Seeking the impossible––a free art studio two blocks from U.C. Berkeley campus––and it actually happened~! (plus got a '39 Dodge pickup for $35!). Some of the miracles of 1969...

Stories excerpted from my memoir, TWELVE DEAD FROGS AND OTHER STORIES, available in US, Asia, Europe: <https://www.kulturkaufhaus.de/en/search-results>)

RADIO STORE (1969)

I had met a young woman near my art school, and with the tremendous amount of time on my hands that came from having no job, temporarily separated from family, no expectations, I was leisurely heading over toward her general neighborhood near Piedmont Avenue in Oakland to see if she was home. It was still cold in the early mornings so I wore my long black thrift-store wool coat that reached beneath the knees. Looking back on it, I suppose that style of dress, combined with my beard and mustache, gave me a certain dark, ominous appearance. Anyway, I still wasn’t functioning as a goal-oriented person and had ample time to stroll into stores, smell the roses, just ease along toward my new girlfriend’s house. It didn’t really matter if she was home or not. What mattered was the walk over there and back as far as I was concerned. I was trying to just enjoy everything as it came.

I first checked out the pet store, looking at the specialized types of foreign fish floating in the tanks, strange deep-water inhabitants that glowed iridescent blues and pinks. I watched as the parakeets squawked, canaries chirped away, wondering what they were saying in bird language and if two different breeds of birds could be understood by each other. Near the front door I reached down and petted a few adorable puppies trapped in the front window display. They licked my hand frantically, starved for affection of any kind. Then I walked outside, around the tiled door jam, and right into the next store in line. It was a type of “Radio Shack” that sold TVs, stereos, home entertainment units. I browsed around, learning whatever I could learn, checking out the new models and prices, watching identical images on several TVs lined up in a row, then slowly departed. It was nice to warm up a bit in the stores before continuing on my walk.

About half a block up a side street toward my friend’s house I got the strange feeling that I was being followed. Looking over my shoulder I spotted a guy approaching me on a straight line from the other side of the street. He was wearing what looked like a bowling shirt, had short hair, and a face that definitely caught my attention. His cheeks were strangely scrunched up, like he was sucking on one very large marble, and his eyes formed narrow slits as if they were modeling for Polar snow glasses or something. I slowed down as he approached. Soon he was close enough to say his piece.

“I saw you in the radio store and I think you’ve stolen something,” he said, bracing himself, his body language indicating that he was ready to either run after me if I fled, or pounce on me if I made any false moves.

“So I’m going to have to frisk you,” he stated bluntly .

I could feel the blood rush to my face, the adrenaline pumping furiously to meet the requirements of inevitable battle. The “flight or fight” syndrome was operating exactly the way nature intended it. I suddenly had an enemy in this guy. In a matter of seconds, I had gone from enjoying a nice peaceful walk to being completely overcome by anger toward this total stranger. The shock of that realization hit my brain, my senses. What was happening to me? What had happened to the positiveness of the day? I was being negatively controlled by some person I never saw before in my life. No way, I thought. Not today!

As suddenly as I had felt the negative emotions flush my skin, I now experienced a complete physical and emotional reversal. I could actually feel my face relax, arms loosen, mind clear with new purpose. I somehow neutralized the force that was about to dominate me. I looked the guy in the eyes, and somehow understood that I could stop it. I said, thoughtfully, and with kindness, “I know it’s as hard on you as it is on me, so go ahead,” opening my coat for inspection.

Immediately he shifted out of his fight mode, deflated before my eyes. In seconds he was apologizing, backing away, saying, “That won’t be necessary," and “Sorry to have disturbed you.” Before I could catch my breath he turned, walked back toward Piedmont Avenue and disappeared around the corner.

ENERGY FROM THE GROUND (1969)

As registration day approached at CCAC, I began to wonder about where I would live, and where I would do my sculptures. I was still crashing with Charlie Simonds and his girlfriend in Berkeley, still being nourished by Joe’s 25-cent sandwiches when I ventured to Oakland, but I knew that I needed to shift gears and prepare myself for school if I was going to finish my degree. In my deluded state, I somehow believed that I could get a free Berkeley studio if I just spent some time asking around in a favorite neighborhood. Since I always felt particularly good when I walked down Delaware Street, between Shattuck Avenue and Milvia, Berkeley, I headed over there.

