Dear Bart,
I felt bad for having disturbed your mental peace, and tried to pass off the question as inconsequential. Eventually, I continued on my way and left you alone on the sidewalk, still struggling to find an answer. Most others would have given a programmed response, and you could have too. But instead, you struggled to find an honest answer to a meaningless query. It was unnecessary, but to this day, I admire your bizarre sincerity.
Aside from this brief but telling encounter, I had a few longer conversations with you-- all of them interesting and memorable, never boring, never of this world. What I have learned from these few but treasured dialogues was that you did not see the world as it was seen by most of us. Instead, you saw right through the veneer of banality that clouds the day-to-day interactions of your fellow humans, and what you saw underneath was sheer absurdity, or else a miracle of God. This is what I loved about you, Bart. For you, everything was painted in a divine light. For you, everything had meaning. I believe this way of seeing that you had was the greatest gift you gave to us at the cafe. Your presence was a constant reminder to your family at La Colombe that nothing was ordinary, if only we could see the absurdity, the humor, the tragedy, and the extraordinary beauty in life's situations.
In one encounter, as our brief meeting of hearts came to a close, I grasped your hands in mine for the first and only time, and thanked you for the conversation. At last, I understood. I understood why you would laugh so hysterically, or else weep in the most tragic, unabashed way, your heaving sobs echoing throughout the cafe. I understood why you stared speechless with wide, unbelieving eyes at the most commonplace scenarios. You saw the nonsense in the perfectly sensible act of working. You saw the reverence in the silly act of kissing a painting. You heard the voice of God in a Rolling Stones song. Everything you saw was touched with religious fervor, and therefore everything you saw was a miracle. Your special vision was both a blessing and a torment to you, and a mystery to the rest of us. Save for the few times you allowed me into your world through conversation, I could only guess as to what was going on in your soul whenever you broke down laughing or crying, or both.
I ended up covering an entire wall in my bedroom with your paintings. Then when I moved, I wanted to be more selective about what I put up on my walls, and so chose only the most vibrant pieces to light up my room. The days after you passed away, I spent many hours meditating on your death and your life, while staring up at these colorful paintings on my wall. The one at the very left looks like a dancer to me. But that is because I am a dancer and always have dancing on my brain. One in the middle bears full frontal nudity and angels. The piece to the right shows several human figures simplistically scratched out in black sharpie, floating along the interior of an enclosed, tentacled shape. In my current mood of mournful contemplation, they appear to me like trapped souls being flung about in space, tossed around in the maelstrom of life without a point of reference to "make sense of it all" and be found. Even your artwork, Bart, is not immune to the viewer's interpretation.
Nor is it immune to the whimsical, veering pattern of value placed on artwork. Countless times have you come up to the bar with sketchpad in hand, saying "I have something for you." At which you would proceed to barter a painting for a coffee. What often happened to these paintings used as bartering objects was that they were placed on a shelf in the back kitchen and forgotten, then thrown out. Some were rolled up and taken home to be pinned up or stashed on a shelf. On the other end of this spectrum of value, your artwork has been sold for two, three hundred dollars. As well, I have seen them professionally framed and exhibited at a local gallery. I know of a man who owns two suitcases full of your paintings collected over the decade or more of your friendship with him. He clearly values them highly. As for myself, I have thrown away several of your paintings, kept several more, and even on one occasion ran into (slowly-moving) traffic to save a painting that had been picked up and carried off by a strong gust of wind. The varied fate of your artwork is a veritable, organic, real-life demonstration that art has no intrinsic monetary value.
But what of value of the other type? Artistic value is finicky: it may exist for one person and not for another. I like your paintings because they are the most accessible inroad into your mind, which-- as sincere and honest as you are-- is still veiled in mystery. Your paintings, to me, speak to your love of your fellow men and women and to your love of God. They can be filled with vibrant colors, conveying a childlike exuberance; or else they convey a visual hell: dark and gloomy. They are confessions of your soul, or to speak less emotively, they are representations of your inner state of mind, and that is the reason why I like them.
