Many years ago, on a very cold night, I left a sculpture course that I was taking on Thursday Nights in Greenwich Village and saw something that just stopped me….”cold”.

On a side street, there was a homeless man huddled in a dark corner below the stairs and behind the low gate to a brownstone, He was sitting hunched, with his arms crossed over him holding each shoulder, and his knees up pressed together with his ankles crossed underneath him. His face showed such years of suffering that you felt the pain of a thousand homeless lost souls in his every aspect.

It is sad to say, but there is a universal fascination so often captured by artists of the pain of homeless people and beggars.  And yes, these photographs and drawings do sell. We seem to hang them in our homes to possibly remind ourselves, “There but for the grace of God… go I.”

There was no mercenary concept in my mind-but I had to capture this image. I thought, I will remember this so clearly forever. I will spend time looking and memorize the position. I didn’t have the advantage of the artist who always carries a sketchpad and pencils; or the photographer who could take out his camera.  Not to mention that It was freezing and sculpture is a much slower process, requiring a table.

You could stand there and sketch or take a photo!  What frustration. But, I actually had a five pound block of red terracotta and my tools in my knapsack.  So, because I was young and had shared wine with others at the night   class, I opened my bag and crudely carved and thumbed out this profound scene of human sadness. I quietly took a garbage can and used the lid as a table. What was I thinking? Yes, I felt so guilty using this man as an object in a sense. But, I rationalized that thousands of artists before me and after me do this in the name of art. I still feel a bit guilty, and up till now, have never exhibited the piece.

While people have often complimented me on the emotion that some of my pieces show….nothing I do could every surpass the evident pain that this piece exhibits. All of my sculptures come from my head.  This suffering, homeless man, was the ultimate sculpture model of the horrendous harshness that life can bring to some.  I interpreted what I saw. We are all more fortunate than we know.

At that time, we didn’t call men like this by the politically correct  word–“Homeless”, that would be used today. They were called bums and in more derogatory slur, given the finished wine bottle by his side-“Wino”. But, as I thought and will continue to think about this heartbreaking example of human misery- I think that for that one night, he found happiness through the fallen asleep inebriation of thought erasing bliss, that that bottle of wine gave him.

Listening to Paul Simon’s “Papa Hobo” with it’s brief interlude of old time wood floor dancing violin, I think this is a more respectful and true title to this unknown man who gave me so much to think about.