The Art of Spare Compassion

By Caroline Albert

 Page 2

Finally on my bus, passing through the concrete city streets, I was overcome with sadness. I thought of the people I know personally whose lives have been ruined, even terminated in one case, by alcohol or drug abuse. Perhaps no one bothered to help this man who needed so much help because it hurts too deeply to feel another suffering.

Seattle is still reputed to be a polite city. I sometimes exchange smiles with a stranger, even say hello. Yet I wonder if anyone would call for help if I were to suddenly pass out on the pavement? Anonymity turns numb and lifeless when we become afraid or unwilling to help each other. Robotic bodies passing other bodies. Like parts of a programmed tribe too hurried and self absorbed to care anymore about our own.

Over the past few years, there seems to be more of these invisibles on the Ave and in hidden recesses throughout the district, but they may just be displaced from other parts of town. Many enter a self-destructive street life culture as youths and never get out. On the Ave, these young initiates currently hang out together in front of the drugstore. It was on this block last April that two men, one in his 30’s, another in his twenties, blocked a vehicle and attacked the angry driver who ventured out of his car. One hard whack over the driver’s head with a skateboard killed this man who was just driving through. Such extreme violence was an isolated incident, yet for me, the memory lingers.

While other neighborhood shopping districts have become chic and upscale, the Ave has been losing businesses and gaining a bad reputation. Despite the homeless problems, it is
not all so grim as the evening news reports. Even before the street remodeling, I have found an abundance of cultural wealth and friendly ambience. It becomes relatively easy to ignore the shadowy elements on this street and throughout the district. There is the University’s park-like campus with its libraries and museums. There are more book and music stores here than anywhere else in the city. The outdoor Farmer’s Market offers fresh produce and a congenial community atmosphere. In many ways the district even has qualities of a small town. I have come to know neighbors, several of the small shop owners and their longtime employees. The owner of one of the frame shops keeps a photo of my now deceased dog watching over the back work area.

In a creative spirit, there is a young street musician who performs on the weekends at the drug store hang out, brightening the atmosphere. One day recently, he was singing the Beatle's Revolution:

You say you want a revolution
Well you know
We all want to change the world
You tell me that it's evolution
Well you know
We all want to change the world
But when you talk about destruction
Don't you know you can count me out…

The music pulsed, while a gang of youths milled about the sidewalk, seemingly oblivious to the noise of passing cars, car wheels rolling round and round.

I have never seen the young woman who asked for part of 40 cents since that day and likely never will. Yet I can still hear her mechanistic voice repeating that insidious phrase, “Can you please give me part of forty cents…” Her lonely voice still resonates into a lonely place, some long lost part of myself.

No matter how much money and sense of security we have banked, I think inside each of us there is, at some time, a barefoot and hungry vagabond, seeking shelter from the cold; someone who feels misplaced, worn to the bone, despondent. I have had many dreams about being homeless myself, forced to share a bed or sleep in a room with strangers. In one dream, I found shelter at a friend’s house. I was sitting on the couch until I realized it was her husband’s favored spot for watching T.V. and moved away. Her husband looked me in the eye and said, “It could happen to anyone.”
 

Caroline Albert has a B.A. in English and B.F.A. in Art from the University of Washington. Her collage art has been exhibited in national juried shows and in Seattle, where she lives and creates. Her obsessively detailed collages combine the personal and political with whimsy and angst. As words increasingly appeared in her art, she recently returned to writing. While she continues to have dreams about being homeless, she also often dreams about swimming and has never drowned.