2:36
This empty lot is an art gallery. A chainlink fence surrounds the lot, and serves as a kind of makeshift gallery wall. Dozens of framed prints, photos, canvases are hanging on the fence. This makeshift gallery spans half a block, along a busy street.
There is an old white mini van parked by the empty lot. The sliding doors are open. I can see large stacks of canvases inside. A sticker on the the rear window reads, IMPORT/EXPORT. A sticker on the windshield reads, BLACK OWNED BUSINESS.
As I approach the empty lot, an arm extends from the left sliding door. The arm waves to me. I can’t see the man it is attached to.
I wave back, just to show that I’ll be friendly, un-intrusive. It occurs to me that he is waving for the same reason.
2:41
The empty lot is roughly divided into halves. One half is a cracked concrete slab. The other half is grass. An old wood fence and some wild, tangled trees on the far end of the lot. A house and a yard on the other side of the fence.
2:43
Some of the trees are maples. Some of them are big, blackberry trees. Branches of dark, deep purple berries, fringed with toothy little leaves. Some less ripe berries: bright red, flecked with bits of brown. Some unripe berries: pale green tinged with pale pink. Dry, stale berries, scattered on the ground beneath, like dead bugs. Dead branches, limbs, that look like they were split by lightening.
2:49
An empty gallon jug of milk. A black plastic slab that I step on. It cracks. It looks like a piece of an old car’s interior lining. A pile of worn blonde bricks and concrete. Big ragged beams from a torn-apart building. A flatscreen TV—scratched—that is covered in dust.
2:51
On top of the flatscreen: a pair of new-looking black Nike sneakers. One of the shoes is laced and tied. The other shoe is lace-less.
2:54
A single large truck tire printed with the label DISCOVER. A cone-shaped chunk of concrete, three-feet high.
2:56
A golfball, half-buried in dirt.
2:57
A pile of pine branches, about 10-feet long.
2:58
A wadded tarp. Rust-colored mesh.
2:59
A giant hornet buzzes past me, almost clips my ear.
3:00
I smell something fruity and rotten. I move away from the smell.
3:02
A pair of black Timberlands—also new-looking—turned on their sides. An empty bottle of Cazadores Reposado tequila.
3:05
Bits of green, brown, and clear-colored glass, sprinkled among a pile of leaves. The leaves look charred, like someone lit a fire here.
3:07
There is not much to see of the lot that I haven’t already made note of. I decide that it’s time to venture toward the gallery fence. My stomach’s quivering. I realize I’m nervous about looking at the art, conversing with the man inside the van. Not nervous for any particular reason, beyond: I am socially awkward. A socially awkward woman, by myself. I decide that I will talk to him if he approaches me first. Otherwise, I’ll just keep quiet and look at the art.
3:08
The man emerges as I round the gate. He’s slender, tall, probably 6 foot 4. Probably in his 60s, judging by his gray hair. He wears white linen pants, a red button-down, half unbuttoned. Two gold chains, a cross on a cord, and a wood beaded necklace.
He nods. He doesn’t smile, but his eyes are friendly, curious. He holds one hand flat, makes a writing motion with his other hand. You are a scientist? A journalist? He asks. I see you writing for a long time, there. What are you writing in your book?
Am I a scientist? A journalist? A good question. I guess I am a scientist, if science means exploring a hypothesis. I guess I am a journalist, if journalism means documentation. What is happening here, now.
Do you speak French? He asks, a hopeful glimmer in his eye. I can speak English, if you need, but I speak better French.
I do, a little bit, I say in French. I pause, searching for words. I am a journalist. A little bit. A sort of journalist.
Are you researching for a book? He asks, in French.
I am researching for a book. A book about—I can’t recall French words for empty or for lot—I switch to English—empty lots, about—I switch to French again—the things I see and think, when I am in them.
He nods again, and waits for me to resume speaking. He knows there’s more to what I’m doing than what I’ve just said.
I’m interested in what spaces used to be, I say in French. I shake my head as soon as I have said it. That’s not fully accurate. I’m interested in the ways we look at spaces, now, and try to piece together what they used to be, I say in English.
