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| Sir Shadow, Maestro of the Last of the Bowery Flophouses | Sir Shadow, Maestro of the Last of the Bowery Flophouses |
| (about 20 hours later) | |
| There’s a ghostly old flophouse on the Bowery. Rowdy brunch crowds stumble past its stained-glass windows and locked double doors. It’s lonesome but not empty. | There’s a ghostly old flophouse on the Bowery. Rowdy brunch crowds stumble past its stained-glass windows and locked double doors. It’s lonesome but not empty. |
| Radiators hiss in its cracked tile floor lobby. Dusty, unused keys hang behind a reception desk. Dark halls are lined with hundreds of boarding rooms empty except for worn mattresses. A few of these cubicles are occupied, stuffed with clothes and belongings. Steam rises from a shower stall. Light flickers behind doors. And a lullaby can be heard through the building when a 70-year-old poet and artist who calls himself Sir Shadow draws at night. | Radiators hiss in its cracked tile floor lobby. Dusty, unused keys hang behind a reception desk. Dark halls are lined with hundreds of boarding rooms empty except for worn mattresses. A few of these cubicles are occupied, stuffed with clothes and belongings. Steam rises from a shower stall. Light flickers behind doors. And a lullaby can be heard through the building when a 70-year-old poet and artist who calls himself Sir Shadow draws at night. |
| Sir Shadow is one of six men who are the final residents of the Whitehouse Hotel. The crumbling four-story building is one of the last of the cheap single-room-occupancy hotels that lined the Bowery a century ago alongside brothels and saloons and defined the area as a symbol of urban despair. While rooms across the street at the Bowery Hotel cost around $400 a night, the men pay no more than $8.50 for their cramped cubicles, though they pretty much have the run of the place. | Sir Shadow is one of six men who are the final residents of the Whitehouse Hotel. The crumbling four-story building is one of the last of the cheap single-room-occupancy hotels that lined the Bowery a century ago alongside brothels and saloons and defined the area as a symbol of urban despair. While rooms across the street at the Bowery Hotel cost around $400 a night, the men pay no more than $8.50 for their cramped cubicles, though they pretty much have the run of the place. |
| As Sir Shadow hums for inspiration, his slender hand strikes a sketchpad with a silver marker and swirls deliriously, never leaving the page, as though he were signing a signature. The elegant silhouette, formed with one continuous line, depicts a saxophone player. He blurs through more: a jazz ensemble featuring trumpet and upright bass; a drummer in the flurry of a solo. His musicians are faceless abstractions. | As Sir Shadow hums for inspiration, his slender hand strikes a sketchpad with a silver marker and swirls deliriously, never leaving the page, as though he were signing a signature. The elegant silhouette, formed with one continuous line, depicts a saxophone player. He blurs through more: a jazz ensemble featuring trumpet and upright bass; a drummer in the flurry of a solo. His musicians are faceless abstractions. |
| “I’m a doctor and this is the medication for my patients,” he said one afternoon. “My medicine is positivity. Every line is based on what’s in my heart.” | “I’m a doctor and this is the medication for my patients,” he said one afternoon. “My medicine is positivity. Every line is based on what’s in my heart.” |
| Sir Shadow arrived at the Whitehouse Hotel around 1995, and he has become a kind of Bowery folk hero since then. At 6-foot-4, he sleeps diagonally to fit into his windowless cubicle. Rarely without his fedora, he gets around on a red electric scooter and draws his blues and jazz musicians across the neighborhood. He calls his one-line style Flowetry, which can be found in the calendars he sells. Quincy Jones, Lauryn Hill, and Diana Ross are said to be fans. | Sir Shadow arrived at the Whitehouse Hotel around 1995, and he has become a kind of Bowery folk hero since then. At 6-foot-4, he sleeps diagonally to fit into his windowless cubicle. Rarely without his fedora, he gets around on a red electric scooter and draws his blues and jazz musicians across the neighborhood. He calls his one-line style Flowetry, which can be found in the calendars he sells. Quincy Jones, Lauryn Hill, and Diana Ross are said to be fans. |
