TREES
I’ve always loved TREES. As a child I’d spend hours climbing way up to their delicate tippy-tops, gazing out into the clear blue sky, sneaker-toe wedged in the crotch of a thin branch, clinging on, swaying with the trunk as the wind blows through the leaves.
I am strong athlete using my agile body to climb up, up, up, relishing in the freedom of being far away from everyone, all alone in my secret place, smelling the precious sticky-sweet sap of the living tree on my fingers and clothes.
Later, as an adult artist, I carve the roots and trunks of trees turning them into fanciful creatures, creating “Sacred Staffs,” ritual objects, and hand-carved amulets that I wear around my neck, guarding my safety and sanity.
At 55 years old, I’m also the oldest person and one of the few women to become a “Certified Tree Trimmer for the City of New York.” Trees are my friends.
PARK SLOPE BROOKLYN
During the 18 years I lived in Park Slope Brooklyn, I’d walk around the neighborhood collecting leaves from every kind of tree, attracting lots of attention with my big beautiful Harlequin Great Dane “Zuli” — making friends wherever we went.
I’d carefully carry the leaves back to my apartment, pressing them between sheets of parchment paper, placing them under a big pile of heavy books, to press and preserve their beauty. When word came that I had to move out of my beloved parlor-floor Brownstone apartment, I was devastated, and concerned that this fragile leaf collection would be damaged in the move – so I took photos.
THE GOLD-PAINTED CHAIR
I chose to place the leaves on this gold-painted chair because it was owned by my across-the-hall neighbor, an aging Sylvester – who had recently passed away. Over those 18 years in Park Slope, he and I had only brief conversations in the hallway. I’d see Sy slowly ambling along on his walker wearing his signature Mets batter’s hard-hat baseball cap as he made his way to the corner bodega. We would greet each other with smiles. He was always such a sweet man!
SKIN & BONES
One day I was checking in on Sy. I placed my hand on his shoulder – he was just skin and bones!
I asked Sy if he had food, and although he responded “yes,” I had doubts. I checked his fridge and the entire continents consisted of one loaf of white bread and a 6-pack of beer, belonging to his roommate. I brought him some food and started checking in on him more regularly. Over the next few weeks, I realized that Sy was having increased difficulty breathing — he was getting sicker and sicker. Since he had no family or friends, somebody had to do something.
I contacted social services, dealt with banks, Medicare, Medicaid, and our landlord — and got him into a nursing home. I emptied his apartment – which was a horrible, stinking mess because he could not care for himself — in fact, the stench was so bad that I could barely breathe inside and I had to throw out almost all of his possessions — except for this small gold chair.
When I found out that the nursing home was abusing him, I got Sy transferred to another home where he was diagnosed with lung cancer. I became his Power of Attorney and supervised all his care for two years. Being in a Medicaid-funded nursing home was no picnic. I remember Sy, someone who never complained despite the sub-par care he was receiving, looking up at me from his sickbed whispering weakly, “I never thought it would end like this.” That shook me.
Over the years, as I took more and more responsibility for Sylvester, I grew to know and appreciate him more and more – and to love him. Sy was a joyous, humble, loving person who got a kick out of Opera. Although he had some serious life challenges, including as a college graduate being assigned to peel potatoes for his entire stint in the military simply because he was a Black man — Sy had an unwavering positive attitude, a sweet expression on his face, and a glint of humor in his eyes – he never spoke ill of anyone.
Dealing with all of the red tape and poor care Sy received was not only concerning and frustrating but frightening for me as well – as I thought of my own future fate with this same inept system. When Sy finally passed, I dealt with all of his affairs- and arranged for a military funeral attended by just me and my generous friend Shoshana Jedwab who played her drum accompanying my shakers to help send Sy’s soul off to the next realm.
LEAVING PARK SLOPE
Being forced to leave my Park Slope apartment was rough – I came dangerously close to becoming homeless. Right before I moved away, I shared the information that I was leaving with friends and neighbors. One man I encountered on the street exclaimed: “You can’t leave – you’re the SOUL of Park Slope!”
I remember the day I took this photo of all of the leaves and Sy’s chair. The sunlight was pouring in from Bergen Street through my windows onto glistening leaves from all my beloved neighborhood trees decorating Sy’s humble golden throne. The chair — placed on the beat-up green floor that I’d painted the color of grass, sits in front of the broken pale pink rose-colored walls — reminds me of the funky character of my apartment. This photo brings back so many rich memories.
Like everything that succumbs to gentrification, my apartment’s “character” was soon to be “renovated” away – covering up the classic tin ceilings and tossing out the comfortable clawfoot bathroom that stayed hot for hours on end, turning my once eccentric artist space into a sterile but more “rentable” property.
This photo represents 18 years of my life in one place: the experiences, friendships, animal companions, and lovers who have come and gone — the events and people — and the trees — that made up my life in my happy, stable home in Park Slope Brooklyn New York — and it reminds me of Sylvester, a neighbor whom I cared for, grew to love, and still miss.
ARTIST SOUL SPEAKS 