Note: This post covers an entire year of my life. It is a long and detailed account I first wrote out last November, 2017, after an old friend asked me about my time in NYC. I thought others might want to know what it was like for me to live in NYC as a visual artist, without a regular paycheck, and on a veritable shoe-string. My interactions with some of the people I met, and also my many answers to prayer are what stand out most in my memory.
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After our family lost our
home of thirty years in early 2009, I prayed fervently about where to go, and what to do. I
had just $300 to my name, and it was dwindling fast. We were moving to
different friend's homes every couple nights. I knew my mom couldn't afford to
feed us.
Virginia Bound and Needing $950
A special family came to mind,
so I called and they invited me to come and stay with them, while working on
painting their University wrestling room wall with large letters and inspirational
words, like Determination, Hard Work, Perseverance, etc.
I left Vermont to go to stay
with these old friends in Virginia. I'd done a similar lettering job in a
different wrestling room, about ten years prior to this.
A dear friend pressed $140
into my hand as I got on the train to leave Vermont, heading south. I was to
need that money in the future. I had spent all I had left on the train fare
going south.
I lived with this family, their
three daughters and baby son for five weeks, painting in two weeks fifty hours
of large encouraging words in many styles, fonts, and team colors.
Another family asked me to
teach some art classes to their children. These lessons really helped their
children when they later went to art school.
One Spring day in March of
2009, I was outside in the woods behind our friend’s home, praying about
several things. One was my need to fix a broken tooth. Another was about
attending a seminar in Albany, NY.
My Aunt Helen had called to
tell me, “Elise, if you ever want to go to
NYC, my mother's old apartment is still there and it's empty. You are welcome
to live there for as long as you like.” I remember dismissing this idea
immediately. Me, go to the city? I was a mountain woman. What would I
do, one who had spent so much time in the backwoods, in a bustling, noisy, concrete
city?!
But I said, “Father, if you
want me to go to NYC, then all the lights have to be green.” I could think of
at least seven things that needed to happen logistically for me to get there.
I remember watching a
butterfly, newly hatched from its cocoon, pumping fluid into its wings in the
Spring sunshine. Metamorphosis takes a long time for a butterfly caterpillar. Then
the thought came to me that perhaps I was to go to NYC and stay awhile.
The city was a place I'd never lived in long-term.
My old friend, Nelya, who I
mentioned in my Nashville blogpost, had said she was heading north to a hockey
tournament in Montreal soon. She said she'd stop by and visit me. I said, “No, Nelya, pick me up, I need to go north
to Albany, NY!”
And so, I hitched a free ride
north. She dropped me off in New Paltz at another family home. They took me to my
dentist's office outside NYC. I was told my broken tooth would cost $950 to
fix, including the exam and x-rays. I had only around $200 at this time.
Now I pleaded in prayer, “Father, I am your child, and I know you own
the cattle on 1,000 hills. Will you please provide $950 by next week, so I can
pay for the dental work in NYC without going into debt?!”
The family dropped me off at the
train station to go from New Paltz to Albany on Amtrak and they handed me $22
for the fare. “We want to help you,”
they said. I went to the pay phone to make the train reservation and some
change fell down into my hand from the phone slot, $1 in quarters.
I got on the train and waited
for the conductors to come take my $22, but they never came. So, on the Albany
platform, I walked up to two conductors and tried to give them my fare. “You forgot,” I said. They looked at each
other and then pointed to the elevator and said, “It's too late now! Enjoy your day!”
Now I had $23 more than I'd
had before.
At the seminar location, I
waited in the hotel lobby, caught what I could of the information and spoke
with people. I stayed that first night with an old family friend, and the next
day someone came up to me in the hotel lobby. “I can tell you have been going through a hard time physically,
mentally and emotionally, and I was told to give you this,” he said,
putting a white envelope in my hand.
“I'm okay,”
I replied. “No, I was told to give this
to you, and I try to do as I'm told,” he said, refusing to take his white
envelope back.
I knew what was in that
envelope. Sure enough, inside was $300 cash, in twenty dollar bills!
I decided to stay another
day, but needed a safe place to sleep. That night I stayed with a woman at the
seminar who had two beds in her room. I told her our story – how mom had been
fighting our taxes, lost our home, and that I was now practically homeless. I
told her about my need to fix my tooth and how I'd been given the cash in the
envelope by a stranger.
The next day I found this man
and asked him for more details. “Did you
talk to someone here about my need, or did the Holy Spirit speak to you?” I
asked this man. “It was the Holy Spirit
who told me, and I wasn't sure if I should give you $300 or $350,” he said.
Later that afternoon, the
woman I'd stayed overnight with came to
say goodbye. “I'm flying back to my husband in California and just wanted to
say goodbye,” she said. “The LORD gave me this and I want to pass it along to
you,” she continued, as she pressed a different white envelope into my
hand. I thanked her, and she left for the airport.
Later that night, on my way
south to NYC, in a ride provided by another seminar attendee, I opened her
envelope. It contained $650 cash! “You
don’t need a job, Elise, people just give you money,” a friend said.
And so, I arrived in NYC with
$223 of my own money, and also with the needed $950 to pay for my broken crown.