| But his masterpiece might be the Whitehouse Hotel itself. Nearly every hallway and boarding room contains a Sir Shadow mural. Even the keys behind the reception desk are marked with his musical silhouettes. | But his masterpiece might be the Whitehouse Hotel itself. Nearly every hallway and boarding room contains a Sir Shadow mural. Even the keys behind the reception desk are marked with his musical silhouettes. |
| “This building is my canvas,” he said. “These drawings are my warriors. They bring me my peace.” | “This building is my canvas,” he said. “These drawings are my warriors. They bring me my peace.” |
| But serenity is a privilege in New York. Sir Shadow’s sanctuary seems destined to meet the fate of every other flophouse. | But serenity is a privilege in New York. Sir Shadow’s sanctuary seems destined to meet the fate of every other flophouse. |
| Lodging houses like the Whitehouse Hotel, which sits at 340 Bowery and opened in 1916, were all over New York’s Skid Row. Dozens of these establishments date back nearly to the Civil War. The Alabama Hotel, the Grand Windsor Hotel, the Providence Hotel — their cell-like stalls had chicken wire rather than ceilings, and they cost pennies per night. They became the primitive dwellings of desperate men who gradually saw no benefits to ever checking out. | Lodging houses like the Whitehouse Hotel, which sits at 340 Bowery and opened in 1916, were all over New York’s Skid Row. Dozens of these establishments date back nearly to the Civil War. The Alabama Hotel, the Grand Windsor Hotel, the Providence Hotel — their cell-like stalls had chicken wire rather than ceilings, and they cost pennies per night. They became the primitive dwellings of desperate men who gradually saw no benefits to ever checking out. |
| In the 1990s, change came to the Bowery, and most of the old flops were developed into restaurants and hotels. But the men clinging on in the remaining hotels were protected by housing laws that gave them the rights of permanent residents. Eviction became a complicated procedure, and real-estate developers have had to contend with these holdouts ever since. | In the 1990s, change came to the Bowery, and most of the old flops were developed into restaurants and hotels. But the men clinging on in the remaining hotels were protected by housing laws that gave them the rights of permanent residents. Eviction became a complicated procedure, and real-estate developers have had to contend with these holdouts ever since. |
| Sir Shadow and his fellow holdouts are in their 60s and 70s: Wayne, Roland, Rob, Bobby, and Charles (there’s also Louis, but he’s in the hospital and I’m told he’s not coming back). They pass by one another with grumbled greetings and take showers in a fluorescent-lit basement bathroom. Chess is played in the lobby. Two men have a bitter grudge and have hardly spoken in years. | Sir Shadow and his fellow holdouts are in their 60s and 70s: Wayne, Roland, Rob, Bobby, and Charles (there’s also Louis, but he’s in the hospital and I’m told he’s not coming back). They pass by one another with grumbled greetings and take showers in a fluorescent-lit basement bathroom. Chess is played in the lobby. Two men have a bitter grudge and have hardly spoken in years. |
| I met Rob in a dark hallway. Heavyset and missing teeth, he said he had good reasons to withhold his full name. “Shadow is a great artist,” he said. “I’m an artist, too. I’m a shoe shiner. This is an old hotel. I think of myself as a survivor here.” | I met Rob in a dark hallway. Heavyset and missing teeth, he said he had good reasons to withhold his full name. “Shadow is a great artist,” he said. “I’m an artist, too. I’m a shoe shiner. This is an old hotel. I think of myself as a survivor here.” |
| Roland spends hours in a chair overlooking a sparse backyard. In the lobby, a handwritten note reads, “Wayne, your sister called.” One afternoon, Sir Shadow’s philosophical musings were interrupted when a yell rose from another cubicle: “Hey, I’m trying to sleep over here!” | Roland spends hours in a chair overlooking a sparse backyard. In the lobby, a handwritten note reads, “Wayne, your sister called.” One afternoon, Sir Shadow’s philosophical musings were interrupted when a yell rose from another cubicle: “Hey, I’m trying to sleep over here!” |
