Peripheral Art has many facets and definitions but one of the most transitional forms and interesting subsets is Commuter Art. This is not Poetry in Motion or graffiti on train cars but art that is created on trains, planes, buses, ferries and metros. The purest form is created by the artist as a way to creatively pass the time without the intention to display it anywhere or to anyone. This means that the viewer usually only gets glimpses of the process but none-the-less has the privilege of proximity.The following interview is with such a creator, Richard Blumenfeld. He draws during his daily train and subway commutes between Northern NJ and Manhattan. Once a woman reported him to the NYPD because she thought it invasive and sinister for someone to draw someone else without permission. Two policemen immediately took him aside asked to see his sketch book. After thumbing through it, they handed it back and said "You're pretty good!" Another time a man on the NY subway handed him a draft of a poem written about him drawing on the subway.
I observed Richard for a long time, perhaps it was years, as I having been on his route for ten years. He quietly draws his fellow commuters, usually without their knowledge. Once or twice I felt like I was in his drawing zone so I tried not to move too much. Our acquaintances were made outside the commuting world. The following is an interview conducted via email (my questions were written during my commute).
Drew:
So, did I get the two incidents (police and poet) right or did I exaggerate or miss something?
Richard:
Richard:
Yes, you got them right. I had no idea sketching could be so risky. Two out-of-breath uniformed officers caught up with me after jogging up the stairs from the PATH train to the street. One tapped me on the shoulder--he looked to be about fourteen years old, the other, mature enough to shave--and asked if they could talk to me. They maneuvered me out of the crowd to a quieter spot, looked me over, and said, "We understand you were drawing a picture of a woman on the train." This was post-9/11 downtown Manhattan, soldiers in camouflage with rifles at the ready. The gears spun while I desperately tried to conjure up the least sinister answer possible, one that would keep me from causing an elevation of the national threat clock from amber to red. I confessed: "Yes, I was." I'm not sure whether I hung my head in shame. There was a bit of a hesitation while these two unfortunate peace officers calculated their next move. "Can we see the picture?" I handed them my sketch book, turned to the most recent drawing, and showed it to them. They looked it over, inspected a few of the other pictures, finished with a rather generous evaluation of my inky scrawls and went on their way, probably wondering how to incorporate this particular investigation into the training of future police recruits. I felt rather righteous--in that moment I was transformed from no-talent sketcher to member of the subversive, underground artistic community. I had suffered for my art, been questioned by The Man. I resolved to grow a beard and drink my coffee inky black. Then I realized I already have a beard and drink my coffee inky black.
My interaction with the poet was somewhat less stressful. A complete stranger holding onto the strap in front of my subway seat wordlessly hands me a piece of paper, penetrating my invisible cone of protection. I'm wondering, is this a prelude, a distraction prior to a mugging? Is he a beggar, a lunatic, a long-forgotten colleague? Does he not understand the commuters' social contract that demands zero interaction between riders other than pushing and shoving while racing for seats? I took the risk of glancing down at the proffered sheet, a seemingly ordinary piece of laser-printed bond but showing the phrase "It's about you!" scrawled across the bottom in blue ballpoint. It was, indeed, a poem about an artist on the train who uses his briefcase as his easel. Definitely me. I wasn't sure how to react, so I went the quid pro quo route. I tugged my current drawing out of my perforated-paper sketchbook, signed it, and handed it to him. He looked it over and slipped it into his own notebook. When the train stopped, he went his way, and I went mine, both silent, our respective cones re-energized.
Drew:
My interaction with the poet was somewhat less stressful. A complete stranger holding onto the strap in front of my subway seat wordlessly hands me a piece of paper, penetrating my invisible cone of protection. I'm wondering, is this a prelude, a distraction prior to a mugging? Is he a beggar, a lunatic, a long-forgotten colleague? Does he not understand the commuters' social contract that demands zero interaction between riders other than pushing and shoving while racing for seats? I took the risk of glancing down at the proffered sheet, a seemingly ordinary piece of laser-printed bond but showing the phrase "It's about you!" scrawled across the bottom in blue ballpoint. It was, indeed, a poem about an artist on the train who uses his briefcase as his easel. Definitely me. I wasn't sure how to react, so I went the quid pro quo route. I tugged my current drawing out of my perforated-paper sketchbook, signed it, and handed it to him. He looked it over and slipped it into his own notebook. When the train stopped, he went his way, and I went mine, both silent, our respective cones re-energized.
Drew:
Do you recall if you ever drew me? I think I positioned myself a few times to be an ideal candidate.
Richard:
I don't think I ever drew Drew, but it's possible. I draw whoever comes into my line of vision without too much regard for who it is. Since the pose is usually pretty short--my subway ride is about ten minutes--I don't retain much of a memory of the subjects from day to day.
Drew:
Richard:
I don't think I ever drew Drew, but it's possible. I draw whoever comes into my line of vision without too much regard for who it is. Since the pose is usually pretty short--my subway ride is about ten minutes--I don't retain much of a memory of the subjects from day to day.
Drew:
I still actually have not seen your work up close. I remember it being scratchy pen work. Are most of your drawings of the commuters or do you also draw from memory or fantasy?
Richard:
Mostly I draw the commuters, but sometimes I draw en plein air. (Now that you've elevated me from scribbler to artist I feel there should be some French involved.) I've tried a few times to draw from memory, but I haven't been very successful.
Drew:
Drawing seems to be almost part of a curriculum for you. I have not seen you draw much since we were introduced to each other but I recall you also reading/studying Hebrew and I think I saw you reading up on knot tying. How does drawing fit in to your commuting electives? Is it for expression - something you feel you have to/want to do or is it much more of a practical approach, such as learning to juggle?
