Moose Productions Blog

Mike put on his dark grey overcoat, wrapped his light grey scarf around his collar and headed out. The door locked, he squeezed by me and out the dark hall. It was the day of the Chinese New Year parade and we were headed down to Chinatown. Mike had a bounce in his step, hurrying along because he sensed the parade was going to come to a close.
2005 is the year of the rooster, Mike explained as he paced along. When I asked him what animal last year was, he said he wasn’t sure… that he was more interested in Japanese culture.
Chinatown was abuzz. It was so filled with people, it was difficult to think about anything other than navigation. We got to the parade in time to see a couple of floats, music blaring from box speakers and someone singing chinese into a cordless microphone. Tiny confetti sprinkled the sky and a man dressed as a rooster jumped around. At one point, a dragon slithered by, many men beneath a multi-colored cloth. Five minutes later, the Falun Gong dressed in bright yellow costumes marched by, a man banging symbols toward the front. They were the last of the parade. Mike was clearly disappointed, wanting to have seen far more than 5 minutes of the celebration.
We headed out from the trash lined streets, looking for a restaurant. Mike had told me a few weeks earlier that every new year he treats himself to a sit down dinner. Intrigued, I asked him if I could join. He agreed. We zig zagged around before reaching the place he had wanted to go but when we arrived it was no longer there. Mike was frustrated. It had been a great place, and cheap. “Nothing lasts forever” he said as we waited to cross the street. Mike decided that instead of a meal, he would buy himself a gift. He told me that each Chinese new year he buys himself a little something. We stumbled upon a gift store. Mike found a bowl with a dome shaped lid. It had a picture of a bird painted in blue ink. It was simple. $2.95. Mike left the store feeling as if he had gotten a good deal. And he had.
Along the walk back to the White House, Mike stopped whenever he found a store awning that had chinese characters. He studied them as a fisherman studies fish swimming through a river. At one point we walked by a little boy throwing snap pops against the sidewalk. He was so small and bundled as he enjoyed the little explosions. He threw another and another, never tiring of the process.

Back at the White House, Mike unwrapped his gift. There were instructions with the bowl. He carefully lifted the paper to his eyes and read for close to 5 minutes. I had trouble imagining what directions could possibly come with a bowl. After finishing, he dismissed the directions as useless. He pulled a couple stalks of broccoli out of the small refrigerator, removed the pink rubberband and put them into the steamer. As the broccoli cooked, Mike pulled some lettuce, tomatoes and onions out of the fridge for what he called his “two minute salad”. He sliced the onion, taking care to keep the slices thin. By this time, the broccoli was done. Mike mixed the broccoli with some leftover pasta. Together with the salad and a quart of milk, he had quite a meal. I stood there, camera in hand, timecode rolling. In some ways, it was sad to watch. A man in his early 50’s, alone, celebrating a new year that no one else around him even knew existed. But Mike seemed fine, chewing his food, watching a japanese film and chuckling to himself.

After his meal, Mike walked to the end of the hall and into the bathroom where he washed the dishes. There was a massive crack in the mirror. Back in his room, Mike pulled out a piece of paper and a ruler.

They run in packs – relying on each other for safety and reassurance. Nobody will harass them for being lost if there are in groups of twenty. No nightmarish, unseen vagabond will pluck them up and introduce them to violent, urban horrors when they are using the buddy system, en masse.

And none of them feel lost when every street corner requires a group decision. With enough heads working on the problem of getting from here to there, they have a better chance of success, even if it means moving slower.

To keep themselves from getting too lost, they don’t go far at night. They are a gaggle of swooping, hollering art students, going door to door in search of a bar or club that will let in minors. Arms wide in imitation of toy airplanes, they run up the sidewalks. One, named Adam, skips across the Bowery, hopping from corner to corner. Another, Jacinthe, clutches around her friend Stephanie and watches, sometimes laughing loudly and encouraging them. Their stop and search strategy leads them into dark, backwater bars, poetry clubs and, eventually, to the tourist destination of the disaffected, CBGBs.

The point is: they are clueless. And with the right kind of eyes, a group of clueless kids (on holiday, with disposable income and a predilection for art) is not a gaggle. It is an audience and a market.