Our Father had answered my
prayers, for the logistical aspects of getting to NYC and for the money I
needed to fix my badly broken tooth.
Some doubt the very existence
of God, but I don't. The woman I'd spoken with knew exactly what my need was,
but that first monetary gift came from someone who didn't know anything
about me!
My Year in NYC – April 2009 to April 2010
I bought my first mobile
phone for emergency purposes, following the good advice of a friend. It was
just a small flip phone that fit inside my pocket.
Then I figured out in two or
three days how to get around the city. The metro still gave away paper subway
maps at that time. Now they don't, and you need a smart phone to get around. A
kind woman explained the difference between the express train and the local,
and I began to get really comfortable, really fast. I felt at home in NYC.
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| Waiting Expectantly, 22x30 2016 watercolor by Elise |
A friend wrote me, “Good,
you're on your own, now you'll find out how sheltered you were.” But I replied
that my mother had not sheltered me - sheltered people don't feel
comfortable traveling the NYC subway in only two days! The express at rush hour
was my favorite place to be...people watching.
I felt elated and excited by
the daily adventure. Goodness, I had had a driver's license by age sixteen and
was buying and cooking food for a family of five by then...people are weird in
how they see others sometimes! Just because I had lived at home to help my
family most of my life didn't make me stupid or sheltered!
I was a bit naive,
perhaps. I was told by a friend of Helen's that I was far too open to be
in NYC. She was worried about me. This woman’s own daughters had hard,
care-worn faces.
I would ask people around me
for assistance in reading the street numbers across the road, because I couldn't
see them. NYC folks are very friendly. I spent hours walking around, smiling,
because I felt I was walking through my grandpa's history. Grandpa had walked
nine miles each day as a salesman in NYC, to feed his family. One policeman
called my “smiley” because most everyone was exhausted from their work and
would go around glumly staring down at the pavement, or their phones.
I’d never really talked to
homeless street people before, they had scared me. But now I could relate and
would sometimes stop to speak with them. Some were gentle and kind – and they
would encourage me.
My apartment was located at 101st
and Broadway, only two blocks from Central Park, on the upper west side of the
city. It was a great location.
It was a very old building and the apartment had been rented by Helen's family since the 1950's so they had a rent discount. The plumbing didn't work well, but we had a doorman and the building was safe at night. I'm told Leonardo DeCaprio had done a period film there.
It was a very old building and the apartment had been rented by Helen's family since the 1950's so they had a rent discount. The plumbing didn't work well, but we had a doorman and the building was safe at night. I'm told Leonardo DeCaprio had done a period film there.
I was indoors before dark
each night, because I don't see all that well after dark, especially being in a
city I didn't know, and it was safer. The apartment contained an out-of-tune
piano, which I played for comfort, despite its condition, and I know it must
have bothered my poor neighbors. But the homeless people across the street
would come outside on the steps to sit and listen to me play them a “concert”.
Only a few rare times I was out
of my apartment after 9 PM in the dark. Once was on July 4th to see
the fireworks, and another was for New Year's, when I went to Brooklyn to hear
a guitarist I’d heard at Redeemer play another gig. And once I went to an
evening service at the Times Square Church.
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One Spring day I walked
through flowering and beautiful Central Park and remember telling God, “I
just want someone to tell me everything is going to be okay!”
A little while later, an
older man sat down next to me on a park bench and had a short conversation with
me. He lived in one of the high-rises nearby, he said. At the end of the short
talk he reached over and took my hand, pressing it and said to me, “Everything
is going to be okay!” Wow. That was a fast answer to prayer. I wonder if he
was really an angel.
The days passed. It was now May,
2009 and my food money was dwindling fast. I was eating rice and beans. For
several good reasons, finding a regular job in NYC was something I didn't feel
too prepared to do. I began making baskets and tried to find a shop to buy
them. One grocery did discuss my making dozens of them, but I didn't know if I
really wanted to become a “basket-making machine” for forty hours a week.
I was walking home via
Central Park, carrying my baskets, when a stranger going by exclaimed, “Those are hand-made baskets!” “Yes,” I
agreed, “they are.” “Can I buy one?” I came home with some
extra funds that day.
Union Square Greenmarket and Street Market
Then, Helen's son, who worked
at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital but lived in NJ came by to see me. He was
paying the rent on his grandma's place, but only crashed there one night each
month. He told me I could set up a table at the Greenmarket at Union Square,
down on 14th street. I visited the Union Square market soon after, with
my baskets, and learned I couldn't sell crafts or baskets there, only visual
artwork.
An artist named Robert
Lederman had fought for his First Amendment right to Freedom of Speech for many
years. He had gone out at Union Square with his artwork, and been arrested
many, many times, Forty times, I was later told, he'd had his work thrown in
the dumpster and had to go before a judge. But he wouldn't stop fighting and
finally, they let him and many other artists create a street market of their
own, next to the Greenmarket, where farmers sold their vegetables several days
each week and on weekends.
This man, Robert Lederman,
had prepared the way for me. The very next summer, 2010, the city closed the
Union Square market, allowing only 10-20 table spaces where they used to be
200, and you had to pay for those spaces.