What would you think of having a proper exhibition of your visual confessions at the cafe that became your second home? There are a few people in this world-- from the cafe you left behind-- that would take these more practical matters of business into their own hands, who would put in the time and the effort to ensure that your works are appreciated by the public one last time. There are a few people here who would wish to have your paintings hung up on a wall, to be viewed, internalized, and judged by the anonymous public. And what better place to display the works of Bart Brooks than on the walls of the cafe that you blessed with your creative presence for over a decade?
With this posthumous exhibition of your works, Bart, we wish to honor our resident artist, our dear, "Penniless Picasso". We want to ensure that you are deservedly appreciated and never forgotten despite your sudden departure from our cafe walls. The new customer who begins to frequent our shop will never know it as it was; only as it is, without your presence. However, for those of us who were around when you were still alive and drinking coffee, we will see the cafe in a different, more aged and colorful light: we will see the cafe as it was, with you sitting at your table with your sketchpad and cheap pastels, either accompanied by friends or else alone, every once in awhile laughing hysterically-- or is it weeping tormentedly?-- at things that the rest of us cannot see.
Goodbye, Bart! And thank you for this last conversation.
I remember my very first encounter with you. It was back in July 2010, during the first month of my employment at the cafe, and it peaked my interest enough that I put pen to paper and wrote about it later that night:
That was nearly two-and-a-half years ago. Since then, I have found out several things about you: you were not in fact homeless or penniless (you had a brother who loved and took care of you); perhaps you have not been around the cafe for nearly that long (but long enough to become a fixture); and that witty play on the word 'good' was a very characteristic response coming from you. Since then, I have only had a few real conversations with you aside from the usual exchange at the bar between barista and customer-- but those conversations were so unique that I can recall each and every one of them. Even an innocuous greeting could turn into a struggle for truth: I recall one time when I ran into you on the way into the cafe, and asked, "How's it going, Bart?" You stared at me with the most confused-- then tortured expression, and replied,
"You good?"
"No...I think I'm wicked."
So responded La Colombe's very own Picasso, a penniless artist who's been a patron of my workplace since its inception 16 years ago. He's a fixture now, the old whiskered face framed by long, scraggly gray hair hanging from a balding dome, never seen without his sketch pads cradled beneath his arm. He walked in today, approaching the bar with a lost, bewildered, half-crazed look in his eyes. After a minute, he ordered a granita, which I poured for him, though his entire appearance screamed "homeless". He just stood there with his sketchpads under his right arm and stared at the granita without taking it, as if he both feared it and was shocked by its existence. Which is why I asked after his well-being.
That was nearly two-and-a-half years ago. Since then, I have found out several things about you: you were not in fact homeless or penniless (you had a brother who loved and took care of you); perhaps you have not been around the cafe for nearly that long (but long enough to become a fixture); and that witty play on the word 'good' was a very characteristic response coming from you. Since then, I have only had a few real conversations with you aside from the usual exchange at the bar between barista and customer-- but those conversations were so unique that I can recall each and every one of them. Even an innocuous greeting could turn into a struggle for truth: I recall one time when I ran into you on the way into the cafe, and asked, "How's it going, Bart?" You stared at me with the most confused-- then tortured expression, and replied,
"How's it going? Uhhhh, I don't know! Uhhh huh huh...That's a difficult question! Uhhh huh huh!..."
I felt bad for having disturbed your mental peace, and tried to pass off the question as inconsequential. Eventually, I continued on my way and left you alone on the sidewalk, still struggling to find an answer. Most others would have given a programmed response, and you could have too. But instead, you struggled to find an honest answer to a meaningless query. It was unnecessary, but to this day, I admire your bizarre sincerity.
Aside from this brief but telling encounter, I had a few longer conversations with you-- all of them interesting and memorable, never boring, never of this world. What I have learned from these few but treasured dialogues was that you did not see the world as it was seen by most of us. Instead, you saw right through the veneer of banality that clouds the day-to-day interactions of your fellow humans, and what you saw underneath was sheer absurdity, or else a miracle of God. This is what I loved about you, Bart. For you, everything was painted in a divine light. For you, everything had meaning. I believe this way of seeing that you had was the greatest gift you gave to us at the cafe. Your presence was a constant reminder to your family at La Colombe that nothing was ordinary, if only we could see the absurdity, the humor, the tragedy, and the extraordinary beauty in life's situations.
