27 December, 2019.
I exhale, visible breath swirls around me, trailing off and around my back as I crunch across frozen grass, then trod the broken sidewalk toward the Plaza. A few other souls stroll the streets – a homeless man nods at me as I wait for a walk signal, his cardboard sign all but ignored by the cars pulling up to the stop light. I’ve not a cent on me or I’d toss something in his can as I pass; I hope he understands: money is no longer paper or coin, it’s a plastic card and invisible. I make a mental note to carry a buck or two in my pocket from now on, for just such times as this.
Crossing into the realm of the Country Club Plaza, the architecture makes an abrupt shift from the canyon of ten-story 1920’s era apartments that have walled my path for the past few minutes. Spanish-influenced, the buildings house the retail and restaurants of the affluent. They, in their Mercedes and Jaguars and Lexuses – Lexi? – they, pass by in heated comfort as I stand in the cold, intentionally stopping, sketchbook in the crook of my arm, to admire the tiles and arches and spires. The street slopes in odd ways and curves in even more odd ways, as if the planners had absolutely no intention of conforming to something so blasé as a grid.
Uni-Ball Vision and Pitt Big Brush pens in Stillman and Birn Beta sketchbook.