Moose Productions Blog

In her early twenties, Maria swings into the lobby of the White House Hotel and instantly the space is jolted with energy. It’s 1pm on an otherwise routine day– christmas carols blaring from the radio, stories being passed along about this place or that place in Chicago where the wind was– But Maria, enters, and everyone stops. She has recently risen, and is coming down to greet the day. Last night, I heard she was walking to the Brooklyn Bridge with two friends and didn’t get back until 6 in the morning.

I’ve never seen anything like it. A room full of older men, all of whom are in love with the same 20 something young woman. And everyone knows what she did the day before. She’s the hot topic of conversation all the time. During the past two weeks at the White House, there are only two things people have discussed every day– the weather and Maria.

Maria is a painter. She lives in Germany but considers the world her home. As one in NY gets on the subway to go from the East Side of town to the West Side of town, Maria gets on planes to go from one side of the world to the other. She is a gypsy of sorts. Her pants are stained with different color paints and she is always a bit dissheveled. She is striking, with energetic eyes set in a face that is both innocent and happy. Slender yet strong, Maria is quick to flirt with any and every resident of the hotel.

One night we were shooting as Tom went to play bingo. Maria joined. There was no bingo because there were too few people at the bar so they spent a good deal of the time talking about life and the priorities different people have. She kept referring to herself as a bird, free from constraints, independent and without pressure. Maria considers the White House Hotel her home in NYC. She stays free of rent in exchange for work done for Meyer. She has become very very good friends with Shadow, the one line artist who was featured in the last post. Since they are both artists, they often draw together in the lobby, each creating tens of paintings a day.

Anyways, so Maria bursts into the lobby and everyone stops. She greets everyone, knows everyone by name and has a personal conversation with everyone. She’s like a politician almost, shaking hands, hugging, so intimately familiar with everyone, so pleased to see everyone. But after only a couple of minutes Maria’s gone, out for breakfast. And the lobby is now noticeably dead.

Yesterday, Matt interviewed Maria on the roof of the White House. She sat on the ledge, looking down to the street and looking out at the city. She’s at the White House until Sunday.

The second permanent resident I interviewed was a fellow by the name of Mike Powell.

Mike Powell lives on the third floor of the White House Hotel. One of his eyes is always still. The other moves about healthily. He is a man of imposing physique, large and well trained in martial arts. There is a sword hanging from his wall. Mike believes that martial arts influences every action in his life. Even as he walks down the street during a rainstorm, the way in which he angles an umbrella with a slight tilt of the wrist can drastically change the amount of rain that gets on him and those walking around him. He has a deep, loud and genuine laugh, and frequently laughs when it is least expected. He earns his rent money by playing $5 games of chess. He began playing chess because he wanted to make theoretical translations between the game of chess and the game of go. He no longer enjoys chess, and simply sees it as a way to make money. Mike is most passionate about writing. And I do not mean the kind of writing one does to get a book published. Mike considers himself a “Master Writer”. This means that Mike writes letters and fonts with great care. He is what many would term a calligraphist. Mike showed a letter he wrote, the letter “w” took him 2 hours to write, faces were woven into the ornate pattern of the letter. He has pages and pages of letters written in many languages. One of his favorite documents to write is the Declaration of Independence, which begins, “We the People…”

Mike has no alcohol or drug addictions. In many ways, he is in the White House Hotel because he feels largely an outsider in this capitalist society. He does not have a great deal of competitive spirit, and does not harbor any great ambitions. He has said, that if he was not a “horny american” he would move to China, become a monk, accept the vows of chastity, eat rice and meditate for the remainder of his days. To Mike, the true test of a person, is whether or not one can enjoy one’s solititude. If one is not at peace with one’s self, then one is not at peace with God. Mike said that he has never had problems being at peace with himself, but that he seems to have problems being at peace with other people. When asked if he was afraid of death he said that he was not afraid of death, only afraid of pain. And he let out a wonderful booming laugh.

This Saturday, we will follow Mike as he plays chess on bleecker street.