I called to ask Helen if I
could use the metal card table I'd discovered in her mother's closet. “Anything
you find there is yours to use, Elise,” she kindly told me. So, I found a small
green tablecloth and ironed it. I painted myself a sign which said, “Original
Watercolors for Sale” and had it laminated at the local print shop. I was ready
for customers.
Banana in the Sun, 25x22 2016 watercolor by Elise
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| Banana in the Sun, 25x22 2016 watercolor by Elise |
The first day out on the
street I sold two $40 5x7 original watercolors, which I'd taped onto a piece of
8x10 mat board. My new frame shop friend had kindly given me double-sided tape
and sold me some small pieces of mat board. I had no plastic sleeves to protect
the work then. I went home with $80 and a heart full of joy. This street artist
thing was going to work!
I would wake up around 5 AM
on days when it was supposed to be sunny and take the 5:57 AM express train
from the 103rd street platform to Times Square. Then it took ten
minutes to transport my things through an underground maze to the Q or R train,
which went on to Union Square.
I carried a metal card table,
a metal folding chair, and a small wooden box of paintings. I also had a
backpack of food and water. It was heavy at first and sometimes I stopped to
rest, but I got stronger as Spring turned into Summer.
I usually arrived at Union
Square around 6:30 AM if I could catch both express trains, and went to find a good
spot to save for my table. I had to arrive early enough to save a place, even
though the real customers didn't usually arrive until around 10 AM.
Standing on the sidewalk all
day by my table, until just before dark became my normal day job, two or three days each week, unless the
wind was too bad, or it rained. They were long, twelve-to-fourteen-hour days in
the summertime.
One day a man stopped at my
table and began to expound on the mental benefits of transcendental meditation.
I listened without much comment. When I called my mom to tell her about my day,
she was very upset. “I want you out of that city, Elise!” My mother had a lot of fear about NYC. She had grown up in Queens, in the days when Manhattan was very, very dangerous. Somehow, I felt strongly I was being led by God to be there, even though it meant disagreeing with my mother. “Mom,” I told her, "if I don't know what I believe by now, I'm in big
trouble! I have to listen to all the people who come up to my
table!” I never saw that man again.
My mom was afraid I'd join some cult or get abducted and raped...and what hurt most was she obviously didn't trust my judgment. Sometimes dealing with family can be very trying. I spoke to my mom by phone several times each week, the entire year I was in NYC.
My mom was afraid I'd join some cult or get abducted and raped...and what hurt most was she obviously didn't trust my judgment. Sometimes dealing with family can be very trying. I spoke to my mom by phone several times each week, the entire year I was in NYC.
A smart and toothless
“homeless” man would go by almost daily, asking me for $1. The artists would
each give him his $1, and he would have a better business day than any of the artists,
and in less time!
My vivacious sister came to
stay with me for a few days in late May. She still has a magnetic personality
and is just much better than I am at selling things. She sells herself
really well! She helped me a lot, AND immediately got herself invited to
dinner. “And you can come with me,”
she told me. “Uh huh, who with?” I
wanted to know.
Turns out, my presence wasn't
much of a protection after all. The man who invited us out was the son of a
martial arts expert and he could have killed both of us with no problem, if
he'd wanted to. He twisted my elbow half off at the dinner table. We had a nice
meal at an Italian place.
My sister also came with me
to set up in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Fine Arts. She got asked out
again. It upset her. Men were lining up. The city was no place for my sister
and I told her so.
No one bothered me the entire
time I was in NYC, with the exception of once, early on, when I went to a man's
apartment for the express purpose of viewing his artwork...a former graphic
artist, he had said he could improve my composition and design, which is an
area I'd been heavily criticized in, at an art course in Ogunquit, Maine, many
years earlier. This retired graphic designer didn't have honest motives.
He was pretty ancient, a huge
man, looking for another artist paramour, and I refused to participate. “That is not the reason I came here,” I told him. “You're in trouble,” he replied, “When someone invites you to their apartment
in NYC there are expectations.” “I'm
in trouble? I've dedicated my life to God and no one touches me without His knowledge,” I declared firmly.
I wasn't afraid at all.
He sneered, “And how do you dedicate your
life to the Lord?” So I began to quote Romans 12:1-2. He cut me off
half-way through, and at some point my phone, which I'd just gotten ten days
earlier, rang at the right time in my pocket. Only five people had my phone
number. It was a friend. When I hung up from taking this call, he ushered me to
his door, refusing to shake my proffered hand. I left, unsullied. But it was a
stupid thing to have done and I learned not to go to people's apartments for
any reason other than group bible studies.
Summer on the Street
It was 2009, the summer after
the stock market crash of 2008, and the other artists told me how the street
had changed. “It used to be easy to make $200 a day on the street,” they'd tell
me, “but now we're lucky just to make one sale.” I often went home with one $35
sale, and I had prayed hard for that one sale. The metro cost $2.25 each way at that time. I figured I was making around $3/hour
on most days.
If it was too windy, people
didn't want to stop and look. Or if it was too hot, or too cold. There were
many, many long rather boring days, when I didn't want to be there. Other times
I had great times of talking with a
constant stream of tourists and strangers. I loved those days!! I also had
artist friends who I could talk with, to help the time pass.
I had fun people-watching.