And while the Ottawans are running around the hotel, getting ready for the night, Shadow has, all the time, been sitting in his corner of the lobby, shoveling up wilted spinach and chomping on it like a sacred, Hindu cow. He eats out of a clear plastic tray using a white plastic fork, and in between bites he quizzes the students on their life goals.

The giant man speaks in a high pitched voice that makes you flinch for all it’s surprising raspiness, like the sounds a teenage boy might make. Why is his voice so sour and stunted? Has he eaten too many citrus fruits?

One girl tells Shadow she is studying education. No hesitation. Shadow is preaching, letting whatever words enter his mind exit through his mouth without any thought except rhythmic continuity.

“You don’t go to school for education. You’ve got to Be a teacher. You can’t go to school to learn that. You got to be that now and always. What do you teach? What are you teaching me right now?”

In unplanned, organic order, the Ottawans take turns at Shadow’s table. Sometimes he is asking them about his art – which drawings do they like, why, rank the art, 1st, 2nd, 3rd – and sometimes he is bending their heads around a corner they hadn’t imagined. He sits, a little slumped, encouraging his more reticent guests with a nodding head and an occasional, “Um hmm,” or, “Oh yeah? Really?” And he sounds surprised when he says these things.

He has the look of a man with no sense of his own size. In ancient times, stories would have been written about the giant black ogre who will seize a person in their tracks just with the sound of his voice…adventurer heroes, who we would call vagabonds, would warn each other about the losing your momentum as you pass him…if he catches your eye, if you pause to look at the lines and colors on the walls, he will stop you and unravel you with the rhetorical talent of the mystic sophists.

The question is, does he know what he is doing? This giant who swaggers and dresses with dapper flair must know he has crafted a complicated character in the form of Sir Shadow. He never hesitates, sometimes because he is just repeating himself, the same as a skilled salesmen; but he muses as well, always consistent in his descriptions of the world, but looking at people with precision. He uses no barbs, but he cuts to the bone.

How different is Sir Shadow from the Pied Piper? Here he sits, surrounded by younglings, all paying Big Money to learn art, and the man, who has learned only the most basic uses of pen, paper and paint, sits in the middle of them, talking, and there is a buzz. He has laid the weight of planetary gravity on the landscape they thought was theirs to roll around upon.

******

The Ottawan art students go to dinner at Acme, a southern style theme restaurant Shadow recommended. They are eager for the night, but a little exhausted by the day. They eat heavy portions of spicy gumbo and ribs. They flirt and try to guess the musicians playing through the speakers. They have a few beers on the table, but none of the students drink like professionals.

Back at the White House Hotel, Shadow has changed into loose fitting, yellow clothes. He has a table set up where he was eating, and has begun covering canvases with horizontal brush strokes, layering the paint into bright patterns of green/yellow/red, or pink/white/orange. The colors look like the landscape of a Caribbean beach town. He spends time looking at the canvases, thinking on where to apply color, and then attacks with a variety of brushes (including a shoe shine brush). He dribbles paint on the canvases in left/right swoops, and then mashes the paint into the mix. The end result couldn’t be more dissimilar from the one-line art. It is figureless, abstract, and moody.

Shadow: I’m working with some people to try and market my stuff. We could put this on bath towels and ties and shower curtains, you know? You like these patterns? Could you see yourself with some bedsheets with that yellow pattern on them?

A couple is standing next to Shadow and the girl says yes. Is she being polite or is she serious?

Shadow: Oh, I like you. Yes. Hmm. Which pattern would you like to see on a scarf?

This goes on for some time. Shadow is doing what might be best described as market research. When several people say they like his dark red painting, he takes their advice seriously. Tonight, when everyone has left, he will experiment with a 6 panel painting that is a deep, sensual red. He says he wants to sell the patterns and retire from the money.

Shadow: I used to make these kinds of paintings in San Francisco. They used to hang in galleries and I made a lot of money doing that. It’s time to get back to that so I can cash it in.

