The Boxer

Let me tell you the story of the boxer. His arms are raised high above his head in victory. He's just won his match and the pride and joy emanate from his face. The sweat pours down his cheeks, it stings his eyes, each muscle has been pushed to the absolute limit but none of that matters because he has won. 

To you and I the boxer does not exist. But to an old man in his nightshirt and sweats sitting in a chair across from his masterpiece of clay and paint at 2am he is most certainly alive. How can this old man tell he has given life to this dream of his? Because in that dimly lit room in the deadness of night the boxer scares him. It's so alive it actually scares him. That's how he knows. When he's just the slightest bit fearful of what he's created, he's left his comfort zone, and created something real.

This afternoon in a Starbucks on Sunset & Vine, right in the heart of everything I, along with several others, am pulled inexplicably into the drama of every day living in California. I sit at a long table to the side, along a wall made of window, conspicuous as can with a full view of what is transpiring beyond the barrier of sand, soda ash and limestone. These are my own reflections, not an accurate account of what took place.

        It's hard to read, even to write, when the world above me, around me, in front of my very eyes is much more fascinating: a tarty woman, fake as can be wearing a tawdry, too-tight dress. Her voice is annoyingly high, not soft and musical high but with a whine, always a note of complain even in her joy. I imagine her at a club hitting on a poor unsuspecting man in that same squeaky, baby voice full of complaint. If words could pout I'm sure hers would. Asian. Skinny arms, skinny legs, skinny waist, skinny ass and boobs twice the size of her waist. At a glance? She looks made-up, needy, desperate for attention.
        How different is she, really, from the odd, eccentric though seemingly harmless black man who's harassing her. Though that's such a strong word. Annoying her. Bugging her. Imagine a puppy barking and biting at an older dog's heels, trying to jump on it and chase it around. He just wants to be noticed and responded to. Perhaps that is what makes the woman so much more distasteful - she does not ignore the man but only adds fuel to his fire by engaging him. Would he have really left her alone had she ignored him? I walked right between them and ordered my drink without so much as looking at either and neither gave me the time of day. Who's to know what could have happened.
        From behind the glass it's hard to determine which wishes to be noticed more. Perhaps they are playing the mirror game - where one mirrors the other. If the woman is truly upset with the man why does she continue to engage with him long after it is necessary. In the end it's the man that's restrained. It's ironic, poetic even, here on Sunset & Vine.
        What I wouldn't give to know their conversation. What are the police saying? A city ever alive with different people and nationalities, two young tanned un-married cops are talking to each one separately. Both man and woman are explaining their side, both trying to be convincing, trying to get the cops to believe their story, both whining, both complaining. I can't hear the words but it's apparent in the tone. How patient these two young law fighters must be, the unsung heroes of LA (cue snark, laugh, scoff, hatred, and applause, though precious little of the later I'm sure). But see how calm they remain, how they control, how they listen with such apparent attentiveness. How is his suit so impossibly clean, so unwrinkled, like his face, like his eyes, like his.....
        HIS MOUTH!!!! I found it! The source of peace, his calm. Down, down, down. His jaws come down, down, down, pulverizing the sugar-free minty edible EXTRA lodged firmly between his teeth. There is his stress, there is his outlet, there is his peace, hidden in the corner of his mouth. Pressed over and over under the stampede of white horses - the stampede to calm.
        Finally the woman and man leave. The policemen share a private moment, words uttered quickly then follows relief. A smile, a laugh, a nod to a fellow squad car passing by. Finally there is peace.
        All the eyes fixed on the little drama return to their cells, or their books, or their iPads, or their coffees, or the cute guy across the street. All these eyes unaware of the marvel of a human sitting within feet of them. All the while we sit and watch the antics, impossibly drawn into the drama. But when we return to our lives we fail to see the man sitting beside the girl with dark hair writing and seeing furiously. But I see him.
        His back is impossibly straight for a man so old. He wears the clothes of a military man - white shirt, brown slacks - or perhaps it is just his essence. He has the same calm, mildly amused expression as the cops. Perhaps that was what made me think veteran. Or perhaps it was the navy blue hat with an american flag perched on his impossibly strong brow. But there's something not quite right, something lacking in this military picture. His shirt is too wrinkled for a man who's served his whole life. His work-boots are the kind that manual laborers wear. But his hands. Those are hands that have seen much labor, but not the kind that comes from bricks or construction. My father has been in masonry, tile work, concrete, hard labor, his entire life. I know his hands, can recall them with perfect detail, but these man's hands are not the hands of my father. They are strong without the scabbing or scarring. A painter? No. The hands still don't work. A sculptor then.
        I decide to ask. He served in one war - the Korean war back in 1957. Ever since then he has been a sculptor and animator in Hollywood. He was also Henry Fonda's architect. A man as rich in knowledge and creativity as the men and women who sit atop the hollywood hills in their palaces of brick and mortar and green glass. Being the good little journalist I am I take notes. I record what he says but only capture the essence of his thoughts - words so beautifully communicated, creative, and artistically insightful that they can only be truly experienced and appreciated if one also has access to the kind brown eyes that have seen a world turn round and round decade after decade, the kind mouth that is just a pattern of lines as artistic as his sculpture, and the low soft-spoken voice of a man passionate about his craft but wise enough to know he is not alone in his passion.

If you want to write, you have to read every goddamn thing that comes into your life. I don't care if it's shit you have to read it all. If you want to paint you have to see everything. I sit here and watch the people go by. Men, women, mothers, sons, girls, girls, girls. I see their wrists, their elbows. I see their necks. I see the way the light reflects off their hair and you have to! If you aren't seeing, always seeing, you may miss the next inspiration for your piece. 

I never sculpt what I want. It takes over and I have no choice but to listen to it. 

You have to be. Just be onstage. Or in a film. Even if you fall, really truly fall, if you are honest they will know. They will see you being and they will love you for it.  

I sometimes get deeply depressed over my work. It's in my stomach - this deep kind of sadness. It happened with the boxer. I'd been defeated and I knew it. Nothing had gone according to plan. I know I can't do it. Then I said I'm just going to finish it for the hell of it...

That's when he showed up. - Joseph

This man blessed me with 20 minutes of beautiful conversation and expert advice.