An Honest Living

Greymouth Evening Star, 31 December 1937, Page 12

An Honest Li ving

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GREGORY CLARK

now on,” declared Jimmie Frise, a “I’m going to give no handouts.” “The worm has turned,” I suggested. ; “I’ve come to the conclusion,” decreed Jim, “like the government, that handouts are an injury, not a help.” “Small handouts,” I said, “can’t do much damage.” “Handouts.” stated Jim, “are like dabbling toilet water on pimples. You’ve got to look inward for the cause. ’ ’ “You give a guy a handout of 50 cents or two dollars or something,” Jim went on, “and what have you done ? You’ve helped him pass another day without looking inward, facing the facts. ’ ’ “Hot coffee,” I submitted, “is good for the inwards.” “Suppose,” said Jim, “you turn him down? Suppose all day, everybody turns him down, and he comes to the end of the day without a red cent. What does he do'? ” “ It’s a cruel thought, ’’ I admitted. “Cruel nothing,” cried Jim. “He must at last face the facts. He must look within. He ' must decide what he has got and what he can do with it.” “Suppose he looks within,” I asked, “and finds nothing?” “No man living,” said Jim, “but has the will to live. Next to the will to live in human nature is the law of least resistance. We all live the best we can, the easiest way.” “We find this story telling and, drawing pictures easy,” I suggested, “yet an accountant hates even talking. His work looks like murder, slow murder, to us. But he’d pass out cold at the thought of telling a bedtime story to his kid.”

“That’s it,” said Jim. “What we take for easy looks hard to others. And what others find easy looks hard to us.” “Except,” I pointed out, “that there is always somebody that has it soft to Qur eyes.” “Aw,” admitted Jim, “naturally none of us has been absolutely 100 per cent, in picking it easy. My point is, we’ve all got to look inside and see what we’ve got. Really. Not just what we imagine we’ve got. You take a man born with a glorious singing voice. He had nothing to do with it. It’s no credit to him that he can sing like an angel and that getting radio contracts is just apple pie. He doesn’t even have to go and ask. They come to his house, with the contracts and the dough. Now what’s the sense of envying him ? “Envy’s easy,” I explained. “Yeah,” said Jim, “but should thousands of people be going around envying him, and feeling sore because they weren’t born with golden voices ? Or should they be sore at their own jobs and go around imagining they’ve got pretty good voices themselves ? Should they go into the bathroom and sing ‘0 sole mio’ by the hour, and look at themselves dramatically in the mirror and brood 1 ?” “It does seem silly,” I agreed. “Well, they do,” said Jim, “and they’d be far better off if they got it through their heads that they can’t sing, and that all they’ve got is what they’ve got, and make the best of it.” Against “Inspirational Stuff.” take ambition out of the human * race,” I objected. “They call it ambition,” said Jim, “but it’s just plain discontent.” “Maybe,” I argued, “if only one shoe clerk out of a thousand went into the bathroom and sang ‘O sole mio’ and really turned out to be a great singer, it would be worth all the others false hopes.” “In life,” stated Jim. “it isn't like that. If a guy can sing or boss or run a machine or do anything else superbly, he just naturally floats to the top. There is no striving about it. All this inspirational hooey of the past twenty years is nothing but a mean joke on poor suffering humanity. Tens of thousands of poor beggars have worked like slaves, taken all the correspondence courses,,bought all the sixty volume success books, gone to night classes, and in the end find themselves working for some happy-go-lucky ignoramus who can’t spell ‘friend’, shoots seventy in golf, a noisy, quarrelsome, unworthy, small minded bulldozer who was ■ just naturally born to be the boss. So what?”