Richard:
It's a bit of a mixture. There are all kinds of ways to spend time on the commute: some people read the paper, some read books, some sleep, some yammer on their phones. Drawing started off as a pastime, but I've come to enjoy my own work, enough so that I want to make more of it. I really enjoy the challenge of image-making, the creation of a likeness with marks on paper under the time pressure of a ten-minute subway ride, or the occasional longer pose on the suburban train. Since I have no gallery to fill with saleable work, no art director to satisfy, drawing is, for me, quite self-indulgent. If I don't draw, I usually do something else self-indulgent: I daydream, I study foreign languages for which I have no use, I braid friendship bracelets, hence the knot-tying reference material. If I had a bit more room on the train, I'd definitely work on the juggling.
Drew:
Are most people clueless to your gaze? How do they react when they find out, other than by telling the cops?
Richard:
Fortunately the episode with the cops was a one-time thing. I don't call attention to what I'm doing, so the subject of the drawing doesn't usually know what I'm doing. Once in a while someone reacts in a negative way--a glare, a harrumph, an oral threat (well, that only happened once, a few years back)--and I switch subjects. The folks sitting next to me sometimes watch me draw, shifting their gaze back and forth from my pad to the subject. I've gotten a few compliments from these watchers, but I get the occasional critic, too. "So, what is that, like, a caricature?" Not exactly what a likeness-maker wants to hear, but when you draw in public, you have to have a thick skin.
Drew:
Richard:
Mostly I draw the commuters, but sometimes I draw en plein air. (Now that you've elevated me from scribbler to artist I feel there should be some French involved.) I've tried a few times to draw from memory, but I haven't been very successful.
Drew:
Drawing seems to be almost part of a curriculum for you. I have not seen you draw much since we were introduced to each other but I recall you also reading/studying Hebrew and I think I saw you reading up on knot tying. How does drawing fit in to your commuting electives? Is it for expression - something you feel you have to/want to do or is it much more of a practical approach, such as learning to juggle?
Richard:
It's a bit of a mixture. There are all kinds of ways to spend time on the commute: some people read the paper, some read books, some sleep, some yammer on their phones. Drawing started off as a pastime, but I've come to enjoy my own work, enough so that I want to make more of it. I really enjoy the challenge of image-making, the creation of a likeness with marks on paper under the time pressure of a ten-minute subway ride, or the occasional longer pose on the suburban train. Since I have no gallery to fill with saleable work, no art director to satisfy, drawing is, for me, quite self-indulgent. If I don't draw, I usually do something else self-indulgent: I daydream, I study foreign languages for which I have no use, I braid friendship bracelets, hence the knot-tying reference material. If I had a bit more room on the train, I'd definitely work on the juggling.
Drew:
Are most people clueless to your gaze? How do they react when they find out, other than by telling the cops?
Richard:
Fortunately the episode with the cops was a one-time thing. I don't call attention to what I'm doing, so the subject of the drawing doesn't usually know what I'm doing. Once in a while someone reacts in a negative way--a glare, a harrumph, an oral threat (well, that only happened once, a few years back)--and I switch subjects. The folks sitting next to me sometimes watch me draw, shifting their gaze back and forth from my pad to the subject. I've gotten a few compliments from these watchers, but I get the occasional critic, too. "So, what is that, like, a caricature?" Not exactly what a likeness-maker wants to hear, but when you draw in public, you have to have a thick skin.
Drew:
Do you draw much outside the train? How is it different in another environment and another sense of time?
Richard:
The train is pretty much my atelier. (A little more French, on account of I'm an artiste, now. Oops, did it again.) Sometimes I draw buildings, lunch carts, chess players in the park--they stay pretty still, so they're a good subject for me--and the odd piece of statuary. I remember drawing a ruined sculpture several times in Battery Park, where the piece had been transported after being partially destroyed on 9/11.
Drew:
I am going to post this interview with one of your drawings...tell us a bit about it.
Richard:
This page of three faces is pretty typical for me. I started to draw one fellow, a strap hanger got in the way so I switched to a second guy, ran out of room on the page, then switched again, all in about ten minutes. I used a "Gelly Roll" pen, which produces a very dense line but tends to smudge, on a Canson sketch pad, about six inches by nine.
Drew:
Thank you for your time. I really love to see art created so purely and by someone who has made time for it from an otherwise busy and responsible life for family and career.
Richard:
I'm flattered you think of my work as art. I'm thinking of buying a beret.
Richard:
The train is pretty much my atelier. (A little more French, on account of I'm an artiste, now. Oops, did it again.) Sometimes I draw buildings, lunch carts, chess players in the park--they stay pretty still, so they're a good subject for me--and the odd piece of statuary. I remember drawing a ruined sculpture several times in Battery Park, where the piece had been transported after being partially destroyed on 9/11.
Drew:
I am going to post this interview with one of your drawings...tell us a bit about it.
Richard:
This page of three faces is pretty typical for me. I started to draw one fellow, a strap hanger got in the way so I switched to a second guy, ran out of room on the page, then switched again, all in about ten minutes. I used a "Gelly Roll" pen, which produces a very dense line but tends to smudge, on a Canson sketch pad, about six inches by nine.
Drew:
Thank you for your time. I really love to see art created so purely and by someone who has made time for it from an otherwise busy and responsible life for family and career.
Richard:
I'm flattered you think of my work as art. I'm thinking of buying a beret.