| “We all live in our own little worlds here,” Sir Shadow said. “I might not even see someone else for days. They’ve tried to get us to take deals. We’ve all wondered: take the money or not? Leave or stay? Now we’re the last men standing.” | “We all live in our own little worlds here,” Sir Shadow said. “I might not even see someone else for days. They’ve tried to get us to take deals. We’ve all wondered: take the money or not? Leave or stay? Now we’re the last men standing.” |
| But Sir Shadow’s artistic life is now entwined with the building. “I might have this little room in the Whitehouse Hotel,” he said, “but this room keeps me free. I can’t be at some job. That would ruin my flow. A man with a million dollars doesn’t have what I have. | But Sir Shadow’s artistic life is now entwined with the building. “I might have this little room in the Whitehouse Hotel,” he said, “but this room keeps me free. I can’t be at some job. That would ruin my flow. A man with a million dollars doesn’t have what I have. |
| “All that matters to me is the next poem,” he added. “The next drawing. And I have to be ready to receive it. All the other stuff? That’s someone else’s problem.” | “All that matters to me is the next poem,” he added. “The next drawing. And I have to be ready to receive it. All the other stuff? That’s someone else’s problem.” |
| One afternoon last summer, Sir Shadow composed his one-line drawings for tourists at his regular spot in Washington Square Park. He hummed his lullaby as he drew in his sketchpad. | One afternoon last summer, Sir Shadow composed his one-line drawings for tourists at his regular spot in Washington Square Park. He hummed his lullaby as he drew in his sketchpad. |
| A tourist complimented his work. | A tourist complimented his work. |
| “Those who try to be great are cursed,” Sir Shadow said. “They have to worry about failure and perfection. No true artist says, ‘I’m great.’” | “Those who try to be great are cursed,” Sir Shadow said. “They have to worry about failure and perfection. No true artist says, ‘I’m great.’” |
| A young woman said she liked his abstract style. | A young woman said she liked his abstract style. |
| “You must narrow down to your inner peace,” he offered. “Find that time you were in the trees and floating in the breeze.” | “You must narrow down to your inner peace,” he offered. “Find that time you were in the trees and floating in the breeze.” |
| In fact, the artist deflected nearly every comment about his work into philosophical musings. Especially questions about his life. | In fact, the artist deflected nearly every comment about his work into philosophical musings. Especially questions about his life. |
| Did he grow up in New York? “I’m from the universe.” | Did he grow up in New York? “I’m from the universe.” |
| How long has he been an artist? “I started today.” | How long has he been an artist? “I started today.” |
| Why does he draw jazz musicians? “I never said they were musicians.” | Why does he draw jazz musicians? “I never said they were musicians.” |
| Then there’s Sir Shadow’s least favorite question: What is your real name? | Then there’s Sir Shadow’s least favorite question: What is your real name? |
| Sir Shadow can lose his temper when pressed about his past. His mood darkened when I told him I found clues about his life in old newspaper articles, a student documentary he’d forgotten about, and within a self-published book of his early poetry at a library in Harlem. I knew who he was before he became Sir Shadow. | Sir Shadow can lose his temper when pressed about his past. His mood darkened when I told him I found clues about his life in old newspaper articles, a student documentary he’d forgotten about, and within a self-published book of his early poetry at a library in Harlem. I knew who he was before he became Sir Shadow. |
| The artist was born Thomas Allen Paxton in 1949, and he grew up in Jamaica, Queens. He was raised in a sprawling housing project, and he was an artistic child who wrote poetry about life in his neighborhood. He dropped out of Jamaica High School. He declined to discuss his family. | The artist was born Thomas Allen Paxton in 1949, and he grew up in Jamaica, Queens. He was raised in a sprawling housing project, and he was an artistic child who wrote poetry about life in his neighborhood. He dropped out of Jamaica High School. He declined to discuss his family. |