Now, the Ottawans are filing back in. They head to the back. They filter into every corner of the White House Hotel. They sit in their rooms, tired, asking each other where they will go tonight. They all pass by Shadow, as he paints or talks to them. By the time they are ready to leave, some good and drunk, they have all clustered up in the lobby… a small reservoir on the side of a major river…and Shadow, expecting the audience, is in the middle of it, smiling…

******

The lobby of the White House Hotel is not an art gallery. It is a public space. People walk in from the streets, permanent residents sit and read the paper or look out the window, tourists stop here, on there way somewhere else. Its uses are unlimited, but you would have never thought it was an ideal location for a performance unless you were standing there, in a circle, surrounding Shadow.

He says hello to those who have sat with him. Having heard that he is the author of the drawings on the walls, more people ask him how he started. Will he draw for them? Will he talk to them? Will he speak?

And Shadow is all grin. His bottom four teeth jut out from a swollen smile. People are at him from every direction and more are coming in the room, thinking about walking past him, to the door.

So he announces.

“Now here we go loop-de-loo. Here we go again. The story is about to start.” It sounds like singing…

Now I want everyone to get together /
and understand /
that this is the story of a /
lonely, lonely man.

In the middle, the stage is a black plastic chair. Shadow draws, as he always does, from memory. The faces at upward angles, the hands on keyboards, or gripping drumsticks, or raised, potential energy aimed at a hand drum. He starts rocking with the swoops and dips of the lines. He sings sour blues songs. He is not a musician and the music does not come out right, but he sings straight through the songs. The notes are dissonant and mismatched. Maybe they are old standards, but it sounds more like he is improvising.

He finishes the first drawing, a complicated dance scene and holds it up to applause. The room is filled. He says, “Let the bidding begin.” But his audience is made from young art students. They have very little money and when the drawing sells for ten dollars, Shadow is surprised. He expected twenty, and had been charging as much earlier in the evening. His mouth is still open, eyes looking back and forth, gauging the crowd and realizing this will be the average price. The next one comes more elaborate, but still only reaches ten dollars. Now he knows, he will have to sell as many as possible to make some money.

Therefore, whenever one drawing is finished, he hands it to the girl next to him and keeps singing and drawing. The audience will stay for as long as there is a performance. It would be rude to leave a man, singing and performing just for you.

…he falls back into rhythm…it is all one long song…or is it one long drawing…different angles of the same scene…

…but if I could see her again
Maria, oh, Maria…
How you made me fall apart

Dun-doo-dee-dun-doo-dee-dun
What a story this turned out to be…
Now you know, how the blues all start’d
When she stole each man’s heart…

Maria! He sings about Maria! She’s be gone for three months and there is no question that it is not just a character, not just a name he chose at random. I am on the ground, aiming the camera at his face and trying to get good audio. I am close, just at his knees, and he is almost crying the music. I feel ashamed to see him like this, knowing it is not a show. The man pours, pours, leans on the page, swoops up the back line of a woman’s dress, draws to her shoulder, flairs outward, ink shape on black construction paper. He, sitting down, all faces angled down to watch him, below but approaching his zenith, a bright nirvana path of total revelation. What if she could see him? The ogre, singing heartbreak and confession.

Nobody in the crowd would know Maria, but they will all ask themselves what kind of life Shadow has lead. Who are these people, these faces? Do they come from his past? Are they real?

But we know; it is the little German girl, Maria. He is singing loss.

And anymore, it would be rude to think Shadow is just a salesman/mystic. He is a believer; a real, old-world bluesman who touches the dirt.

The lobby, despite the efforts of Shadow, and Lincoln before him, is not an art gallery. It is a dull white room which is occupied because if it’s location between the front door, the lounge, the dormitories and the front desk. This might seem obvious, but I want you to think about it as a small reservoir on the side of a major river. Water passes by and happens to build up, some times settling into a steady pond, and other times swirling heavily, creating a whirlpool. The presence and character of this buildup is unpredictable, and hard to anticipate.

Most of the time, the lobby has a steady, small congregation. Lee sits near the front desk or at a table. Sam shuffles in and out. Two or three couples sit at the small silver tables and look over their tour books. They eat sandwiches and drink orange juice from “Steve’s,” the bodega next door. They talk about museums and fifth avenue and ask how to get to Rockefeller Center.

