JOHN
BLANK’S BAGS
(Bob Rose)
Some
people use up all the space around them. They fill the sidewalk when they
walk down the street and pass through the world in ways you will never
forget. They leave an invisible tattoo on your skin. You may
not see it but it is there. That is how I think of John Blank, and why I
smile when I remember the way he introduced himself to me.
“Hi,
my name is John Blank and I am an original.”
John
was a big man. With his barrel chest, broad shoulders and heavy legs he
seemed to be as wide as a small truck. He always wore ragged shirts with
their sleeves ripped away from the shoulders. It drew your eyes toward
his thick and heavily muscled arms. At first glance, he looked like an
errant weight- lifter, but when John started talking this impression quickly
changed. John had a flamboyant and deep love for conversation that
matched his golden colored hair. He was genuinely interested in other people
and had lots to say to them. Only one thing slowed him down and that was
his missing teeth. It affected how he talked. He had to work harder to
get the words out, and the harder he worked, the wetter his words became.
When John got passionate about something or told a story you would see his
friends discreetly ducking and weaving in a foolish effort to stay dry.
John’s
big presence got even bigger when you saw what he carried with him. He had lots
and lots of things stuffed into enormous bags made out of upholstery scraps,
canvas and leather. John created his bags with a meticulous care
bordering on devotion. He used a mixture of cords and yarns to put
them together; twisting, winding and overlapping them until he had made seams
as thick as his big fingers.
John’s
bags were packed so he could lug them everywhere. He usually wore two of them,
one over each shoulder. Each time he put them on he had to make careful
adjustments in their position, so they were balanced enough to allow walking
under their weight. His daily travelling load averaged around 80 lbs.
When he used more than 2 bags everyone who knew him began to worry.
No
one ever got the full picture of what John stored in his bags. I saw what
he stored at the top of them because that was where John kept his sewing
supplies and whatever else he was using to make new or larger bags. One
time I was allowed to look deeper into the bags and saw the collection of jars
containing mysterious liquids, bean sprouts and grains. John showed me
the honey water he carried. He used this to feed the bees. Below
this were his shakers and rattles made out of beans, pop bottle caps, sticks
and wire. John got out these home-made instruments whenever music was in
the air. He loved to play them while he danced.
But
there was always more in John’s bags, especially the assorted cuttings from
magazines and newspapers: clippings of sentences, torn pictures and strange
hand written notes. John cut and pasted this stuff together into
collage posters and hefty books. The material he used explored his lived
experiences with: sex, poverty, hunger, love, isolation and change. As
each work evolved, John inserted many scrawled comments, arrows and
pointers. This was his personal way of mortising his selection of images
and statements together and it went on until some sort of finished state was
reached. The overall affect was disorienting. I often thought of his creations
as psychic maps, the stuff of dreams and nightmares and the things we leave
unspoken
At
the last creative stage John covered each piece with clear binding tape;
wrapping it around and around it until he was satisfied that he had reached an
optimum state of adhesion, rigidity and weight. In one notorious effort
John’s taping and collage work transformed an ordinary cook book into an
extraordinary and very heavy sculpture of sexual recipes. It was about a
foot deep and very heavy. I thought it was primordial.
Most
people found this work amazing even if they didn’t fully comprehend the content
or intent. I loved those moody diary records of John’s life, and the way
he sewed and taping his way towards peace of mind. It seemed to channel the two
spirits of the man: the soft, delicacy of the sewing giving way to the
brute strength of carried bags.
If
our world begins to fall apart it may test what we normally do to keep it
together. This is what happened to John. As time passed, as he got
older, his eccentricity became more challenging to maintain. His bags got
bigger and heavier. Rest was harder to find. As with all aging
people he was slowing down. His enormous physical strength was fading
even though his spirit remained youthful. This is when John had to face
the prospect of losing his home. His rental building was being sold and he
needed to find somewhere else to live
The
spectacle of a man carrying lots of strange baggage always stirs an image of
homelessness even though most people living on the street only have the clothes
on their back. John didn’t live on the street. His determination to
carry the things he valued had nothing to do with homelessness. He did
this because he had to, because this was who he was. From the moment John
picked up his bags he was a giant. He filled doorways because he could
not get through them easily. Walking upstairs looked very dangerous. Getting on
street cars could be unforgettable if it took place during rush hour. His bags
would make some people stepback, other people come closer. It was all part of
his charm
John
was used to attracting and enjoying public attention but now there was
something altered and deadly serious taking place in his relationship with the
world. Landlords were not interested in renting a place to
him. John worried how poorly his housing search was
going. His efforts to negotiate landlord interviews were failing.
