Trash Can Easel

This past September, Kenny and I spent a day in Savannah. We stopped for lunch at Tubby’s Tank House, one of many restaurants and shops that line one side of River Street. On the other side of the cobblestone road is red-bricked courtyard and an open market, and just beyond this is the Savannah River. It’s a charming area. Ships crawl past, occasionally blasting their horns, lush plants dangle from flowerboxes in shop windows, and fireworks after dark are a common occurrence.

The homeless have discovered that River Street is a great place to panhandle, as it’s frequented by tourists year-round. Many of them sell roses fashioned from palm leaves. (Last year during our jaunt to Savannah we befriended a lanky man named Eddie—a true romantic who crafted us a palm leaf flower but insisted that Kenny and I declare our undying love for one another before he handed it over.) Others sing or play instruments, hoping for spare change and a bit of conversation.

From the second-floor deck of Tubby’s, we ate fish tenders and watched one man in particular as he huddled over a green trash can—the kind with a wide lip around the top. At first, we thought he was searching for something to eat, but then we realized he was hard at work on a project. We also noticed about a dozen paintings lined up nearby. The man was wearing a button-down shirt, khaki shorts, and hiking boots. On his head was a straw hat. He had dreds, a salt-and-pepper beard, and an intense look on his face. As soon as we paid our bill, we crossed the street and asked him what he was working on. He responded eagerly, though I noticed he didn’t make eye contact. “I’m reproducing a picture from a book,” he answered. On the trash can was an open book and a piece of wood with a partially completed representation. “I use crayons, colored pencils—things that’ll melt and cure in the in the sun,” he explained.

For several more minutes he continued talking passionately about his art yet still refused to look us in the face, so I asked him his name. Bingo. He locked eyes. “Cabin,” he said. “You know, like log cabin. I create pictures with whatever I find…blocks of wood, pieces of paneling—look at this one!” He plucked from the line-up a wooden dish, about a foot across, with a vibrant black and orange scene. He had painted both sides of the dish, as he’d done with several other pieces. There were portraits, whimsical shapes, and backwoods scenes. I fell in love with a musical panorama that included a sax player, pianist, and curvaceous lounge singer with a feathery hairpiece, painted on a piece of old plywood plucked from a dumpster.

Cabin explained that his love for art had developed out of a love for writing. “I wrote for years—wrote on everything I could get my hands on. I couldn’t not write…but then I stopped writing and started to paint images. It’s all about images…. Art is writing too, you know, but you use images instead of words.” Then Cabin started to tell us about his travels to various parts of the world. He also mentioned that he was working on his PhD. His speech was manic and rather hard to follow, but not unpleasant to listen to. How had he ended up here? I wondered. Was he homeless or transient—or neither? Were his stories true or imagined?

After years of doing what we do, Kenny and can often spot a homeless individual from blocks away—even one who is neatly dressed—but for some reason Cabin was a mystery. There was no figuring out what his story really was. He simply served as a reminder of this unshakable truth: Every human being has an unquenchable need to create. This need doesn’t vanish when a man loses his home and his money, suffers from a mental illness, gives in to addiction, or lives on the fringes of society.

On the wall of the Manna House office is a stunning cross made of twisted driftwood that we bought from “Papa Smurf,” a former resident of Nashville’s Tent City. (Smurf gave Kenny a smaller version for his 47th birthday.) Two other residents, Howard and Ted, were prolific songwriters. Several were poets. One of my favorite pieces of jewelry is an ankle bracelet given to me by a homeless girl who likes to work with beads and leather. Through our experiences, we’ve learned that one of the best gifts we can give a person is to acknowledge and appreciate his or her capacity to make the world a lovelier place. To allow a person to share their gifts is to honor then. That day in Savannah, Cabin wanted to share his art and we wanted to take home something beautiful to remind us of one of our favorite cities. Wonder what God will have us bring home next.