| In the 1970s, he told me, he heard about the countercultural movement in San Francisco, and he boarded a cross-country bus. | In the 1970s, he told me, he heard about the countercultural movement in San Francisco, and he boarded a cross-country bus. |
| He instantly embraced the city’s vibrant creative energy and resolved to stay there. He started sleeping on the beach, hanging out with artists, and devoting himself to his poetry. His idyll ended when he heard that his brother died in Queens. “He died for some stupid reason on the street,” he said. “I tried to show him the way but he wanted to be tough and do drugs. Prison changed him. That was hard for me.” | He instantly embraced the city’s vibrant creative energy and resolved to stay there. He started sleeping on the beach, hanging out with artists, and devoting himself to his poetry. His idyll ended when he heard that his brother died in Queens. “He died for some stupid reason on the street,” he said. “I tried to show him the way but he wanted to be tough and do drugs. Prison changed him. That was hard for me.” |
| The tragedy triggered a spiritual awakening. “I got the calling after that,” he said. “I realized my mission is to spread positivity through my art. I couldn’t help my brother, but maybe I can help others with my energy.” | The tragedy triggered a spiritual awakening. “I got the calling after that,” he said. “I realized my mission is to spread positivity through my art. I couldn’t help my brother, but maybe I can help others with my energy.” |
| He also retired his birth name, a topic he avoided for weeks until we visited a facility in Harlem where he archives his work, and I noticed a label attached to his unit: “Thomas Paxton.” He was brief when I asked about it. “That’s for legal things,” he said. He visibly winced when a receptionist at the storage space addressed him as “Mr. Paxton.” Reluctantly, he offered: “People always ask me about the name my mother gave me. I say, ‘She gave me a name. Then I picked another name.’ Everything that’s real in life has a shadow. And I’m dealing with the shadow of us all.” | He also retired his birth name, a topic he avoided for weeks until we visited a facility in Harlem where he archives his work, and I noticed a label attached to his unit: “Thomas Paxton.” He was brief when I asked about it. “That’s for legal things,” he said. He visibly winced when a receptionist at the storage space addressed him as “Mr. Paxton.” Reluctantly, he offered: “People always ask me about the name my mother gave me. I say, ‘She gave me a name. Then I picked another name.’ Everything that’s real in life has a shadow. And I’m dealing with the shadow of us all.” |
| He soon returned to New York and he was homeless through the 1980s. He said he lived in subway tunnels and wrote his poetry on underground walls. At the height of the crack epidemic, he served a short sentence in prison for larceny. He insists he was wrongly accused and calls this period his “kidnapping.” Idling in his cell, he kept writing. | He soon returned to New York and he was homeless through the 1980s. He said he lived in subway tunnels and wrote his poetry on underground walls. At the height of the crack epidemic, he served a short sentence in prison for larceny. He insists he was wrongly accused and calls this period his “kidnapping.” Idling in his cell, he kept writing. |
| “One day I read my poetry out loud,” he said. “Then everyone wanted to hear more.” He recounted how his writings inspired inmates, and they started trading cigarette packs for his poems. Guards privately asked him to critique their own artwork. “I was touching people, and they were touching me,” he said. “They had to kick me out of that prison. I had more work to do.” | “One day I read my poetry out loud,” he said. “Then everyone wanted to hear more.” He recounted how his writings inspired inmates, and they started trading cigarette packs for his poems. Guards privately asked him to critique their own artwork. “I was touching people, and they were touching me,” he said. “They had to kick me out of that prison. I had more work to do.” |
| After his release, he shed his past, and sobriety became a theme of his poetry. Some years later, while studying for the GED, he suddenly felt compelled to draw in the margins of his coursework: long, flowing lines. “The gift discovered me,” he said. “The line happens and I start to feed it. People say I draw fast but each line has taken me my whole life.” | After his release, he shed his past, and sobriety became a theme of his poetry. Some years later, while studying for the GED, he suddenly felt compelled to draw in the margins of his coursework: long, flowing lines. “The gift discovered me,” he said. “The line happens and I start to feed it. People say I draw fast but each line has taken me my whole life.” |