In the days that I’ve spent hanging around the White House Hotel, talking to the residents, one name invariably surfaced in every conversation. Sir Shadow. People spoke of his unbelievable skill as an artist, his ability to sit down, move his pen almost unconsciously across the page and create images of people that capture the raw emotion of the human spirit. Intrigued, I had always looked forward to meeting Shadow.

Friday night, December 10th, I met him for the first time.

About 6′ 4″ and well dressed, Sir Shadow carries himself with a large degree of confidence. He commands attention. He sat in the lobby of the White House, in the northeast corner by the radiator and ate his dinner, steaming Chinese food in a styrofoam container. After a short time, Shadow was approached by a Japanese tourist who he had previously befriended. ( I get the feel Shadow is bit of a Ladies Man). I sat about 15 ft away, watching, not wanting to intrude on Shadow. After a time, he pulled out pen and paper from a black leather portfolio. He looked at me and said, “I am about to start, you can get this if you want.” Camera ready, I darted over and hit record. For the next twenty minutes he drew, without stopping. Shadow’s art is called “one line art” because the drawing consists of one stroke of the pen. The pen goes to the paper and when it is removed the drawing is finished. Shadow spoke to himself as he drew, entering a peaceful world. He drew people dancing, jazz musicians playing music, lovers embracing, all the while saying to himself “dum dee dumm ahhh dumm dee deee dum” and rocking back and forth. After a while, he stopped drawing and I asked him a question: “What is your philosophy on life?” He paused. What he said was unlike anything I have seen.
For the next twenty five minutes Shadow shared his philosophy in a stream of consciousness, never stopping. At times, what he said made little sense and then he would enter a phase in which he said the most profound truths and then enter into a story about being in the womb and then enter back into nonsense, never stopping. I kept the camera close, I was shooting with a shotgun and prayed the audio would turn out in the noisy lobby of the White House. It did. I have never met someone who seemed so removed from reality and yet who so wholly understood it. He spoke with wisdom on many things, and like Mike, talked of the importance of enjoying one’s solitude. The first person you need to know is your self. He talked of being in the womb, of being sperm racing toward the egg, of building one’s boat and sending it to sea. Prayers are answered through action he said.

After finishing his thoughts, Shadow drew a one line painting for me, signed it and went back to his discussion with the japanese tourist.

Facts About Tom

61 years old.
Irish, irish, irish.
Very neat and clean.
Shaves in the shower because it saves time.
Wears button down shirt, gold chain, blue jeans.

possesses numerous expensive suits that he
hangs from the ceiling of his cubicle

6 years
living in a room 7 feet long and 4 feet wide
with a chicken wire ceiling

Everyday Tom Reilly hopes that he can get out of
the White House Hotel.
He doesn’t want to die there.

Tom wakes up by 5 AM. Showers, heads to the bodega next door
where breakfast is $3.

Then crossword puzzles. Tom Reilly lives to play crossword puzzles.
New York Times, New York Post, USA Today
Tom says the puzzles keep him from slipping into dementia.
Tom does at least 4 crosswords a day
and drinks the same number of rum and cokes

Tom sends out applications to positions as an enrollment
coordinator for highschools. But he hasn’t gotten a yes yet.

Three years ago he was hit by a car and got $27,800 in the settlement.
He’s been making that money stretch.

As a young man he enlisted in the navy where he was a radio operator
during the Cuban Missile Crisis. After that he was a minesweeper of the seas.

Out of the military, Tom was a commodities broker on Wall St. He married,
and had 3 kids.
But because of an addiction, Tom lost everything.

He doesn’t even think that he has a drinking problem.

Tom’s daughter recently graduated from law school.
She drives a BMW.

Tom’s sons don’t speak to Tom.

Tom doesn’t pay rent at the White House Hotel
because he serves as the Fire Safety Inspector.

Once or twice a week he walks from the 4th floor to the basement,
checks every light bulb, and every corner, and keeps a log of
violations in his notebook.

Every Tuesday night, Tom plays bingo at the Orange Valve.
He won last week.

Right now, Tom doesn’t believe he can make it out.
He bleieves he will die there.