Hundreds of people went by me each day. Many of the men who wore suits didn't
stand upright when they walked. Most looked pretty stressed out. In the
summertime, women would go by in flowing, beautiful dresses.
In the nine months I was out
on the street I had eight no-sale days. I met lots of folks, many were tourists
from other countries. A clothing designer of Dolly Parton's “discovered” me,
but that didn't go anywhere. He liked my “Trout Paradise” print a lot, I
remember.
I happily gave away hundreds
of Dr. Werner Gitt's evangelistic tracts at my table, as my business card,
because my illustrations were on the cover. Some people thanked me profusely
for them, others dropped them quickly, in horror.
The other street artists
became my friends, and we trusted each other. We watched each other's tables when
we had to use the bathroom. One artist helped make prints of my work, which was
an enormous benefit, as I didn’t have to physically paint each image.
I met artists from Estonia,
Amsterdam, Tibet, Turkey, Columbia, the Philippines and many other places! I
wrote all the nationalities down in my journal at the time.
One girl was making $40,000 a
year on Etsy with her prints. She was at the street market to give out her
card. And her work was sweet and funny. Another girl sold unrealistic children’s-style
art. Their work sold like hot cakes, bringing people happy memories or
laughter.
My work didn't do as well. I
was a serious realist. One artist said he couldn't believe I was selling anything.
Mostly tourists recognized my
farm animals and took them home to Europe. I was told by one man who stopped at
my table, “You're a fine artist, in fact,
you are the only fine artist
here!” He supposedly built twenty-billion-dollar metro systems around the
world. “And we have a corporate account!”
he said. “That's great,” I replied. I
wasn't sure if he meant I should beg him to buy my work, or not. I gave him my
card and never heard another word from him.
A girl who played the lead
role in Mary Poppins on Broadway stopped by my table once. She liked Stuart,
the lamb, because of the Psalm 23 I had put under my autograph.
A couple times, I went across Central Park on foot, to the Metropolitan Museum of Fine Arts to see the largest display of Japanese armor outside of Japan, and a film about Japanese history.
On rainy days, I began
painting my large full-sheet watercolor doe deer piece, Ensured by
Faithfulness which became one of my finest paintings. It was also the
painting I later gave to a dentist to fix my teeth in 2015. I listened to Mahalia
Jackson while painting, and sang loudly with her, “When I get to heav'n, sing and shout, be nobody to kick me out, Keep a
your hand on the plow, hold on.”
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| Ensured by Faithfulness, 22x30 2009 watercolor by Elise |
My apartment wasn't air-conditioned
and as the summer came on, it was very hot inside it. Perspiration poured off
me, but I continued to paint new work several hours most days I wasn't out on
the street, and then I'd go Rollerblade through Central Park. I didn’t have
knee or elbow guards, just a broken helmet, but I never once fell badly. I knew I
could not afford an injury.
I remember singing the old
hymn Count Your Blessings a lot, and another verse I repeated to myself
for encouragement was Isaiah 26:3-4:
"Thou wilt keep
him in perfect peace, whose mind
is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee. Trust ye in the LORD forever:
for in the LORD JEHOVAH is everlasting strength:"
On rainy days I was also
working diligently to complete an eight-part workbook study from II Peter 5-7
done by horseman, Lew Sterrett of Sermon on the Mount Ministries, which was a
huge spiritual encouragement to me.
I was determined to be “a
white lily” by God's grace, amid what often felt more like a black mud swamp.
Sitting out on the broiling
hot asphalt street in July and August wasn’t easy. The pavement steamed and
smelled pretty bad. The upper class had left the city for their country homes.
On July 4th, one of my sandal straps tore out and I had to try to
drag it home, keeping the sandal on my foot, while carrying everything, because
the pavement was too hot to walk on, barefoot.
I remember starting to sing
out loud that day to strengthen my faltering heart, amid the horns and traffic
noise, while limping along, crossing a busy street. I didn't care what people
thought. “You have a plan, Father, when I don’t,” was my pretty constant cry of faith.
It was a mental
battle and I fought daily to keep my mind on Christ and to be hopeful for a
better future when everything about my life appeared pretty grim.
But, happily, the city didn't
remind me at all of Vermont and the home I'd recently lost, so that was good.
When I was back in Vermont, seeing farms, hearing the sound of a domestic
turkey call or smelling manure often made me feel very sorry for myself. So NYC
was a blessing that summer. I was told it was actually a cool summer, it rained
a lot, but it sure was hotter than what I was used to!
I began to look forward to
rainy days, because they meant I didn't have to go out on the street and could
get more rest. Union Square was surrounded by busy streets and my table was
often only three feet from the traffic going by. After a day of standing with
taxis, cars and trucks rumbling by, I would come home and close all the windows
and shut the curtains and try to recover from noise exhaustion.
Helen came down from Maine,
to visit me in August. She was exhausted from caring for her ailing husband,
Carl. We took the train out on Long Island, to see her old high school friend,
Loretta, who then lived in the Hamptons. I went swimming out to the buoys at a
private beach and it was a wonderful break.
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On some days I painted while
sitting outside at the market. One of these paintings became Stuart, Dwelling Securely Forever, which
depicts a little wooly ram-lamb face. He became my best-selling image! “Pure Gold,” said my printer. I sold many
prints of this image, and the sale of them paid for my groceries.