| His metamorphosis complete, Sir Shadow started falling into the city’s black arts scene in the 1990s. His art hung in the homes of Isaac Hayes, Oprah Winfrey and Whitney Houston, according to The New York Amsterdam News, and it was displayed at soul food institutions like Sylvia’s and Londel’s in Harlem. The choreographer Rod Rodgers let him sketch dancers at his company in the East Village, and he designed the art for Gil Scott-Heron’s album “Spirits,” in 1994. “He was my brother,” Sir Shadow said. “We used to talk philosophical.” | His metamorphosis complete, Sir Shadow started falling into the city’s black arts scene in the 1990s. His art hung in the homes of Isaac Hayes, Oprah Winfrey and Whitney Houston, according to The New York Amsterdam News, and it was displayed at soul food institutions like Sylvia’s and Londel’s in Harlem. The choreographer Rod Rodgers let him sketch dancers at his company in the East Village, and he designed the art for Gil Scott-Heron’s album “Spirits,” in 1994. “He was my brother,” Sir Shadow said. “We used to talk philosophical.” |
| André De Shields, who played the Wiz in the 1975 Broadway musical “The Wiz,” described a decades-long spiritual kinship with the artist. “Shadow’s true power is that he doesn’t explain what he does,” he said. “I once told him, ‘People are impressed with you because you’ve done something they’ve failed to do their entire lives. You are free.’” | André De Shields, who played the Wiz in the 1975 Broadway musical “The Wiz,” described a decades-long spiritual kinship with the artist. “Shadow’s true power is that he doesn’t explain what he does,” he said. “I once told him, ‘People are impressed with you because you’ve done something they’ve failed to do their entire lives. You are free.’” |
| But if Sir Shadow’s artistic devotion is all-consuming, it can also be abrasive. Displeased once with a question I asked, he warned: “I created you. I can write you off my stage at any time.” Of a lover, he said: “She wanted me to stay. I said: ‘My work is all that matters. I don’t need anybody.’ I took my shoes and shirt and left.” I later asked if he ever got lonely. “It’s not lonely,” he said. “It’s overwhelming. I have to let the world know this energy exists.” | But if Sir Shadow’s artistic devotion is all-consuming, it can also be abrasive. Displeased once with a question I asked, he warned: “I created you. I can write you off my stage at any time.” Of a lover, he said: “She wanted me to stay. I said: ‘My work is all that matters. I don’t need anybody.’ I took my shoes and shirt and left.” I later asked if he ever got lonely. “It’s not lonely,” he said. “It’s overwhelming. I have to let the world know this energy exists.” |
| Sir Shadow hasn’t had a job in decades, although he can leave from a session in Washington Square Park with a tidy sum of $20 bills. But he also relies on patronage. One afternoon this fall he took a bus uptown and parked his scooter outside an office building on 42nd street. He approached the security desk with a portfolio of his work. “Tell them it’s Shadow,” he said. The artist was there to visit his friend and patron, Anita Durst. | Sir Shadow hasn’t had a job in decades, although he can leave from a session in Washington Square Park with a tidy sum of $20 bills. But he also relies on patronage. One afternoon this fall he took a bus uptown and parked his scooter outside an office building on 42nd street. He approached the security desk with a portfolio of his work. “Tell them it’s Shadow,” he said. The artist was there to visit his friend and patron, Anita Durst. |