In one encounter, as our brief meeting of hearts came to a close, I grasped your hands in mine for the first and only time, and thanked you for the conversation. At last, I understood. I understood why you would laugh so hysterically, or else weep in the most tragic, unabashed way, your heaving sobs echoing throughout the cafe. I understood why you stared speechless with wide, unbelieving eyes at the most commonplace scenarios. You saw the nonsense in the perfectly sensible act of working. You saw the reverence in the silly act of kissing a painting. You heard the voice of God in a Rolling Stones song. Everything you saw was touched with religious fervor, and therefore everything you saw was a miracle. Your special vision was both a blessing and a torment to you, and a mystery to the rest of us. Save for the few times you allowed me into your world through conversation, I could only guess as to what was going on in your soul whenever you broke down laughing or crying, or both.
I ended up covering an entire wall in my bedroom with your paintings. Then when I moved, I wanted to be more selective about what I put up on my walls, and so chose only the most vibrant pieces to light up my room. The days after you passed away, I spent many hours meditating on your death and your life, while staring up at these colorful paintings on my wall. The one at the very left looks like a dancer to me. But that is because I am a dancer and always have dancing on my brain. One in the middle bears full frontal nudity and angels. The piece to the right shows several human figures simplistically scratched out in black sharpie, floating along the interior of an enclosed, tentacled shape. In my current mood of mournful contemplation, they appear to me like trapped souls being flung about in space, tossed around in the maelstrom of life without a point of reference to "make sense of it all" and be found. Even your artwork, Bart, is not immune to the viewer's interpretation.
Nor is it immune to the whimsical, veering pattern of value placed on artwork. Countless times have you come up to the bar with sketchpad in hand, saying "I have something for you." At which you would proceed to barter a painting for a coffee. What often happened to these paintings used as bartering objects was that they were placed on a shelf in the back kitchen and forgotten, then thrown out. Some were rolled up and taken home to be pinned up or stashed on a shelf. On the other end of this spectrum of value, your artwork has been sold for two, three hundred dollars. As well, I have seen them professionally framed and exhibited at a local gallery. I know of a man who owns two suitcases full of your paintings collected over the decade or more of your friendship with him. He clearly values them highly. As for myself, I have thrown away several of your paintings, kept several more, and even on one occasion ran into (slowly-moving) traffic to save a painting that had been picked up and carried off by a strong gust of wind. The varied fate of your artwork is a veritable, organic, real-life demonstration that art has no intrinsic monetary value.
But what of value of the other type? Artistic value is finicky: it may exist for one person and not for another. I like your paintings because they are the most accessible inroad into your mind, which-- as sincere and honest as you are-- is still veiled in mystery. Your paintings, to me, speak to your love of your fellow men and women and to your love of God. They can be filled with vibrant colors, conveying a childlike exuberance; or else they convey a visual hell: dark and gloomy. They are confessions of your soul, or to speak less emotively, they are representations of your inner state of mind, and that is the reason why I like them.
What would you think of having a proper exhibition of your visual confessions at the cafe that became your second home? There are a few people in this world-- from the cafe you left behind-- that would take these more practical matters of business into their own hands, who would put in the time and the effort to ensure that your works are appreciated by the public one last time. There are a few people here who would wish to have your paintings hung up on a wall, to be viewed, internalized, and judged by the anonymous public. And what better place to display the works of Bart Brooks than on the walls of the cafe that you blessed with your creative presence for over a decade?
With this posthumous exhibition of your works, Bart, we wish to honor our resident artist, our dear, "Penniless Picasso". We want to ensure that you are deservedly appreciated and never forgotten despite your sudden departure from our cafe walls. The new customer who begins to frequent our shop will never know it as it was; only as it is, without your presence. However, for those of us who were around when you were still alive and drinking coffee, we will see the cafe in a different, more aged and colorful light: we will see the cafe as it was, with you sitting at your table with your sketchpad and cheap pastels, either accompanied by friends or else alone, every once in awhile laughing hysterically-- or is it weeping tormentedly?-- at things that the rest of us cannot see.
Goodbye, Bart! And thank you for this last conversation.
Angie
 |
| Bart Under a Tree |
Note: A version of this letter appeared in Paradigm Magazine on November 29, 2012. Select "Bartwork" on flickr.
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