Broad Street Blues

Nearly one year ago on a fall evening I was walking to my car after the galleries let out on First Friday. On that night in September I passed by a window on Broad Street and upon stopping to look inside fell in love with what I found there. As the months went by I would walk or drive by the place occasionally to feed my growing obsession. Half dressed mannequins ranging in sex and age stared out plaintively into the street beyond the glass storefront windows, unblinking and immortalized by their owner's neglect. Their skin was cracking and peeling and fading from constant exposure to the sun yet they stood for a year like a still army of lepers until one day when suddenly they disappeared. I am not necessarily a mannequin person, I would not like one inside my house and refrain from using them in my artwork, unless absolutely necessary, but something about these mannequins spoke to me. First it was visually jarring because here, across from the Clay Street Market, stood a dozen or so half naked white mannequins in an abandoned clothing store in the middle of a completely black community. I wondered what the people who lived there thought when they passed by it. Perhaps most people walked by every day without ever noticing and I'm just being visually sensitive. I wanted to explore and somehow gain access into this historic relic but every attempt was in vain. The bottom windows were boarded closed and the fire escape stairs were folded upward toward the sky. I gave up on the mystery inside and focused my energy on buildings that were penetrable, but I never forgot. Usually if I can't access somewhere that shows promise or if I break into a place once that is amazing but never see it again it becomes like a holy grail in my mind. I always dream about these places and in my dreams I am inside and once I'm inside some strife may occur like police or the owners coming home but in the end I am satisfied. I'm sure it's a coping mechanism to deal with the frustration I feel for being kept out. I believe there shouldn't be anywhere that I can't go, and become ornery when I've been denied access somewhere. So naturally I was saddened and intrigued the day I drove by Harper's and the mannequins were gone. I had not yet even photographed them from the outside because I assumed they would be there forever and I chastised myself for being a lazy artist and missing my opportunity. Then, a few days ago, the most fortunate series of events led me to an older white haired gentleman from Powhattan who happened to be the auctioneer for what remained inside the department store. I gained access and met his crew who couldn't understand what I wanted with all the junk inside. I came away from the experience with photographs, objects and the history according to the auctioneer. Harper's was opened in the 1910's when the businesses that flanked Broad Street were thriving and so was the surrounding community. He and his crew were inside sorting through the mess for a week and during the first few days they recovered everything left from the 10's, 20's and 30's. The place was stacked with vintage clothing, shoes, wooden baby cribs and home decor. He let me in because he said it was the last day they would be there and told me that some eccentric man who lives out in country bought all the mannequins along with some other crazy stuff and plans to create a permanent installation on his property. One little androgynous and armless mannequin was separated from his family and I couldn't stand to see him get pitched into the dumpster. He's underneath the stars tonight, sitting out in my backyard, guarding a vintage leather saddle and a possum skull.