He knew that he could not survive on the street, so he asked me to help him.
We
talked over coffee. I knew that John’s bags were influencing his housing
prospects. There was no way any landlord would understand what role these bags
had in his life. And even though John trusted me he would never agree to
leave his bags with me when he went apartment shopping. Where he went his bags
had to go. What should be done? John asked me to make a
suggestion. So, I did.
“John,
I know that this may seem crazy but here is the best thing I can come up
with. I think these hand- made bags are preventing you from getting
housing. They are telling a story that makes landlords suspicious of
you. We have to think of another story, more familiar to them and
less likely to end up with doors slammed in your face. Have you ever considered
getting some luggage to carry your things in while you are looking for a place
to live? You would simply be a traveler. You can still take your
things with you but be less controversial in your appearance. After
you secure a place, you can ditch the luggage and use your bags
again. There is a bit of deceit in this plan but I think it will
work…….if you are willing to give it a try?”
For
the next hour we discussed the merits and the draw backs of this off the wall
idea. Money might have been an issue but John had $3000.00 saved in the
bank. Shopping could be difficult but I had arranged the time needed to
go downtown with John to ease this along. We both agreed the luggage
should be quality merchandise because anything chosen to replace his bags had
to be first class.
At
the end of our conversation we had a strategy and a start date, a list of
stores and future arrangements for a pre-shopping action huddle. The luggage experiment was now
in motion so I began investigating potential apartments for viewing.
Three
days later we were in a large store looking at suitcases, discussing their
size, color, quality of construction, durability and the number of matching
pieces required for this strange enterprise. No one knows what the
salesman could have been thinking as he delivered his sales pitch to this very odd
couple checking everything on display. Many questions were asked. Some were answered and some were diverted. Then,
at last. John was satisfied. He purchased two large green suitcases.
On
our way out of the store I felt an uneasy sensation growing in my heart.
Outside the sky had darkened. Rain was beginning to fall. I was
going west and John was going east but we stood together on the corner waiting
for our individual streetcars to come along. We waited awkwardly, wanting
to end what now felt like a strange partnership neither one of us had really
wanted, but in the end had put together.
My
street car came first. I ran across the street to catch my ride and chose a
seat at the back of the car so I could look out the window and see John. As I
settled into place the rain began to fall with more force. John stood
there unmoving, like a statue, his two huge bags draped across each shoulder
and the two new green suitcases planted at his feet.
The
rain fell harder. I felt stress in my eyes and an uneasy feeling
growing. This was so unfair. What the hell had I been
thinking? I stared at those beautiful hand- made bags beside the dismal
and ordinary suitcases that would replace them. What was I doing?
By the time the streetcar pulled away I was convinced I had unwittingly hurt
someone I cared deeply about. There was no way to take it back.
There was no way any of this could take John to a place called home.
In
the days that followed my worry on the street car got darker. John did
not come to visit. The arrangements made for an apartment viewing fell
through. Every passing day increased my regret for how all of this was
turning out. But there was nothing that I could do about any of it. I
believed that I might never see John again. What was done was done. Ten
days passed.
On
the eleventh day, to my everlasting surprise, something wonderful took place as
the drop-in prepared to close for the day. John returned.
I
was there to see his entrance and it was spectacular as always. He came
to the door and looked in. Then he turned sideways, slowly stepping
through the doorway, lifting his bags over the threshold. I stood there
beaming with a mix of pleasure, relief and uncertainty. I was glad to see
John again but just as anxious to know what he had been doing while he had been
away. Had he found a place? Yes, he had. John smiled at me.
Then I began to bluster……..
”But
John, how did you manage that? Did you use the luggage?”
John
was silent. He looked at me and spoke slowly in a hushed tone.
“You
were right to tell me to change my approach to home hunting. It was…. Yes,
it was…. a lot of work. I needed to take time to prepare. So, after
I left you, I had to do more. I made some changes. I went to work to get some
new supplies……… and then I made these new bags”
As
he said this, I looked again at the bags John was carrying. They were the
largest ones I had ever seen. They were very finely done. The
sewing on them outstripped anything John had ever made before.
“But
John …. I stammered again…..Why didn’t you use the suitcases that you
purchased?”
John
looked at me thoughtfully.
“But….
I did use them. They worked really well.”
Now I was really confused.
“I
don’t understand John, you say you used the luggage but here you are with a
whole new set of bags. I don’t get it.”
There
are moments when the stars in heaven knocked out of alignment suddenly correct
themselves. This was just such a moment. John stepped towards me
and leaned forward. He opened one of the bags to show what was inside.
It
was a green suitcase, inside another new and wonderful handmade bag.