Tom stands, his hands in the pockets of his black jacket. He nods at everyone near him, makes a joke or tells a story you’ve already heard thirty-five times (“Oh you’re from England? There’s a great fish and chips place up the block called ‘A Salt & Battery.’ Get it? They like me there. If you go, tell them Tom says, ‘hello.’”). He waits for a response and they, not knowing why an old man is at their shoulder, try to act like he isn’t there. They laugh a little to be polite, but Tom gets tired of it and walks out side to have a cigarette.

This is the normal, standard, average scene inside the lobby. In the day, it is flooded with blue and red light from the forward windows. In the evening, the overhead bulbs give the room a yellowish appearance. It is a colorful place, despite the usual, slow pace. The walls and floors are decorated with occasional flairs – a green 7Up sign, a brown tile pattern, bright, blue doors – and this uneven indulgence matches the noise level of the room: sometimes there is only the radio, sometimes there is shouting which will either yield laughter or a small standoff.

But all the mood of the room will veer towards festivity when the place fills up with a large group of young tourists – as happened on February 19th. They were here to see the Central Park art installation called “The Gates.” They were a gaggle of Ottawan art students. All of them, youthful, eccentric, wearing weird furs and crooked jackets, most of the guys with creative facial hair and the girls with piercings in weird crevices of their ears and faces.

This kind of crowd, they sell out the building. At 8 in the evening, there are no keys on the back wall; everyone is upstairs, running from room to room, making plans for the night, washing up, planning how to get into each others’ pants. This is the kind of crowd that can only happen on school field trips. Everyone already familiar, but now bound together by group activities and long bus rides, everyone bubbling, getting changed together, leaning in each other, giddy with static electricity inside their skin. They are carrying their world from the great, white north down with them, wherever the trip pauses. They are a moving microcosm caravan – Canadian Art Students in New York.

They are giddy tourists, searching New York for the originals works that populate their textbooks. They get loud when talking about the Tim Hawkinson installations at the Whitney Museum. They meet Cristo and giggle. They stand outside and smoke cigarettes, or sit in the back, scanning the Village Voice music listings, talking about the great Miles Davis performances they have on video, collecting and comparing what they know. Their currency could not be experience; they are too young to be accomplished. Instead, it is a competition: who is more clued in to what’s really going on…who is the first to see a trend…who will tell the news of the next wave…and in doing, who will be chosen to embody the spirit of the next big thing…

They pass through the lobby, on their way out to the street, or upstairs with smuggled bottles of rum and beer and they get slowed down by the lobby. Their friends are standing there, looking, waiting. Everyone is expecting something. Where are we going? Where can we eat? I want to untie your belt and put my fingers in the band around your waist. Where are we drinking? Whose room will I end up in tonight?

They stand in line to get their keys and Tom leans against the glass barrier between the clerk and the lobby. He looks at two girls and points to their hat, which reads, “Canada.” Of course, he has a joke for this.

“Oh your from Canada, ey?”
This is Tom affecting a Canadian accent, complete with the ‘ey’ at the end.
“You know how you spell Canada?”
Of course they do but if they said yes, they would clearly miss what is bound to be a great joke.
Tom says, “C-EY-N-EY-D-EY”

Would you laugh? Probably not. And neither did they. But Tom, never deterred by a timid audience just waits until the next patron steps forward and he tries the joke again. Literally, the man just repeats himself.

The two girls who heard this joke must have laughed and Tom, who knows it’s all about shots on goal, has them in the corner of the room. How drunk is Tom now? The girls are trying to open a can of tuna, and he offers to go upstairs and lend them his can opener. They are grateful and now spend a few more minutes with him. Tom, ever the entertainer, is happy to have an audience, especially an audience of two girls, with bright white skin and big teeth.

After a while, I leave Tom and the girls. I can’t listen to Tom’s stories about the Navy anymore. I could repeat them myself, and sometimes do. Later, when I return to see if anything interesting is happening, Tom is onto a new story. I haven’t heard this one, but it’s clear right away that Tom has lost track of who he is talking to; the punchline of the joke is something about a midget with a giant cock. After this, the girls, became conscious of the picture they present – two attractive college girls listening to a desperate old sailor tell dirty jokes…is he hitting on them…are they entertaining an old man…mining the romantic, rusty past…or is he drooling – suddenly uncomfortable, they move to the rear lounge, where permanent residents are not allowed.