| Another surreal accent of Sir Shadow’s life is his connection to the Durst family, one of the oldest and most powerful real estate dynasties in New York, owning properties like One World Trade Center. Ms. Durst is the founder of Chashama, a nonprofit arts organization, and Sir Shadow became her first artist in 1995. She honored him with a gala at 4 Times Square (a Durst-owned property) last year. “She’s very good to me,” he said. “She lets me use her penthouse whenever I need it. If I need to eat or sleep or use the computer or if I need to meditate. She once sent a butler, a masseuse, and a cook to my hospital when I had a bad leg.” | Another surreal accent of Sir Shadow’s life is his connection to the Durst family, one of the oldest and most powerful real estate dynasties in New York, owning properties like One World Trade Center. Ms. Durst is the founder of Chashama, a nonprofit arts organization, and Sir Shadow became her first artist in 1995. She honored him with a gala at 4 Times Square (a Durst-owned property) last year. “She’s very good to me,” he said. “She lets me use her penthouse whenever I need it. If I need to eat or sleep or use the computer or if I need to meditate. She once sent a butler, a masseuse, and a cook to my hospital when I had a bad leg.” |
| In a room on the 32nd Floor, a sea gull flew past the window. He fetched a plate of food in the office kitchen, where a poem of his (“The Inner You”) was taped to a wall, and he spread his drawings across the table. Ms. Durst arrived and they greeted each other with smiles. | In a room on the 32nd Floor, a sea gull flew past the window. He fetched a plate of food in the office kitchen, where a poem of his (“The Inner You”) was taped to a wall, and he spread his drawings across the table. Ms. Durst arrived and they greeted each other with smiles. |
| “His work connects to me on an emotional level,” she said, considering his latest drawings. “It sings to me. His love for life is what comes through in his poems.” She expressed concern that his hundreds of thousands of drawings and poems, heaps of which are stored haphazardly around the Whitehouse Hotel, need to be archived. “We’ve tried some things but they haven’t worked for him,” she said. | “His work connects to me on an emotional level,” she said, considering his latest drawings. “It sings to me. His love for life is what comes through in his poems.” She expressed concern that his hundreds of thousands of drawings and poems, heaps of which are stored haphazardly around the Whitehouse Hotel, need to be archived. “We’ve tried some things but they haven’t worked for him,” she said. |
| “I’m leaving it all to her,” said Sir Shadow. “My job was to bring it into the world, and now I’ve done that. Like the birds and the bees, she’s part of my life.” Sir Shadow gave her a copy of the 2019 Flowetry calendar before she returned to work. An assistant slid his kale salad into a takeout box, and he lumbered through the quiet corporate office. | “I’m leaving it all to her,” said Sir Shadow. “My job was to bring it into the world, and now I’ve done that. Like the birds and the bees, she’s part of my life.” Sir Shadow gave her a copy of the 2019 Flowetry calendar before she returned to work. An assistant slid his kale salad into a takeout box, and he lumbered through the quiet corporate office. |
| By the time Sir Shadow arrived at the Whitehouse Hotel in the mid-90s, the flophouses were grim decaying dwellings filled with stories of men with hollow stares who never left their beds. Housing reformers won a landmark decision that led to many of them being closed, and developers set their sights on the neighborhood. But as the Bowery changed, the Whitehouse Hotel endured, and in 2000, it became a hostel. Thirty holdout tenants remained, and while some despised the young backpackers, Sir Shadow welcomed a new audience for his art. The lobby became his gallery, and he composed hundreds of drawings in rooms across the building. | By the time Sir Shadow arrived at the Whitehouse Hotel in the mid-90s, the flophouses were grim decaying dwellings filled with stories of men with hollow stares who never left their beds. Housing reformers won a landmark decision that led to many of them being closed, and developers set their sights on the neighborhood. But as the Bowery changed, the Whitehouse Hotel endured, and in 2000, it became a hostel. Thirty holdout tenants remained, and while some despised the young backpackers, Sir Shadow welcomed a new audience for his art. The lobby became his gallery, and he composed hundreds of drawings in rooms across the building. |