When I had taken this ram
lamb's photo in New Zealand, he had just been culled from the flock, and was on
a truck going for slaughter. Stuart the
Lamb was a picture of what Christ had done for me – given His life, so I could
live.
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| Stuart, Dwelling Securely Forever, 7x9 2009 watercolor by Elise |
The original painting also
sold on the street late that summer. I went to Mike, an artist friend standing next
to me, and said, “Mike, I've just sold my
best painting and I don't think I asked enough, they said they thought it
was worth $150 more.” “What did you get for it?” Mike asked me. “$350,” I said. “No!” he didn't believe me. “It's right here in my pocket,” I said, pointing to the bulge in my jeans.“Elise, you've done very well! 90% of the
people at this market will never sell an item over $200!” he praised me.
Once, returning
to NYC on the train from a short visit to Vermont, I remember tearfully singing to myself the Virtuous
Grapevine Song (lyrics at end of blog) which I used to teach to children. The song spoke of how the Vine must be pruned, in order for it to bear more fruit. My mother didn't want me to go back to the city.
She felt it was too dangerous. I had never gone anywhere against her wishes but I felt due to our family circumstances, and decisions she had made outside my control, I had no choice. I felt I HAD to find a way to support myself. “When the door closes and I cannot afford to
be there, I will leave,” I told her.
On the whole, the
city was such a lonely place. I'd
tried hard to find trustworthy friends, but I didn't feel I could trust the
majority of those who came up to my table. Some would take my number and promise
to call me “tomorrow” but never call at all. NYC is full of broken promises.
A few men asked
me out or propositioned me. I used to think I knew what I believed, but after
my year in NYC, I really know I do believe it.
I lived my faith,
day by day. The Holy Spirit met me and blessed me.
Ben, who had come from Africa
and was a security guard in a building near Union Square, stopped to meet me
one day and talk because he saw the light from my works of art. Several more times
he came by and we would discuss mainly spiritual things. He emphasized to me the power
of the blood of Christ.
One early evening
I attended a platinum photography exhibit at a gallery show opening around 11th
St. The photographer's book is titled, We Walk in Beauty. They were
beautiful black-and-white photos of Native Americans. One elderly Native
American lady was asked when her portrait was taken, “Do you fear for the
future of your family, and of the earth?” She wisely replied, “Oh, me and my children, we walk in beauty.”
The gallery was
really crowded with people at this opening, and I started up a conversation
with the black man standing at my left elbow. I asked what he did. He said he
was a red-carpet photographer. “Oh, that
sounds like an interesting job.” “No,” he said, “all the models are air-heads and they have nothing intelligent to say.
But you sound like you would be an interesting person to get to know, is it
mutual?” I had two seconds to come up with a response. “No,” I said, declining his offer...he didn't define what “get to
know” meant, and I didn't ask.
Once I asked a
street artist how so many people could afford to go to the fancy restaurants...she
told me that very few do eat out, most of NYC works to just keep the city up
and running.
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| Communion in the Big Apple, 17x23 2017 watercolor by Elise |
I sat on the
subway trains going to and from Union Square, and saw the working class fall
asleep going to and from their work places. They resembled black slaves to me.
They were too poor to move anywhere else, even if they wanted to.
I told one street
artist, “This will be an interesting
summer to look back on.” “If you can look back on it,” he replied. There
was no way I wanted to make this a life-style. It was an experience for
me, but for others, it was the only life they knew. They had no friends outside
the city, as I did!
By mid-summer I
had decided I must find a church to
attend, in order to meet better people. Who was going to want to be friends
with me, someone penniless, selling my work on the street?
Finding Redeemer Presbyterian
So I started
attending different church services. There were a lot of contemporary services,
with words on a screen and loud, rock music. I went to five or six places
without desiring to go back to a second service.
It took me a long
time to find an atmosphere I liked – the traditional service which was then held at
Redeemer Presbyterian West at 64th and Central Park West.
They had a small
symphonic group of musicians playing every Sunday!! I loved the music, which accompanied old
hymns, and it often brought me tears of joy and relief, it was so beautiful.
I looked forward to the sermons every week, saved my notes, and I often felt they were written especially for me. One in particular was on Isaiah 42:3, "A bruised reed shall he not break..." That "bruised reed" was me in NYC. I was very bruised from all that had occurred surrounding the loss of our home, and in need of His kindness.
I sang in the Redeemer choir on one occasion, hitting high G with great volume and joy, and am still receiving the Voices of Redeemer emails, nine years later, because I hope to one day sing with them again!
I also joined a Redeemer film-making group, wanting to learn about a different style of artistry, and helped
out on a 24-hour film project. Film is such a difficult medium!
I also joined a
few evening bible studies. I didn't really have much free time for socializing,
because I was working too much to stay alive.
The community bible studies through Redeemer were wonderful because they opened up time each week to get to know others more personally than just attending a short church service.
A Potential Job Offer
In September, a
man stopped at my table on a Friday and remarked that I did good work. His name
was Richard, and he was a high-end house painter. He showed me photos of the
painting jobs on his cell phone, and said he was looking for someone to paint
frescoes and murals for his Long Island house painting jobs.