I think this used to be—he says in English, hesitates—a place where they play games with balls, you know, the ball like this? He leans forward a little on one leg, and pantomimes a ball inside his hand. You know this game? He says in French.
Baseball? I guess.
No, no. He waves his hand.
Football?
Ah, no, he says. The game like this. He traces his hand in a circle to show the small size of the ball. He leans a little further, forward, on his leg, and pantomimes that he is rolling the ball on the ground.
Bocce? I guess. This used to be a bocce court?
His eyes brighten with recognition. Yes! Bocce! Yes, that is what it was.
I look over the empty lot, the scrubby grass, the burnt piles of discarded objects. I would never have guessed what it used to be.
We talk awhile about the project, in English. He’s curious about my education, where I studied, where I teach. He understands because he used to be an academic. 30 years, I taught in France. The University of Paris. He hands me a business card which reads, AFRICAN AMERICAN ART DESIGN. DIPLOMA: UNIVERSITY OF PARIS. SENEGAL_PARIS_CHICAGO. PRINCE G.
Your name is Prince? I ask. You come from Senegal?
Yes, Senegal to Paris to Chicago. I have lived here 13 years. And I’ve been doing this—he gestures toward the empty lot—for 13 years. I did not have a green card, when I came. So this, for me, was the best option. But I have a green card now, he clarifies. In French, he adds, the time has passed. He pauses, seems to search for words to voice his thoughts, and says, in English, time has passed, yes, time has passed. I am no longer a young man.
I nod. A lot of educated people have to work in other fields when they come here, to the U.S., I commiserate. I get the feeling that he wishes I could see him as he was, the way that he presented, in the distant past.
I look at him and try to picture him in Paris. Try to picture him inside an old, stone building. In an old, wood-paneled room. A chalk board. A long desk. Lecturing to a group of students as he’s speaking to me, now, beside the empty lot.
3:20
A man walks along the sidewalk by the gallery fence. He pauses for a moment at a painting. He turns to Prince, and makes eye contact. Prince excuses himself, just a minute, and goes off to speak with his potential customer.
This gives me a chance to look over the art. It starts about as I’d expect, with multiple photos of the Chicago skyline. The ubiquitous photos of Michael Jordan in mid-motion. Jumping, dunking. Various illustrations of Bob Marley. But there are some intriguing artifacts. A royal scene from an African court with the tagline, SUMMONED BY THE ANCESTORS. A photo of Malcolm X. A photo of Billie Holiday. A wide range of erotic drawings, nude black women and black men. Perhaps most strikingly: a close-up image of a black man’s face—cropped at the shoulders—with an American flag twisted like a noose, and tied around his neck. This image also has a tagline, which reads, simply, BLACK MAN IN AMERICA.
3:30
The man walks off with his painting, and Prince walks toward me with a couple bills in hand.
Has it been a good day for sales? I ask.
He nods. Some days, I make no sales. Some days, some weeks, very good. I send money to family in Senegal.
The money goes a long way for your family, in Senegal? I ask.
He chuckles. In Chicago, I live like a poor man. I wake up, I go to work, go home, wake up again. So little life. But when I go to Senegal, I am another man. I drink. I smile. I laugh. I dance. I talk to strangers. I do everything in Senegal I do not dare to do here. He looks over his shoulder, like he’s anxious about being watched. He gestures toward his van. Come here, I’ll show you something.
He reaches in his van, opens the dashboard. Pulls out a manilla envelope that’s peeling, bursting at the seams. He opens it, and lays his Senegal passport, his green card, and a stack of other forms across his lap.
I keep these papers with me, all times, he explains. I have no quarrel with police. The police, they are mostly good here. Many are customers, he smiles ironically, with one side of his mouth, so the police, they do not bother me. But I am still afraid. The last few months, I do not take chances. It is too easy, for someone to harm you, as a foreigner.
It is a frightening time. Terrible. A terrible time. I search for something to say, and fail. What can I say?