| The hostel closed in 2014, and the Whitehouse finally became a phantom building stuck in time. A slow-moving drama regarding its future has been occurring for a decade. In 2007, a hotelier named Sam Chang bought the property for $7.8 million, but shortly after that, 340 Bowery was unexpectedly included in the NoHo Historic District, hampering development. In 2014, the property was sold to the Renatus Group, but development has been hindered by Sir Shadow and his compatriots. A few residents have died, and buyouts have lured away others. The men who remain in the flophouse have refused these deals. The Whitehouse Hotel’s future appears to now hinge on a grim but simple waiting game. | |
| Curiously, a few custodians maintain the building, some having worked there since it was an operational flophouse. “They say everyone has their price,” one of the custodians, Will Gens, said during a night shift. “But I don’t know about these guys. I don’t think some of them would take half a million dollars. It comes down to fear. Fear to leave the womb. They are comfortable here. And the outside world is an unknown.” | Curiously, a few custodians maintain the building, some having worked there since it was an operational flophouse. “They say everyone has their price,” one of the custodians, Will Gens, said during a night shift. “But I don’t know about these guys. I don’t think some of them would take half a million dollars. It comes down to fear. Fear to leave the womb. They are comfortable here. And the outside world is an unknown.” |
| Mr. Gens considered Louis, the holdout in the hospital. “He was offered a good deal just recently,” he said. “But he told me: ‘Not yet. I’ll take it in a few years.’ He got sick a few weeks later.” | Mr. Gens considered Louis, the holdout in the hospital. “He was offered a good deal just recently,” he said. “But he told me: ‘Not yet. I’ll take it in a few years.’ He got sick a few weeks later.” |
| Worrying about the future is a primitive concept Sir Shadow doesn’t indulge in. But he will readily admit he’s concerned about the legacy of his art. He mentioned his hope that the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture might one day recognize his work. But his diabetes is getting worse, and he receives dialysis several mornings a week. He laments how brunch crowds in the Bowery are more interested in mimosas than supporting a local artist. | Worrying about the future is a primitive concept Sir Shadow doesn’t indulge in. But he will readily admit he’s concerned about the legacy of his art. He mentioned his hope that the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture might one day recognize his work. But his diabetes is getting worse, and he receives dialysis several mornings a week. He laments how brunch crowds in the Bowery are more interested in mimosas than supporting a local artist. |
| “Sometimes I think maybe the mission is over,” he said. “But I think I’ve helped the world become a better place. I did what the universe asked me to do.” | “Sometimes I think maybe the mission is over,” he said. “But I think I’ve helped the world become a better place. I did what the universe asked me to do.” |
| We were playing chess in the lobby of the Whitehouse Hotel one night when a family entered the building. Somebody must have let them in: a well-dressed man with slicked white hair and his wife and two college-age children. They had eaten dinner nearby and the man wanted to explore the property. His wife cheerily explained that they owned some buildings upstate and claimed that her husband had become obsessed with the Whitehouse Hotel. Apparently it wasn’t his first visit. | We were playing chess in the lobby of the Whitehouse Hotel one night when a family entered the building. Somebody must have let them in: a well-dressed man with slicked white hair and his wife and two college-age children. They had eaten dinner nearby and the man wanted to explore the property. His wife cheerily explained that they owned some buildings upstate and claimed that her husband had become obsessed with the Whitehouse Hotel. Apparently it wasn’t his first visit. |
| The man eagerly studied the crumbling lobby in his leather loafers as he thumbed out some $20 bills for Sir Shadow. Soon, he would tour the dark halls upstairs. But Sir Shadow wasn’t interested in the reasons for his visit. He reached for his sketchpad. | The man eagerly studied the crumbling lobby in his leather loafers as he thumbed out some $20 bills for Sir Shadow. Soon, he would tour the dark halls upstairs. But Sir Shadow wasn’t interested in the reasons for his visit. He reached for his sketchpad. |
| “So tell me,” he asked. “What’s your favorite instrument?” | “So tell me,” he asked. “What’s your favorite instrument?” |