I was glad to
speak with him, for I knew winter was coming. I had been praying about finding an
indoor job. He asked if I could go to dinner with him that night. “I don't
really go places alone, or date,” I said. “Well, I'm meeting a friend, my best
friend, so it would be a three-some.” Because I saw him respect what I had told him, I told him I could make it.
I went uptown,
dropped off my table and paintings, and returned to Union Square an hour later,
joining him and his friend at a restaurant on Union Square. We ate and talked.
Richard must have had around six beers and no food – he had finished a big job
and was celebrating.
At 11 PM his
friend went home because he had work the next morning. I had been up since 5 AM
and was very over-tired. I should have gone home, but I decided it would be safe to
stay out.
Richard went to a
bar nearby and asked what I wanted. “I'll have a hot water with lemon, please.”
“No, please drink with me,” he said. “I'll have a hot water with lemon,” I again firmly told the server. We went to another disco place and I couldn't see or hear. Then a third place.
At 3 AM I was
still recounting to him very sorrowful life stories, and he said, “What can we do to make you happy?”
I was in the
process of grieving the loss of our home, where I had lived for thirty long
years. Pearl S. Buck, who lost her home very suddenly in 1927's Nanking Incident in China, said in her autobiography, My
Several Worlds, "Anyone who has lost all his habitual environment by sudden violence will know what I mean, and those who have not, cannot possibly understand, and so there is no use in trying to explain."
I could genuinely relate to what she said, about feeling "alive and free," even while losing so many possessions which were once beloved family heirlooms. Healing takes time. I was in no position, emotionally, to be courted by anyone. My grief would pass, but it would take time.
I could genuinely relate to what she said, about feeling "alive and free," even while losing so many possessions which were once beloved family heirlooms. Healing takes time. I was in no position, emotionally, to be courted by anyone. My grief would pass, but it would take time.
At 5 AM, after waiting for an early AM metro that never came, he put me
in a cab and I went home, utterly exhausted. I had had about three tablespoons
of beer.
Richard then called
and invited me to go to dinner, which I declined. He had told me his
philosophy, which was, “Christ suffered so we don’t have to suffer.” This is
not a Biblical view. And, if someone didn’t know a lot about suffering, they would
certainly never be able to understand my life.
That was the
closest I got to a date in NYC. A business meeting that turned into a night
talking at a bar. A job painting frescoes never materialized. It would have
been fun to work with others, for working by myself gets very old sometimes.
Fall – Further Testing
Carl, Helen’s
husband, sadly died late that October, and their son and his girlfriend picked
me up so I could ride up to the coast of Maine to attend his funeral. I was
glad to see my family again and walk the rocky beaches with my little niece!
I also went back
to Vermont in November, to attend a counseling course, leaving my brand new
$750 gift computer on the NYC subway by mistake, on the way there. I was
carrying literally around 150 pounds of luggage on my shoulders and wasn't
thinking all that well as a result. I thought it would “save me $20” by not taking
a taxi to the Amtrak station...I was wrong. Ironically, it was because I was
giving a dollar to an artist soliciting funds on the subway that I lost the
computer. I had taken my computer strap off my shoulder to get the dollar, and
forgotten to pick it back up. I was distraught. I never left things
places...it just happened that day.
Losing that
computer was a huge hit. Losing my home, summer clothing, shoes, possessions,
camera and computer – all in one year!!! I never saw that computer again, but I
was in the right frame of mind to receive counsel.
That fall,
payment finally arrived from the job I’d done in Virginia, and this was perfect
timing. I needed $400 to frame my doe deer painting, because it had been
accepted by Redeemer Presbyterian for an art exhibit at their main offices.
My doe deer represented
fifty hours of work spaced over six weeks just painting her – not including getting
the piece matted and framed.
I remember standing next to the painting at the exhibit reception and
hearing the commentary. “Oh, that’s a
paint-by-number” one young viewer said, who obviously knew very little
about painting and didn’t appreciate high detail. Then another artist from the
show stood in front of my deer. “This is
the best piece in the entire show!” he enthusiastically declared. As an artist, he could more accurately imagine the large effort behind the work. I was very grateful to have my work displayed at Redeemer.
One of my street artist
friends, Christine, came to my apartment to celebrate Thanksgiving that year.
I'd had a very good previous Saturday, making $200, so I could afford to buy
holiday food.
Christine and I shared the
same birthday, although she was exactly twenty years older than me, and she had
insisted on being my friend for this reason, when we first met.
I could guess we'd had a
pretty different life and wasn't too sure about it, but back in June, I'd
agreed to be her friend. I didn't have much choice, she called me often to
talk, as she was very lonely following the sudden death of her husband that
Spring. I came to really appreciate her friendship.
Christine found out we had had very different
backgrounds that Thanksgiving day.
I knew she’d worked as a
prostitute on the streets for fourteen years, before her marriage, but she
didn't know much about me. She was shocked
when I shared my
background, of attending church three times each week with my family, reading
my bible daily, praying corporately with family, and singing hundreds of old
hymns...
She had not had parents who
expressed any love toward her or her siblings but I knew this before she told
me about it.