It was cold, the harsh wind of the bowery whipping south and shredding every storefront awning in its path. On this particular night, the bar was buzzing. Tens of young well dressed patrons crowded into the OV and bought bingo scorecards for $2 each. The reason for the excitement was the recent Tsunami. A portion (20%) of every bingo pot would go toward Tsunami relief. As Tom walked in, he was greeted warmly by the owner of the bar, Wilma, a sturdy Vietnamese woman in her early 50’s. Tom is practically family at the OV in large part because he stops by every night for at least one rum and coke. Wilma often gives him food for free and always makes sure that he gets home safe on nights whe he’s had a few too many. Every Tuesday, Tom looks forward to Bingo, each week convinced that he will be a winnner.

At 61 years old, Tom looks 75. His face is worn with deep wrinkles and a nose that appears to have been broken a few times. He wears a black trucker jacket and a hat that says “U.S. Navy Veteran.” His jeans are stained with paint from a long day doing maintenance for the hotel. He takes a table in the middle of the bar. On one side of him is a table of well dressed girls in their mid 20’s, and as I eavesdrop on their conversations, more often than not I feel like I am listening to the script of Sex in the City read aloud. Behind Tom sits a well dressed young Cuban man with a pink button down shirt and a striped vest.

Just before bingo begins, Tom tells me that he’s feeling lucky. As the numbers are shouted out, the jubilant crowd reacts with cheers if their number is called, and shouts of “new caller” if their number is not called. It is a good vibe in the place, everyone generally enjoying each other’s company glad to be inside and away from the frigid wind outside. Through the first couple of cards, Tom doesn’t even come close to getting bingo. As someone wins, shrieks of glee can be heard following the customary shout of “Bingo!” while everyone else in the room moans and hopes for better luck on the next card. Following one of the games, Tom yells “Smoke Break,” and we go outside. Outside, the conversation eventually shifts to the change on the Bowery. Tom explains how the real estate developers are buying up all the property so as to convert them into high rises. “Where do all these millionaires come from?” he asks.

Back inside, Tom continues to have bad luck on the bingo cards, so he decides to stop playing four cards, and switch to two. A decision that any oddsmaker would tell you is a bad one because it decreases your opportunity by half. “I never win when I play four cards,” he said, “I always do better with one or two. During one of the games, Tom’s card actually looked good. Tom has had many many drinks by this point so I was concerned that he might not realize if one of his numbers was called. Wilma’s son, Chris, also helped Tom with the scorecard. Amazingly, with the camera rolling, Tom won as B10 was called. He shouted “Bingo!” What happened next was truly extraordinary. Tom, at this point in the year, was totally broke. Scraping by to pay for his food and his alcohol on the very small wages he earned working for the White House. And here, at the Orange Valve he wins a bingo pot of $95. He needed every last penny of that money. But instead, he took his winnings and donated them to Tsunami relief. I was amazed. Even if it was in part a show for the camera, I don’t care. He had no money, and he gave it all to the relief fund. Remarkable.

After winning, Tom was thrilled. He talked through the night with anyone who would sit by him. He stayed until the end of Bingo, until way after the crowd was gone. He must have had 8 jello shots and 7 rum and cokes. For a man of his size and age, that is truly a lot. He was staggering when he walked and slurring as he spoke. It was tough to watch. Over the past few months, I have gotten to know Tom and to like him. In front of me, I could see that he just didn’t know when to stop drinking, when to go home. I walked him back to the White House, sometimes helping him from stumbling to the ground.

In 1998, Meyer Muschel was a corporate lawyer. His friend convinced him to go in on an investment that was a sure thing, a place called the White House Hotel. “There’s 200 men living there, they each pay $9 a day, that’s 657,000 dollars a year,” his friend had said. However, as is frequently the case in life, things weren’t what they seemed. They had just bought an infamous Bowery flophouse, full of alcoholics, drug addicts, criminals and mentally handicapped individuals. Many of the residents infrequently paid their rent and to boot, the lobby was a dangerous place to be. In short, the investment was a bust.

Meyer undertook the renovation of the White House. For more than five years, the White House has been undergoing a major change.

