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Menage a trois

Let me introduce you to Mr. I Love Your Skin Color. Or, well, Junior.

"Yuh know, mi nevah like di skin of a black ooman. Mi always like the nice creamy, soft skin of a white lady, seen?"

Nancy wasn't buying it.

She liked Junior, she'd been seeing him over several months during frequent trips to the island. A woman of a certain age, Nancy was smart, wisecracking, and came from a cold, woodsy rural town of the northeast. And her skin WAS the color of porcelain, and so was her extensively bleached hair. She chain smoked, observed the runnings of Negril beach from behind large thick-lensed glasses, and had an unexpected sophistication lurking beneath a casually disheveled appearance.

I liked her instantly.

She shared this rather disturbing "compliment" with me shortly after we first met. I liked Junior, I still do. I didn't know him well but he was hard not to like. He had an easy smile, was quite pleasant, and always seemed to be on the move, working and hustling, in a good way. And he was kind to Nancy.

But that remark gave us both the creeps.

She was having a good time, but was decidedly skeptical about the long-term prospects of Mr. I-Love-White-Skin. She'd learned of a Baby Mudda inna the bush, who was presumably Not An Issue, or so she was told. But still, her gut told her perhaps there was something, or some one, else which just might be an issue. She just couldn't put her finger on it.

So she took some investigative action.

It was several months after our return to the states before she gave me an update. She'd done some snooping around Junior's belongings and found the quintessential black book. It was the size of about 4 postage stamps, crammed full of scribbled numbers and names.The most recent entry was a name and phone number of a woman from a mid-western American city. So, Nancy says, I called "the numbah." She started to chuckle.

Seems the numbah belonged to a black American woman, whom I'll call Marie. She had also been a frequent visitor to Jamaica and they began to discover how much they had in common. Seems Marie had heard a variation on the I-love-your-skin theme but with the obvious twist -- "Mi jess cyan tek the white lady skin, mi always luuuuv the nice brown skin of a righteous black ooman," he'd told her.

So at least Junior doesn't discriminate after all.

But it was probably that false expression of desire that angered them more than a straightforward case of infidelity. They were grown women, they knew that international dating was not a sure thing and their expectations were not ridiculously high. And so rather than see themselves as enemies fighting over a man, they bonded as sisters in a sham, pissed off at the false profession of love. Cheatin' vs. lyin', well maybe it was a distinction without a difference. Still.

They made a plan.

Now mind you this was in the days before cell phones, but just at the dawn of such wonderful features as call waiting, star 69 and the all-time favorite: 3-way calling. Nevertheless, if you wanted to reach someone in Jamaica who didn't have a phone, which was just about everybody you were likely to meet, you either had to wait for them to phone you from the Call Box down the lane, or you could call a third party who had a phone and they would get the word out that you were trying to reach someone. So Marie put a call out to Jamaica that Junior must give her a call back. Word soon reached him and he dutifully called Marie at the designated time.


After the initial pleasantries, the how-are-you-darlin's, the mi-miss-you-so-much and the mi-cyan't-wait-fi-see-you, Marie told Junior she had someone with her who wanted to speak to him. A few clicks and a beep or two and Nancy was also on the line. And as far as Junior could tell, it sounded as if they were not only both in the same state, but both in the same house, sharing the same phone.

Ahh, the telephonic threesome. It's a beautiful thing.

Menage a Trois
Ink and watercolor on paper.

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The Colonel

Or is he The Kernel? Perhaps reflecting yet another opportunity for me to completely misunderstand The Big Picture.

Despite a preference for cammouflage fashion, this gentleman "farmer" is hardly the stuff of military bearing. Gentle and humble, I don't think I've heard him utter more than a few words each time we've met over the years.Excruciatingly polite. Though he does strike me as someone who could easily conduct guerrilla-style warfare if push came to shove.

He is typically not at home when we come a callin'. If anyone is in the one-room board house, they often nod up to the dense grove of palms, mango trees, avocado, and overall dense tangle of foliage, saying. "he gone a bush."

Much "hailing up" in that direction typically results in a call-and-response barrage of patois. We hear him long before we see him. Finally, the Colonel emerges from the thick greenery and descends goat-like down the last few rocky steps of the steep hillside behind his house.

A true country man of the 21st century, the Colonel wears a tattered marina slung low over his knee-length cargo shorts, casually steps barefoot over the sharp rock-stone, carrying a machete in one hand and talking into his cell phone with the other.

The Big Picture, indeed.

The Colonel
Ink and watercolor on paper.

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The Ubiquitous Marina

I'd never seen one of these before going to Jamaica. You know what I'm talking about: those cotton mesh tank tops with the deep scoop neck. More than any Name Brand, this is sufferah's uniform, a Jamaican phenomenon not even made in Jamaica.

If you're slender and not too tall, the marina will swing low over your booty, nearly engulfing your cargo shorts. Stylin. It's the shirt that's not a shirt when shirts are required.

It's cool. On several levels.

But I particularly appreciate the cool-as-a-christmas-breeze marina when it is paired with tailored woolen trousers. Or wide-wale corduroys. Top off the look with a freshly-polished pair of Clarks your sister sent you fram farrin and you're ready for the ghetto runway.

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There's a new Sheriff in Town

This is Reggie. And it wasn't really his fault that my leg was shattered.