Her common-law husband,
George, a lamp inventor, had taken her in so she didn't have to work on the
streets, selling her body. They had been together twenty years when he'd
suddenly had a heart-attack and died. This forced her to sell her artwork, to
pay her enormous rent on Roosevelt Island.
A very creative artist, she
also knew how to sell – what to say and when not to speak.
Christine sold faux gold and
silver work, which shone after dark. Just before Christmas she was selling well
after the sun went down, and she kept encouraging me not to go home and rest,
but to stay out for a couple more hours, after dark. But it got so cold and I
was so tired. I never sold anything after dark.
Christine was perhaps one of
the best reasons I went to NYC. We had a great time that Thanksgiving. If I remember correctly, I made turkey, stuffing, gravy, cranberry relish, sweet potatoes and green beans,
and a pecan or pumpkin pie.
She prayed with me to repent
of her sin and receive Christ as her Savior a couple months after
Thanksgiving. “Christine, do you feel any different?” I asked her. She told me
she felt lighter, and she began
listening to sermons on the television, something she’d never been interested
in doing before.
________________________________
When it was a very cold day
on the street, I'd go over to Whole Foods and ask at the coffee counter for a
large hot water, and then add honey and milk to it, making a free hot drink.
The staff knew who the street market artists were and they didn't mind trying
to keep us warm. I learned to wear three layers of pants and four on the top.
My snow pants probably saved my life.
It was difficult
to be out there for hours, standing in the terrible cold in December. I
remember how everyone was bustling around getting ready for the holidays, but I
had no extra money for gifts and our old decorations at home were gone.
I was
disconsolate and full of self-pity...until one evening, while walking through
the dark, wet and snowy streets to a musical performance at Redeemer Presbyterian.
A passage came to mind very strongly, which I'd memorized many years earlier.
“Yea doubtless, and I count all things but
loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord: for
whom I have suffered the loss of all things,
and do count them but dung, that I may win Christ, and be found in him, not
having mine own righteousness, which is of the law, but that which is through
the faith of Christ, the righteousness which is of God by faith: That I may
know him, and the power of his resurrection, and the fellowship of his sufferings, being made conformable unto
his death;” ~ Philippians 3:8-10, emphasis mine
Suddenly, I was
given a new perspective on loss and pain. Our Father would work even this
seeming calamity out for my good and His glory.
Winter – More Answers to Prayer
On Sundays, I would leave my
apartment by 8 AM, with a change of clothing in a backpack, to walk two miles
each way, to attend the 9 AM church service. I was saving $5 by not taking the
metro. Those were my favorite days in the city, because NYC is very silent and
quiet on Sunday mornings.
Bona, my doorman, once told me, “Elise, it is winter and you can’t walk that far in this weather!” But I replied, “Haha, Bona, it’s 30 degrees outside! In Vermont we have -20 below zero, without the windchill, and this is nothing!”
Bona, my doorman, once told me, “Elise, it is winter and you can’t walk that far in this weather!” But I replied, “Haha, Bona, it’s 30 degrees outside! In Vermont we have -20 below zero, without the windchill, and this is nothing!”
Last minute, my
brother invited me home to Vermont for Christmas, and I went. A large monetary
gift was given to me by a generous art mentor just before I left to return to
NYC. These funds got me through the month of January.
There was a Whole Foods supermarket
nearby my apartment, as well as a health food store and some other grocery
shops. One cold damp day, as I went to lug spring water back to my apartment,
through the snow, for drinking, I remember being watched by the men in hooded
sweatshirts, who always sat around on the street edges and watched for prey,
like vultures. They began to follow me, probably because I looked so vulnerable
and depressed. I went quickly into Whole Foods and determined to project a much
more purposeful attitude on the way back to my apartment.
I wasn't selling
much of anything on the street by this time, and was struggling to keep going.
There were few things I could look forward to, and I really didn’t know how to
overcome my health and financial struggles. A friend hadn't come to visit, as
planned, and this was also a great disappointment.
In early January,
Jack called me. He lived in Cresskill, NJ and wanted to check up on me. Jack is
Jessie's older brother and Jessie was my first art teacher. I'd known Jack for years
and years. He was around 81 then. He was worried about me. “Every time I
hear you say you're out on the street, the hair on the back of my neck rises!” he
exclaimed. “Jack, I'm selling my art, not my body on the street!”
Then he asked, “How are you doing? Is your apartment warm
enough?” “Yes, I'm plenty warm,”
I told him, “I'm wearing shorts it's so
hot in here.” “What do you weigh,” he wanted to know, telling
me, “I wouldn't normally ask a woman this.”
“I weigh around 165 lbs, I'm eating well and I'm fine.”I replied. “Well, that sounds okay...You should come
and visit me,” Jack said. So I went.
I was thinking about my life
and grieving, wondering about how to get through the immediate future while on
the metro heading north. What am I going to do? I mumbled to myself.
The train was going toward
the George Washington Bridge and because this way was unfamiliar, I went one
stop too far. I got off the train to change directions and heard the sweet tones
of a black trumpet player, busking.
He was playing an old hymn
and his music rang gloriously through the metro platform. The words of his song
came to mind, “Ask the Savior to help you, comfort, strengthen and keep you,
He is willing to aid you, He will carry you through.”