“So what,” I admitted. “I saw a swell thing translated from the German,” said Jim. “It was this: ‘Blessed is the man who finds joy in the work he dee well has to do anyway ’. ’ ’ “That ought to be stuck up in every office and factory,” I declared. “The Government ought to stick it up on posters all over the highways.” said Jim. “But what has this got to do,” I inquired, “with handouts? There are some poor bums that haven’t any talent or capacity whatever.” “That’s where you're wrong,” accused Jim. “I had a guy in here this morning, trying to bum a dollar because he said he was a fellow artist. A great big lazy lout of a fellow. I questioned him about his art work, and he admitted that all his life he had wanted to be an artist. He felt the artistic impulse in him. night and day. he said. But circumstances had never permitted him to get to it. Never been able to attend art school or anything. But he said he had a natural ability in that direction. When he was a kid, his mother saved all his drawings. And even now he used to amuse his friends doing cartoons of people, and they just went info fits.” “Did he have any samples ?” I asked. “No, and when I asked him to sit down at the board and do a little sketching.” said Jim, “he drew a sailboat, a girl’s face in profile, with curly lips, such will see inside the covers of every high school Latin grammar in the world, and an apple.” “So?” I said. “I told him to come back later in the day, and I’d give him a buck,” said Jim. “But, by golly. I’ve decided not to. And I’m going to tell him why. ’ ’ “It’s a pity,” I said, “the poor fellow doesn't live in London, England. He could make a few coppers as a pavement artist.” “Great Scot.” shouted Jim. “what an idea!” “What?” I exclaimed. “Pavement artist,” shouted Jim, leaping up. “We’ve never had any pavement artists in Toronto, and why not’ On almost every main street in London are these guys squatted down on pavement, up against the wall, with three or four coloured chalk drawings on the concrete. Sunsets, portraits of Baldwin, portrait of a wirehaired terrier and some still life, such as a mug of beer.” “I remember them.” 1 said. “Dozens of them. And always a few pennies in their cap . on the pavement.” “By George,” cried Jimmie, “what an idea. We can find this poor misfit fellow an honest living and be the originators of a little human interest colour in this far too colourless city." Looking for the Right Spot. <<'O[7TIAT can this guy draw?” 1 asked. W “He can do the sailboat, the girl’s profile and the apple,” said Jim. “In coloured chalk. I’ll buy him the chalk.” “You might even do him a sample on the pavement.” I suggested, “a landscape, a sunset or something, to attract attention.” “Certainly I would.” agreed Jim. “1 have no false pride. What I will ask another man to do, I will do myself, believe me.”

Shortly, the man in. question arrived to call on Jimmie. He was a big, loose lazy looking man, strongly built, an ideal farm hand or policeman, if he had tried when he was younger. Most artists I know are lean or half-pintisli or dyspeptic or anaemic. They have a haunted look. As if they had a nail in their shoe. “Well, sir,’’ cried the new arrival, “I hope I’m neither too early or too late.” And Jim, without preamble, launched into his plan. “I won’t give you a dollar,” he said, “but I will buy a dollar’s worth of coloured chalk.” And while the big fellow’s face fell, farther and farther, Jim detailed his plan to introduce to Toronto its first pavement artist. “It would be awful mean,” the big fellow said doubtfully, “sitting down on that pavement, with the dust and everything.” Jim looked grimly at me. “And.” exclaimed the big fellow, “think of when it rains.’” “I’m willing,” said Jim deadly, “to help a man develop his talents. But I am not willing to give handouts.” “Why.” said the big fellow sadly. “I counted on that dollar. I really did count on it.” “You understand,” asked Jim coldly, “that I am prepared to go so far as to make you a drawing myself, on the pavement, to give you a start and attract attention ?” “’Somehow,” said the big fellow, “it don’t appeal to me as art, not art as I feel it in me. A studio like this. A lot of time to go to the races and things. I see you at the races, Mr. Frise.” “Do you want to accept the proposition, or notcried Jim. “You’ll get a lot of publicity. You will make some money.” “We could try it,” said the big fellow, uncertainly. His name was Samuel, in full. 1 So down we went, to the street and at Jim's art supply store, he bought artist chalks of all colours, white, red, blue, green, brown. And then we started to scout the best possible spot to make our pitch. “Where the most crowds are,” said Jim. “Yet not where they are so dense as to walk all over the drawings. A little alcove, of some kind, a sort of backwash in pedestrian traffic, if I remember my London.” We went up around the big stores and circled them speculatively. The crowds were very thick, but we did locate a bit where traffic seemed to thin, and as wc were standing looking at it, we saw a uniformed doorman watching us firmly. We strolled down and explained our plan to him. lie was not enthused. '•Our windows.” he stated, “are for people to look into. Great sums are invested annually in these windows. I doubt if the management would be interested in other displays that would distract from them.'’ “ D<» you own the pavement.'” 1 demanded. “We are responsible.” said the doorman, with dignity, “for keeping it clean." So wc went, a little farther and found a spot near a tobacco shop. There was a perfect spot under one of their windows. We went in and, with enthusiasm and salesmanship, explained our plan to the cigar clerk. “Ours.” said the clerk, “is a large organisation. Our president lives in Miami. It will take some weeks for me to get a reply to your request.