Well, at least for about a dozen years I thought his name was Reggie. Turns out his name is Cleveland. I guess if you are a young man growing up in rural Jamaica, you are as anxious to shed the name "Cleveland" as you are to shed your status as a likkle bwoy.

Cleveland became Reggie after repeated bredren viewings of "48 Hours", wherein Eddie Murphy, aka Reggie Hammond, announces the aforementioned sheriff line. I didn't learn this bit of history until many years later, when addressing a piece of mail and was laughed out of the room when I wrote "Reggie" on the envelope. It wouldn't be the first time I mistook a nickname for the real thing.

Anyway.

It was Reggie who was riding on a motorcycle in front of ours, his spiky short dreads held in place by a bright red beret. What is it with these guys and berets? I thought it hysterically funny that in the late 80s to early 90s, a stretched-beyond-recognition beret was a common choice of rasta headgear.

And the red beret, much like that infamous red balloon of classic French cinema, went sailing past us as we cruised into Whitehouse, just beyond Bluefields, on the south coast of Jamaica. Ever thoughtful, I tapped Peter's shoulder and signaled that we should turn back and collect Reggie's chapeau. We slowed and began a u-turn into the other lane.

In so doing, we were hit broadside.

Peter saw the oncoming car and leaped from the bike, later remarking, "Mi jump fram di bike but me look back and see yuh still 'pon it", referring to me, the passenger, and shaking his head in wonder. Well I wasn't "pon it" for very long. I shot into the air and had enough time to contemplate whether or not the absence of a helmet was going to be a problem.

You see, the car behind us chose that precise moment to overtake our bike and as they say in Jamaica, don't be an overtaker, or you'll soon meet the undertaker. And here we were jus the u-turn-maker. I hit the ground after what seemed like an eternity in the air, and landed foot first, to the sound of several loud Ca-RACK,CA-RACK,CA-RACKs, then landed on my backside, and finally, felt my head drop back onto the asphalt.

I immediately sat upright and grabbed hold of my skull to make certain it was intact. Skull in one piece? Check! My right leg, however, had a sickening, snakey curve that I knew was not quite right. The audio soundtrack of the previous 30 seconds gave me my first clue.

So.

I guess it wasn't really Reggie's fault. I guess it was my own. And that's how I ended up flat on my back in the women's surgical ward in Sav La Mar hospital.

I met a cast of characters that fateful weekend, a cast that continues to grow and expand, move on and pass away. The Sheriff is no longer in town, but he still lays down the law in a new corner of the world.

I hope we'll see him again real soon. Sans chapeau.

New Sheriff in Town
Ink and watercolor on paper

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Runaway Dread

And sometimes you find the right path despite the roadblocks put up in your way.

Losing parents, moving in with distant relatives, running away from home before the age of ten, finding a new family in the embrace of unsavory Dons.

You know what I mean by "Dons", don't you? A Jamaican ting, dat.

And still growing up to be a good man, a kind and Conscious Dread. A man who will sweep out his yard at daybreak, cook up one nice pot of coconut rice and peas, and will have your back in any seetch-yoo-ay-shun, seen?

But you knew that just by looking at his face, no?

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Crack Cocaine and the Vicissitudes of Real Estate Taxes

I'm not going to tell you his name. It doesn't really matter.

But you should know that I thought he was one of the "bredren," a good egg, as my parents might say. An "ital" rasta man, as the natty dreadlocks would agree. Righteous, seen?

After all, he was welcomed, told to "siddung nuh", as a half dozen of us sat in a cluster of beach chaises and watched the horizon swallow up the sun one warm July "eve-ling" in Westmoreland. He was a slight man, his khakis hung loosely on his frame, and his natty dreadlocks nearly touched the sand as he padded up the beach toward us.

Yah, suh. All the genkle-men present nodded, we know 'im laaang time, whatta gwan, Natty?

Much patois-rich reminiscing, a remembrance of times past jamaican-style. Ganja smoke is their madeleine. I drifted off.......

So when I was alone on the beach and saw him again, I hailed him up. "Yes, I-yah, can I buy you one cold drink?" I asked. Natty dreadlocks headed straight to the bar and asked for "one cold Heineken. Tenks, miss." Sure, mon, no problem. While it was still half-full and cold in his hand, he asked if I would buy him "one next one, miss?" Now, I know the runnings. And often those who most deserve a round of drinks are those who never ask so I told him I had an errand to do with the children and I'd "soon come back." If he was still around when I returned, sure, no problem, one next Heineken coming right up.

So guess who was still clutching the by-now empty bottle, waiting for my return one full hour later? I dutifully bought Natty one more cold Heineken. Then he pulled me close. He whispered in my ear, "Wha mi really wan is sum money fi pay mi real estate taxes. Mi need $150 Jays, miss, cyaann yuh help mi nuh?"

For those of you who don't know, $150 Jamaican dollars at that time was the equivalent of about U.S. $2.50. Yes, that's right. About two U.S. dollars and fifty cents.

For his "real estate taxes" he says.

When I shared this story with my husband and his friends, they all laughed softly, but with sadness. "The Rock hole 'im dung, mon. Nuh give 'im nuttin more," and they shook their heads.

"Toxes, eeenh? Natty nah own nuttin fi tox. A crack-cocaine a 'im biggest tox. He muss pay it......"

Crack Cocaine and the Vicissitudes of Real Estate Taxes
Ink and watercolor on paper

A print of this painting is available for purchase here.

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