A long time ago, when I would write in a journal, I wrote about a man that Shawn and I met on a sidewalk in Fremont, across from Lladro. He called himself Benny, and made balanced rock sculptures on the sidewalk. Talked philosophy. Talked a blue streak--does that mean he swears a lot, or just talks a lot?--, as they say. This was a couple of years ago. He talked about his art and how, for the most part, people seemed to respect it. Sometimes those drunks from the bars would knock them over, but not often. I'd have to go back to the journal entry to rememer, specifically what else we talked about with him. (I have self-shame surrounding my journal, so I don't like to look at it. Don't like to be reminded that I haven't written in it since last June; an entry that I vividly recall and viscerally dislike. Afraid of my own ghosts, so human am I.)

Benny. So, he's got this accent that sounds rather continentally, generically European. Obviously educated--talks a mile a minute, half of which I don't understand it is so much smarter than I am--probably homeless. At some point, we have to end our talk of rocks and we part ways. I was very struck by him, though, since I wrote about him and I don't write about most of the people that I meet. Once in awhile Shawn and I would see him out there, on the sidewalk with his rock towers--they got bigger and bigger and more sidewalk invasive over the past two-ish years.

This week's Stranger has a one page story about him. I guess Benny's rock sculpture days are over. At least on that particular sidewalk. Something about a permit, which he can't pay for. Some sadness expressed by local patrons of his art/coffee drinkers. Some relief by business owners who have had to call the police on more than one occasion due to his sometimes inebriated rants and possible violent tendencies. As in much of life's stories, it's a mixed emotional quagmire.

I can tell I'm getting old. Older. My initial thought was "well, that's probably for the best. Those sculptures were making it difficult to navigate the sidewalk." At the same time, I sure do love expressions of public, non-sanctioned art. Most of the time. I admit to wanting it to fit in with my own artistic sensibilities; though, in my defense, I'd say that's a pretty loose criteria. Often, it's just as much the spirit of the thing as the value it may carry as art. I see the corner qwik-ee mart across from my apartment tagged as fast as the owner can paint over the last one. He gets fined if the graffiti stays on his property.
I also see the cartoonish line spraying of a nude girl, long stringy hair, her arm outstretched in the universal sign for "stop" and the words "I just don't feel it" sprayed above her head. I LOVE that picture. It's graffiti, too. But it's GOOD graffiti. Sprayed on an abandoned building. (Only, I think that it's gone now.) So the old lady in me says, "No tagging. That's vandalism." And the not quite so old lady in me says "But if you spray a smart, funny social comment and it's on an abandoned building, then it's ok with me!".

I'm old.