A little further out of the thickest we saw one of those cute little shops where sell ladies’ lingeries. It was perfect. But tluM middle-aged plump hair-dressed lady frozfM when we explained our program. } B “I have all kinds of tramps,” she saidM haughtily, “wanting to camp under my window.■ I don’t like it.” ?> ■ And her voice broke sharply on the ‘like.v ■ “The mistake we’re making,” said Jim, when H we went into committee outside, “is asking first, ■ Let’s do the drawings and then ask them. They ■ can see for themselves. They’ll be sold.” E “Let’s choose the lingerie store,” I suggest- ■ ed. “It’s a nice background. Pink and stuff.” ■ “No,” said Jim. “we’ll find a new spot.” 1 And only a little way up, we found a restaur- I ant, its windows gay with frosted pies and col- I cured fruits, posters in red and green, ink and I everything very gay and colorful. 1 “This is it,” said Jim. looking around carefullv and then, with us standing to shield him, he knelt swiftly.- took the chalk and began a lightning sketch. It was a subset, a lovely thing of colour and landscapery, water ahd sky and trees. Like lightning, he drew filled in, as only an artist, inspired by a noble can draw. ; ‘ Several people paused and stared with tcrest, but we signalled them to pass on. ’v The screen door of the restaurant opened, and a big, black curly haired man carrying a bucket and mop appeared. “Ho,” he said, when he saw us. “Pretty, eh?” I said to him. “Beat it,” said he. “Shoo. Git oud.” “Nice picture.” said Jim. kneeling back, to let him see it. “Come on.” said the man with the pail. “Shoo. Quick. Da boss will see.” “That’s what we want.” said Jim. giving a couple of dabs with the red chalk. “Go and get the boss.” “Da boss.” said the cleaner, “hate flies. He hate bugs. He hate a leetla piece dirt.” “This is different.” said Jim. “go and get the boss.” “I gotta job,” said the cleaner, dipping his mop into the bucket. “Gooda job. Boss he crazy. He hate leetla bit dirt. He make me clean dis fiva times every daN. Look out.” “Wait, wait,” we yelled, “go get the boss!” “Boss see d'is.” said the cleaner, starting to lift the huge gray dripping mop out of the I bucket, “he fire me queeek. He mad for let dis get dirty. He crazy, da boss. And with an irresistible purpose, he hoisted the sloshing great mop and plunked it down fair in the midst of Jim s lovely landscape, as we all leaped back from the splash. With strong gusto, he swished and swirled the mop around, until with three or four swipes no trace of art remained. We stood for a minute, and then walked slowly away. “I had a hunch.” said Samuel, “the thing wouldn’t work. ’ ’ “It works in London, England,” I said. “But in London it’s different.” “That’s an idea,” said Jim, putting his hand in his pocket. “Here. Here’s one dollar towards your fare to London. England.” Samuel took it eagerly. And I added two bits.