First step in the overhaul, was to get the criminals out of the White House. Meyer did this by taking the list of permanents at the White House, and dropping it off at the local police department. When the police raided the hotel on one of the following nights, tens of men were arrested due to outstanding warrants. Soon, word on the street was that fugitives weren’t going to find refuge at the White House.
Very quickly, Meyer realized that collecting rent was not an easy task. In SRO housing, the courts usually rule in favor of the tenants because they are reluctant to send a person to the streets. If you live in a flophouse, and you get evicted, it is either to the streets or to the shelter. Many of the tenants would cite the many fire safety and buiding code violations and thus refuse to pay rent. The $657,000 that Meyer and his partners had estimated, was not coming to fruition. They were only seeing 40 or 50 cents to the dollar of rent. It became clear that if they do something quickly, the investment would be a complete loss.

After some braintorming, it was decided that a portion of the hotel could be converted from a flophouse into a youth hostel. This is because the needs of backpackers is not unlike the needs of someone starved for cash trying to scrape by day to day. Many of the tenants were asked to move to cubicles on the South side of the building in exchange for a small amount of cash. Once the North half of the floor had been isolated, the rooms were cleaned, repainted and opened for rent.

In the first days of the youth hostel, one of the gigantic overweight tenants would sit in the lobby and eat ice cream as guests arrived. He was so fat that he was unable to walk down the stairs to the showers, so that he hadn’t showered in close to 4 years. Stench emanated from his skin with such strength, that it was not uncommon for a new guest to arrive, see and smell this gigantic man eating in the lobby, and turn around and head to a new place. To fix the problem, Meyer decided to pay the man $20 a day, just to leave the hotel early in the morning, and to come back later in the evening. The ploy worked, and fewer and fewer tourists turned away upon arrival…

Each year, a few more permanent residents move out. Sometimes they die from old age, sometimes they can no longer pay rent and are bought out. And each year, the number of backpackers increases.

MORNING

I arrived at 9am to the White House Hotel. I was groggy from a night of little or no sleep. New York was like a dream, the streets empty of cars and people, everyone off to family houses with backyards somewhere outside the city limits. My father dropped me off, driving an Audi, and I felt horrible in the warmth of the leather seats. My father wanted to see the lobby of the White House but when I saw that it was full… Sam, Thompson “T”, Jerome and a toothless old man I hadn’t met yet, I told him that he should probably not come in.

The spirits were high. And some of the men, too. We talked about the cold cold weather outside. Lee Wells showed up and said he’d rather be in Florida, with the moviestars, said there’s nothing special about snow and christmas. “Christmas can be just as special around palm trees,” he said.

The morning was really slow. Todd was at the desk, asked me why I was at the White House and not with family. I told him I was working, that I wanted to be there… but that was only part of it… what I didn’t tell him was that for months prior I felt that Christmas day was going to be important for the film. And it was.

I talked to the toothless old fellow who didn’t live at the White House. He seemed to know all the guys in the lobby. He mumbled and was difficult to understand. He kept telling me about Vietnam, about how all the black fellows were in the front lines dying for the rich fellows. He said he hated the war in Iraq that people always win when they are defending their homes. He was in his seventies, and gave a hearty laugh after every sentence he spoke. “If they attack us, in our country, I’ll be the first one to pull out my gun and whoop some ass.” I believed him.

The reason he was at the White House is that he had gotten a Christmas goodie basket from the Bowery Mission and was selling the contents in the lobby. Preston, the old skinny black custodian of the White House, bought some socks. The toothless old man sold them, $1 per sock. Naturally, Preston bought both socks in the pair but was annoyed that he had to pay per sock.

Tom came down before long. He was a bit awkward with the group of four black men. His interjections always seemed off rhythym, seemed to halt the flow of conversation. Tom’s daughter called to wish him a Merry Christmas. She told him that she had just turned in her mercedes for a bmw because the mercedes was breaking down. Tom was so thrilled to talk to his daughter. He said he hoped to see her soon and said that he loved her before they hung up.

At one point, Tom went out to smoke a cigarette, and Preston happened to be outside, too, sweeping the street. It was so empty and so quiet. The first time I’d ever seen the Bowery in such a state. “It doesn’t feel like Christmas,” Preston said as he swept a straw into a dustpan. Tom nodded in agreement.

