If every picture tells a story, then the collection of impressionist portraits lining the front of the Peachtree-Pine homeless shelter could fill a raucous novel.
Let’s start with toxic love, via Randy Hollis, who drifted from Birmingham to Atlanta. His saga: “My girl’s sleeping with other guys. If I stayed there, someone would get hurt.”
So, with public safety in mind, Hollis, 49, is now a resident of Atlanta’s streets, licking his wounds and using the shelter as a way station to figure out what’s next.
Recently, he sat down for 30 minutes in an airy studio in the front of Peachtree-Pine to let a retired art teacher immortalize his countenance. Roberta Stutzman is an efficient painter who uses long, quick strokes and a few primary colors to capture an array of expressive faces.
Stutzman herself is a self-imposed castoff. She left her job in DeKalb County schools after it was clear that many, if not most, of her pupils could not perform the work or, worse, did not care to do it. Her gig (unpaid) at the shelter has supplied her with faces chiseled by life’s sharpest instruments — anguish, deprivation, self-destructiveness and the hope of redemption. (Far more satisfying than painting coiffed and burnished corporate titans.)
In return, Stutzman’s paintings have caught on with a population used to being ignored, phantoms that exist in plain view on Atlanta’s streets. More than 40 portraits will be on display at the gallery Thursday evening from 6 to 8 p.m. The show is called “The Invisible Made Visible.”
Hollis, a large guy who lumbers like each step hurts, said sitting as a portrait model was a challenge: “When you’re homeless and sit down, you fall asleep. The body just shuts down.”
He kept his eyes open long enough for Stutzman to capture his glint of mischievousness.
“Looks just like my driver’s license,” he exclaimed, examining the finished product. Asked what he sees in those eyes. “I see pain. I see understanding. I see knowledge, power, grace and caring.”
Anita Beaty, a white-haired grandmother with the tenacity of a cage-fighter, walked into the portrait session and nodded approvingly, if not a bit jealously, as she looked through the paintings.
She, too, is an artist and would like to take the time to improve her craft. But she runs this 95,000-square-foot brick warehouse that takes in 500 men, women and children each night. Her time is eaten up by 500 individual dramas — in addition to fighting off attempts by the city, the business community and neighbors to put her out of business.
Sitting for a portrait is an experience few people undertake any more, especially those who are poor, crazy, unlucky or forgotten.
The paintings, Beaty said, “show the dignity, the uniqueness of each person. Each person has his own story, except the people here have more oppression in their lives.”
Steven Smith, 42, a shelter resident since last October, now runs the locker room, taking in residents’ baggage for safe-keeping.
“One guy walked in with five pieces of luggage,” he said with an incredulous look. “Why would you have five pieces of luggage on the street? You meet all kinds of people here.”
Smith is from Pittsburgh, Penn. He worked in the heating and air-conditioning business but, he said, “the rules changed and I need a new certificate.” At least, that’s his story. There’s undoubtedly more to it, but instead he and I talked about what it’s like to see yourself in water colors.
“It feels sentimental,” he said in a very soft, hard-to-hear voice. “You can show the world that they acknowledge you. It shows somebody cares. People walk by and they’ll say to me ‘Isn’t that your picture in the window?’”
For a moment, he is not invisible. For a moment it’s a case of I Was Painted, Therefore I Am.
Joe Jackson comes in to sit for a portrait. (I know, I spoke with a Jim Jones, a Steve Smith and a Joe Jackson. Perhaps these are their real names. Or maybe they are their Noms de Street.)
Jackson, a wisp of a man in his late 50s, said he’s there because of “bad investments in relationships,” which is a first in my decades of talking with the downtrodden.
“Can you make me look like Tupac?” he asks the artist, preferring to keep his shades on. Stutzman said a couple of models have unnerved her a bit by their demeanor. But overall, they are a quirky and appreciative bunch.
Jackson, a jack-of-all trades, said he has a bookkeeping degree (a plus) but also a felony on his record (a big minus, one that is often hard to overcome when trying to get a fresh start.)
He came to the shelter a few months ago to get back on his feet. His job now is to walk the perimeter of the property and prevent folks from hanging around and making a nuisance of themselves panhandling and accosting passersby. The facility has had the reputation of drawing the flotsam and jetsam of Atlanta. Beaty says the shelter tries to police the property but the city does little to chase off trouble-makers who hang around nearby.
“I didn’t respect the rules and regulations but now I enforce them,” Jackson said. “The most important part of this job is respect.”
Seeing his portrait, Jackson smiles. “It’s intriguing. You look in the mirror and you see yourself one way. But you see the painting and see a bird’s-eye view. It’s the inner you. I shows you what you can be.”
About the Author