I knew that once
again, the Holy Spirit was there with me, hearing my cry, caring and watching
over me. I could trust Him.
My tears fell as
I put a few dollars in the busker's trumpet case, “I was really blessed by your song,” I told him softly, and he
nodded, his eyes closed, as he continued to praise God on his trumpet.
I doubt anyone
else knew the words to that song that day – just me and him. I got back on the
train going south, glad I'd gone that “extra” stop north.
____________________________
Now one of my
wisdom teeth became badly infected. The pounding pain seemed to worsen each
month. It needed to be dealt with. I was paying $140 each month for utilities
at the apartment, and around $200 monthly for my food, but not the $2,200/month
rent. I talked a dentist down from $300 to $100 to pull my tooth. But the shock
and fear of having it extracted took a toll on my health.
I couldn't walk
two city blocks without feeling exhausted after that tooth was pulled. I spent
several days in January lying in bed, trying to rest and heal. Later, a doctor
told me the infection was probably going to the brain, and I'd done the right
thing to have it pulled when I did. I'm sure the cold weather on the street
didn't help at all.
One day, a street-artist
photographer-friend gave me his old wooden display so I could hang my prints
higher up. It was made of wooden 2x4's and it was too heavy for even me to
carry, with everything else.
I learned while
in NYC why I am the size I am – I have a large build and by now also had the
strength of an ox. No one dare bother me! But this display was the “straw which
broke the camel's back.”
I was straining
to drag it up the subway stairs one morning, when suddenly I had a flashback to
the winter I was thirteen: Our Dad was gone by then, and we were freezing cold.
My mom had gone to work, leaving us at home to load the fires, cook and educate
ourselves.
We had to go out into
the woods every day, to pull wet, icy logs up the driveway, through the snow on
sleds. Our mittens and knees were sopping wet from slipping and falling down so
many times. “Daddy, daddy, why can't you
come home!” we had then cried...
Somehow, those
subway steps and the burden I was carrying on my back reminded me of that very
hard time, many years earlier. And I felt I was done. No more street markets
for me.
Making Floral Bouquets for Valentine’s Day
At the beginning
of February I had very little food left, and only $1.25 to my name. I did have
100 EU as my last resort “leave the city” savings fund.
My doorman, Bona,
had become a very kind friend. I told him how I'd gone up to 107th
street to the floral shop, to put my name in to do delivery work for
Valentine's Day. I called this shop on Wednesday, February 10th, and
was assured by the woman who answered the phone that they were going to call me
in to work.
But Friday
arrived, and I hadn't heard anything. I called that shop at least twice, and had
gone to see them. Bona told me, “Call them again, Elise.” “But I've already
called them! Twice!” I protested. “This is New York City, people get distracted
and busy, you must call them again,” he
urged me.
So I called them
again.“Oh, honey, you haven't been put on the schedule? Well, come in
tomorrow morning at 9:30,” I was
told. I was there on time and they gave me a few bunches of flowers to
take out on foot and by subway.
I'd worked for fifteen years in Vermont, doing
floral deliveries by car on special occasions for the local shop. It felt a bit
dreary, wandering down the sidewalk, finding addresses by myself. I was
told to bring ID the next time I went to one high-rise downtown.
When I got back
to the flower shop, the owner, Sal, exclaimed, “You're a waste on the
streets, I'm going to have you stand next to me and do designs!”
Wow! I had
always wanted to create floral designs, but the florist in Vermont was very
stuffy, highly educated in the business, and wouldn't let me touch his stems. I
was thrilled.
Sal had gotten 400 orders in on the Tele-Floral machine,
and didn't have enough designers to fill them.
I stood in one place at the
counter for hours and made up a lot of orders. I had to ask for a sharper
knife. They glanced at each other, wondering if I would cut myself. I can handle
a knife. I made up several $150 bouquets of roses and Sal showed me how to
shape them slightly.
The next day, on
Valentine's Day itself, I took orders from the shop customers who came in to
select loose stems from the refrigerator. I had a blast, it was SO much fun
working with a team!
Sal told me every
time he would eat a sandwich he'd think of me, with my $1.25, which I'd
explained to him was all I had left. Sal asking me work for him was another
answer to prayer.
I met an old friend
later that evening, and she gave me a check for over $200. She said God had
told her to give it to me. It was unexpected. Suddenly I went from $1.25 to
over $400!
 |
| A Slumbering Giant Awakes, 22x30 2016 watercolor by Elise |
Time to Leave NYC
After this
weekend I went back to Vermont, mainly to see my chiropractor about my wounded cranium,
and then wound up staying to help my mother on an important project, going to
Maine to have another adventure.
Then, on Easter
Sunday, Helen’s son texted that he’d found someone to live in the apartment,
and I'd need to move out of NYC soon. I returned and packed and left the city.
I had come through my year unscathed and stronger than ever, in many ways, although with some adrenal fatigue, too. I was no longer afraid of being in a big city by myself. I had learned more about sales and made a lot of artist friends, too.
Christine went Home to
heaven, after a long second round of lethal cancer treatments in 2013. If for
no other reason, I believe I went to NYC for Christine’s eternal security.
Your painting and praying friend, with love,
Elise
Your painting and praying friend, with love,
Elise
