Park Slope Brownstones

Behind the Painting

I walked through a mostly empty Prospect Park in the late afternoon. Dodged cars and bikes on Prospect Park West and turned down a tree-lined street, sun lost behind the branches. I'd looked at an apartment on this block, but it was far too small. Still, I remembered the way the brownstones looked in the early evening. I knew I had to return to paint it.

People ran their end-of-day errands. A woman took a package from the front step of a brownstone. "You’re not going to steal the printer are you?" I told her I already had my own. "Don’t let anyone know I hid that." She walked away up the street.

A father pushed a babbling baby in a stroller, singing along with him. "Ay, ay, yay, yay!”

A woman stuck her head out from the window above me. "Which one are you painting?" None in particular, I told her, I just liked the way the houses cascaded down the street.

"I thought you were painting this one," she said, motioning to the brownstone on the very edge of my painting. "It's the Obama house."

A conversation drifted up the street. "Did you have a good summer?"
"No. I can honestly say no because we didn’t get out much."

A lone saxophone played scales. I couldn't tell if it was coming from up the street or through an open window. I thought I heard a trumpet following the same melody. Or was that a trombone? Then later, a string bass, and the unmistakable ping of a ride cymbal. There was a whole band. Their music filtered like light through the trees.

I walked back toward the park, which by now was filling up with people. A guy leaned out the window of his car. "Did you paint that for somebody? You know, Obama lived over here."