AFTERNOON

After a few cups of coffee and lunch at the only diner open in the area, I got back to the lobby. Maria, the vibrant pulse of December at the White House burst glowing into the lobby– as usual. She had spent the night in love with Shadow, squeezed into a small cubicle with a large man. After greeting everyone, she had a quick forbidden (by Shadow) smoke with Tom, then when Eric came out, she left for Chinatown.

After she left, there was a lull– as usual. I talked to a girl named Leisha who had recently gotten a room at the White House. She was nice but clearly lacked confidence. Later I would be told she was removed from the hotel for heroin possession.

Joel was now working the desk. He played Bob Dylan music, and read Bob Dylan’s book “Chronicle.” Both he and I had gotten that same book for Christmas. Joel knows a lot more about Bob Dylan than I do. We talked for an hour, a lot of the discussion about this film.

EVENING

As the skies got dark, Maria returned. The lobby was once again happening. She got her paints out and her paper. Shadow came down, too. Maria began painting. Eric, as always, loomed creepily in the background watching her. The painting was of a mother helping her young son pee. Maria focused, biting her lip and making strange gutteral sounds as the brush scrubbed the paper with color. Shadow, meanwhile was busy dismantling the lobby. He removed the paintings that were on the wall and replaced them with his own. Shadow, being close to 6 ft. 7 in. was rather clumsy. At one point, he smashed a painting of his that was drawn on a glass pane. It was really funny but no one in the lobby even considered laughing. Maria’s painting wasn’t her best. The penis of the little boy was grotesquely large and the green and red colors clashed in a rather unappealing way.

Maria and Shadow left to get some dinner. I went upstairs and found Tom who was alone in his room. Tom was watching TV. The monitor was flickering, the image moving from the bottom of the screen to the top, pausing, then moving up again. After a few minutes, The White House Christmas special came on. President Bush told his dog to take care of another White House pet, I think it was a cat. We saw the dog pull the cat on a little red wagon through the White House. On the trip through the White House there was a huge christmas tree with ornaments, nice wood floors, lots of huge bright colored gifts with tasteful ribbons. They even staged a news conference commending the dog on a job well done. It didn’t make much sense but Tom enjoyed it, though. He sat there, smoking a cigarette and laughing. I couldn’t help but think how different Christmas was at the two White Houses.

Around the world, the tide has changed.

So we go back to the White House Hotel…”the last stop” for the down and out, you might say.

Well, once upon a time, that was true. Now it’s turned into the last stop for last stops. And after a little more than a month of heavy shooting, I suppose I am overdue for a written report.

The problem (aside from laziness and exhaustion) is that, when you spend so much time inside of a place (essentially, inside someone’s home), it’s hard to pull your head high above water and get a good sense of what is around you. So, for the last week, Graham and I have been reviewing footage and thinking aloud about where things stand, how far along we have come, and what we have seen so far.

On this website, you have had a good introduction to some of our main characters (Tom, Shadow, Mike, and Maria). But very little has been said about our process, and about the daily experience of people inside the WHH.

To begin, Graham and I have had very different experiences at the White House. This was made abundantly clear to me when I followed Mr. Meriwether to the Permanent side of the building one night while we were looking for Mike Powell. The sight was overwhelming. The hall was dark and took on an evening musk that was not present during the day. The hallway, usually bookended by half-dimmed windows, was now lit only by a couple of red and blue bulbs that hung from crooked wires. There were sounds of televisions, and grunts coming out of the tops of the cubicles, and I had the distinct sense that, from the moment we stepped on the floor, we were being watched by people we could not see. Every move we made, the rustle of our jackets, the creeks of the floorboard, it all broadcast our presence, and told the residents that we were there. The sense of exposure reminded me of the old notion about how, if you are blind, your other senses become stronger.

My surprise came from the difference between the permanent side and the transient side of the hotel/flop. Graham and I have, in some ways, split our attention - i.e. Graham has focused on the permanent residents, and my primary focus has been the transients. While there is a tremendous amount of overlap, it explains how I had been left unaware of the nocturnal conditions on the flophouse floors.

