The Old Man waddles out of the monumental 72nd Street subway station, easel in hand, and into the chilled light of the winter day. The cold air confines him like pigeons around crumbs of bread, and his pure blue eyes, so close to the ocean’s shade, begin to water and tear behind his black tortoise shell spectacles. Without these lenses he would be as disoriented as a small child lost in an amusement park. He tightens his son’s enduring, grey scarf, the scarf he has been wearing no matter the weather since his son left. He begins to walk on the snowy path, his footprints trailing behind him, exhaling the raw air, the white wisps of breath shadowing his tracks. He stops, setting down his easel, and turns around to admire the aesthetic architecture of the station.

He believes that every person on the Upper West Side should stop once in their day to take in the sharply angled train station roof with its soft green frame, intertwined with its old bold faced clock, and clear windows that the sun cascades through while reflecting triangular shadows across the street. The light gives hope to all who pass by, twinkling with laughter and dancing out a story. This city is full of stories and the Old Man is also a dedicated storyteller, through color and pigment. The adjacent newsstand, bustling with people, gives off the scent of fresh ink, while the rumble of the train echoes with contempt beneath his feet. His mouth waters each time he smells the scent of cooking pretzels, full of salt, on the Sabrett’s hot dog cart in the distance. The Old Man has been coming to the 72nd Street subway station for twenty-five years, yet its beauty never grows old. He closes his eyes, entering a spinning darkness: the images, people, scents all twirling, morphing in his soul like pieces of glass in a kaleidoscope. He opens his eyes, the picture before him crisp like a newly sharpened pencil, and begins to paint.

The frail Old Man’s brush can recall times when he was younger and more confident. When his back was not curved like the letter “c” and his legs were not as skinny as a mouse’s tail. When his stomach was not bloated, full, like an open umbrella or a camel's hump. When his head was overflowing with hair, unlike the head he carried now: a semicircle of white hair at the back of the head and a stubby strand that shimmered and turned gold when the sun caught it. The man considers that the only feature that has retained its form are his eyes, which do not have a look of optimism, but rather a look of tenacious perseverance. He paints in colors of wisdom and tenacity as well: solid mustard yellows and burnt umbers. On 72nd Street, he paints life as he sees it, in all its vibrancy and honesty.

Here, the solitary Old Man’s paint dances upon the canvas effortlessly, for he has been expressing his emotions on paper, painting this same scene for the last quarter century, ever since his neighbors in Red Hook, Brooklyn had given him the title “The Scrawny Picasso.” These were the neighbors with whom he had spent much of his life, in a four story walk-up apartment building on the Hudson River. He and his neighbors all settled there around the same time in the early 1960s, long before the hipsters arrived, when the blocks were lined by warehouses and trees. This was where he and his family had set down roots, long before his wife passed away and his son moved on. It was a place where the trees swayed to the breeze, and the breeze whistled and sang to the children; a place where the pavement was lined with pebbles, and children used those pebbles and their imaginations to build intricate miniature houses and to play games.  

In those days, the biggest problem was where to be happiest. Sundays in spring were picnic days by the river, winter afternoons were spent reading by the fireplace with his wife and son, summer nights were enjoyed catching the breeze on the rooftop, and autumn afternoons meant walks across the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan, and subway rides to the 72nd Street station to stand in awe of the grand architecture of the station’s facade. The man and his family always savored those walks and trips, with the man and his wife conversing in their native German, walking hand in hand, while their young son skipped and jumped a few paces ahead. The man taught his son old German adages, some passed down from his own father. His most cherished maxim was “always do your best.” He had heard this over and over in his own head all his life, until one day he realized he was living this motto. Of all the things he had done his best at and of all the things he was proud of, the one that filled him with most joy was the birth of his son, the son with confident, ocean blue eyes. That was the day that he first discovered what it meant to truly need and love another person, and it was this realization that now left him empty and hollow since he had come to know loneliness. Although his wife’s passing had happened suddenly, his son’s leaving had not. It was, rather, a collection of moments that congealed over time; days of absences that turned into months and then years. At first there were letters, phone calls, and then, about twenty-five years ago, nothing more. It was as if the son had erased himself, blotting and smudging a canvas in order to paint over a new scene.

Today, at the 72nd Street subway station, the scene the Old Man paints is the same as always. There is comfort in painting this scene. As the people from the incoming train exit, he hums to himself and paints briskly, for his mind can only retain so much so quickly. All the diversity of the city swirls onto his canvas while The Old Man stands motionless, his soul capturing the picture. Men, women, and children glide past him like speed skaters, enclosing him in his thoughts. His eyes scan the area until his brush stops to outline a woman, radiating courage. She holds her head high, her curly hair bouncing with pride. When she smiles at the bustling city her nose crinkles slightly, and The Old Man paints this too. His brush wanders to trace the figures of other passers by: parents, vendors, dogs, and messengers on their bike routes. His eyes narrow in on a young man carrying his sleeping child, walking slowly so as not to wake him amidst all the bustle of the day, and the Old Man feels a stab of memory. The Old Man loses track of time and sees the shadows fall behind the station building. He packs up his paints, boards the train, and takes it downtown toward City Hall. At City Hall he disembarks and begins to make his way home, on foot, across the Brooklyn Bridge.

As dusk falls over the city, the bridge is lit up in all its glory. He passes people coming home from work: a couple holding hands, a boy carrying packages, college students laughing, and a runner running. The Old Man continues on the bridge’s path seeing, in the far distance, middle-aged man wearing a grey scarf almost exactly like his own. The grey scarf draws him closer to the younger man, a figure with a warm face of grey, brown stubble. The Old Man’s heart begins pumping like a stampede of wildebeests as the younger man’s eyes flash a confident shade of the ocean, piercing and connecting them. As time halts to stillness there is a flicker of recognition. Around the two men, the city’s eight million people are in perpetual motion, undulating, racing, dancing amidst the whirling sirens, sounds, and smells of an impersonal city; twirling and twirling in a vortex, pulling the men closer and closer still.