Daily Drawing Diary

Adam Honigman R.I.P

Richard Reynolds and I met Adam Honigman September 2006 whilst in New York Guerilla Gardening, sadly he passed away on October 16th after suffering from depression. You can read his NYT obituary here.

New York Library

Didn’t make it all the way through filming this as I got caught and asked to stop.

Grand Central Station

I filmed a lot of the New York drawings and think when I eventually get around to editing this one it will make a good watch. The iconic clock in the center of the hall makes this space very special and to think that ten years ago it was full of advertising boards is quite astonishing.

Coming back to Manhattan from Brooklyn I look completely normal.  The fella next to me has no idea what is in my pocket, and there is a girl across the way that even smiled my way, sorta.  After I made it back into Manhattan, I should have gotten out to change at Grand Central, but I didn’t.  I realized this at the next stop.  I got off there and asked a man stilling on a bench, he looked like he had done cocaine before and probably had a problem.  He said, at 125^th street you can make a change that’ll get you to the lower East side.  I made the change and got on a new cart.  There was a man reading a catalog about cowboys or something having to do with the old west.  He probably hasn’t done cocaine.  A college white girl in a polo with a bike, in the right situation she probably would, but that hasn’t happened yet.   A black man sending a text message in a suit, he looks too downtown-champagne type for cocaine.  A different black man singing along with his walkman, defiantly.  I probably could have bought from him.  A punk couple, I think punks do different drugs.

Backdoor Antics

A trip to New York isn’t complete unless you see Ivana Trump and Paris Hilton.

Guggenheim Innards

No Dogs - No Bikes - No Carriages

Central Park, Jackie O lake and the place where John Lennon got shot. The marks on the floor are the footsteps of the runners around the lake.

He nodded, and lifted a loose step to reveal a collection of tiny little bags.  I told him I wanted the smallest size.  It was $20.  I gave him money and he gave me a small plastic bag, clear as daylight. Even though his communication only ranged from a head nod to twenty dollars, he seemed nice.  I don’t think he wants to deal drugs, and I really don’t think he does drugs.  I think he has a daughter.  He might be on bad terms with the mother, but I imagine the little girl running up to him and squeezing him.  I can imagine him going around the city with her.  They probably stay in Brooklyn.  I can hear him explaining rules to her.

Daddy, why?

It is dangerous, sweetie.  The sign is there for a reason.  See all the broken glass. 

I’m sure he sells some drugs on the weekend just to buy make rent or maybe save for her college, or maybe he is a part of some really nice people drug train.  Almost like the free trade coffee, but nice trade cocaine.  I put my hand in my pocket to and the bag is so exactly made.  Do they have bags made especially for cocaine?  I haven’t seen a bag like this for other products, and I can’t imagine ever needing sugar or flour in a bag this small.

Hell’s Kitchen Hero

Adam Honigman the Green Guerrilla from Hell’s Kitchen.

And there he is, simply on some steps, next to a ratty garden.  He looks straight at me as I approach and I begin to walk to him.  He accepts my approach as normal, and I know this man will sell me drugs.

Do you have any cocaine for sale?  I kept my eyes on him as I said the word ‘cocaine’.  It was a dare.

Community Tree

Brooklyn Block Party

Richard and I set out to attend our first block party in Brooklyn hosted by some lovely people on Quincy St. James Doran the Times Wall Street journalist kept us entertained and we met a few colourful characters along the way.

I woke up around 8 a.m. because my father wakes up early.  I wonder if he had must of a jet lag when he was in Tokyo.  I wonder if he slept on the plane ride to Tokyo.  I don’t know all the details of his flying and arriving.  The story is always short, She wasn’t there, I had the address, got a cab, he used the word ‘shit’ a lot, talked to the doorman, the doorman put me in her apartment for a surprise.  Very simple, very reasonable.  Surely, he must have been worried or confused, but not in the story.  I’ve asked him how many times he walked around the airport thinking mom must be walking around behind him?  He answered a few, but I don’t believe him or I know I would do different.

This side of my father makes me rethink cocaine.  He arrived and adapted, but when the city got too big, he dropped to his knee.

On the internet message board alt.new.brooklyn, about 1 a.m. this morning someone wrote:  Blow in Williamsburg is ez.  Go to the coast end.  Dealers look for college kids, walk up to one and if he don’t look confused, ask for some.

Because I’m not a New Yorker, I know that in the rest of the world extended eye contact doesn’t mean anything.  But here if you look someone in the eyes for longer than an accident it means: A. “I’m a tourist and I don’t know any better” or B. “I want something.”  As of right now, I believe it, I would do the same if I were a drug dealer.

25 cents

Fiddies half brother.