I have spent several late nights at the WHH. At night, I have usually followed Maria, and watched as lonely-hearts, down-and-outs, middle-aged burnouts, and one sad, French prevaricator clung on to her as if she were a source of salvation. At night, Darren, a British backpacker, raver, and three-week resident of the White House, would come back from some jungle party and laugh with Maria. They would smoke cigarettes on the roof and make up stories about elaborate luxury in some other world. This is how it is with Maria…pure fantasy. Her and Tom could speak for hours about free spirit. Shadow includes her in his uptown visits to galleries and restaurants. Milton feeds off of her late-night visits to the front desk, where they spend hours talking about various, personal ideas. Tom once said that Maria has a litter of puppies, constantly following her around, looking for a pat behind the ear. And for a while, I was one of these pups, looking for some outburst, or some tender mix between Maria and her resident neighbors. Sometimes, waiting around, we would find Sam in the lobby with his cats; on one occasion we were met by a drunk British tourist who rightly described herself as a ‘liability’ when she goes out at night; but always, things appear to Maria as if they were part of a grand, on-stage improv, where characters come and go, and the only thing that matters is your demeanor.

But always Eric. He would find Maria, wherever she was. He would wait outside for her to return, he would pace the hallways and bathrooms if he knew she was on a particular floor; once I caught him spying on her in the basement; and occasionally he would interrupt a conversation by appearing suddenly and bearing down as if his weight and scowl would bring some subservient respect, or at least might wear down his target until she would let him stay and feel accepted.

Eric was the first one to be called a puppy, and Tom’s nickname was appropriate. As might be expected, Eric did not take it well and eventually began to lash out at anyone who did not respect him, leading to a showdown between the desk attendant (who threatened to call the police) and an episode (a week before Christmas) where Eric was reportedly smoking in the basement and was caught by the building’s plumber. The report gave Meyer an excuse to kick Eric out of the building - but as I write this, Eric is still at the White House Hotel, maintaining his story that the French authorities are sending his passport post haste and he will soon be free to return to Paris.

If this is all somewhat vague, then accept my apologies. I submit it only as an example of the kind of drama that can be found at the Hotel, despite the fact that the average demographic among permanents is over 50 year old men. Moreover, I think Eric was in an odd position. He does not realize the unlucky similarities between himself and the permanents - nor does he realize how close he is to becoming one of them (if not for Meyer’s refusal to accept any new residents).

Eric, with his sad proclivities, unending lies, and myriad versions of his history and his future, is a man who only sees the benefit of the next five minutes. Sometimes it seems to me that he is drowning, but the next day I would see him with a tie on and hear reports of wads of cash. I don’t know what to believe. All I know is that, as a person, I do not have a lot of positive things to say about him.

But again, his proximity to the old men…

In truth, we are all close to the men. Anyone of us… sitting next to them, talking on the level, leaving behind any ideas of superiority or class… when you sit there and join them, you form a perfect image. I had this experience the other night when I found Graham sitting quietly alongside one of the residents. The two of them would speak occasionally, and slowly. The two had found a common pace and a similar idea about how to speak, but from behind only to ideas came to me: 1) Graham (or myself) was not so far away from the lives of these men, and that given a certain preference for drink or another habit, we could all end up here; and 2) Graham was probably doing the admirable thing I have seen in a long time, in becoming a friend to a man who appears to me more like a corpse than a human.

The sight of Graham and myself in the lobby has created a bit of a stir inside the hotel.

That night when we went to find Mike, the men knew we were there and who we were looking for. They knew Mike was waiting for us and had gotten dressed for the occasion. The men, by now, knew there was a documentary in the works, and our conversations would never be private.

Living in one space, word spreads. Worse than a knitting circle, or a college dorm, gossip in the White House Hotel takes a vicious, paranoid character. The men, most of them ’street people,’ expect that we are taking advantage of them, somehow exploiting their names and faces and stories for our own profit. It has become a common conversation to explain that we are interested in telling stories, and that the idea of making money off this documentary is tertiary to our goals.

As I’ve said to the residents, many times, our goal is to tell the stories. Graham has addressed this issue in earlier posts, and might update these principles soon, but for now, it is sufficient to remember that we are trying to figure out how these men live, and to show what we find.

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.