Turning off Shattuck onto Delaware, I got the wonderful high-energy lift that I’d somehow come to expect. In all my travels that summer, only that place (that one partiular block) gave off a discernible change in energy levels. It seems impossible now, that I could actually detect such a subtle difference, but maybe without the rat-race of modern life anyone could experience this kind of thing.

On that particular day, the sun was shining and the wonderful fragrances of various trees, shrubs and flowers enticed me along. As I walked down the block I looked past driveways to spot any carriage houses, garages or sheds, that might make a good sculpture studio. I refused to acknowledge the illogicalness of it all – this was one of the most expensive rental districts in Berkeley, being just two blocks from the University of California campus. When I knocked on doors and inquired about the possibilities, people were generally very nice. The neighborhood seemed made up of older people who had lived in Berkeley their entire lives.

After inquiring at about a 3/4 of the block’s-worth of houses, I noticed a great, old two-story carriage house, located behind a two-story Victorian, almost at Milvia St.. As I approached the front door, I spotted a huge rose bush (tree!), partially blocking the stairs. At any rate, I rang the bell, and an elderly woman appeared. When I asked about the rear carriage house, she instantly declined: “Oh no...we use that!” And, as if that wasn't enough reason, she added that the barn was old, had been there a long time, “when horses ran wild in Berkeley.” She also felt the need to explain that she was 82-years-old. I expressed my disappointment, mumbling something like, That’s too bad I can’t use it. I’m a student at The California College of Arts and Crafts and I really need a place to do my sculptures. Hearing this she suddenly lit up, announcing she had gone to CCAC (my art college) fifty years ago, and to, “Please come in.”

Before I left, she offered me use of the second floor of the carriage house, a 20’ by 20’ workspace, in return for my labor mowing her lawn and doing a few other gardening chores (I ended up pruning that ancient rose bush so severely that I thought it would never grow back. But it did, and beautifully).

So, with that nice possibility (too good to be true?), I walked on, across Milvia and further down the block, continuing my search for a free studio in case that odd luck-out fell through. A couple blocks further, on Francisco Street, an older man I approached while he was gardening seemed eager to chat. After making my inquiry he explaining that he couldn’t rent the back cottage because, “I live there!” (said with a laugh). He had moved himself into the small carriage house and was renting out the front, two-story Victorian where he’d been born, because, he explained, he couldn’t afford the property taxes.

After he and I conversed for maybe 45 minutes (remember, I was much better at living in the present then, and didn’t get impatient), he said for me to wait right there, at the door, and that he’d be right back with something I might like. He returned with several old square-head nails he had saved, dropping them into my hand because, as he put it, “You seem to appreciate old things.” He explained that he had salvaged them from the original buildings directly across the street, which had since been torn down to make way for “those ugly apartments,” sterile looking monstrosities that now housed UC Berkeley students at astronomical rents.

We talked a bit longer and then he paused in thought, finally asking if I’d be interested in looking at an old truck he was selling. He unlocked the old dusty doors of a separate little garage, located at the curb, revealing his 1939 Dodge 1/2-ton pickup,** its vintage finish of midnight blue with black fenders glowing in the reflected light. He told me (illogically) that he’d have to sell it for $35 because he’d just spent $90 on new brakes. And he added that the newly rebuilt $300 engine just didn’t work – was horribly loud when running.

**Yes, it was the same ‘39 Dodge pickup which I sold in 1979 for $1200, to help pay for my EMERALD CITIES shoot in Death Valley, CA. And it was the vehicle from whence the title of my how-to filmmaking book was generated; "Feature Filmmaking at Used-Car Prices,” since the sale of my used-“car”/truck had paid, in part, for a production.

He invited me to start it up, so I stepped up on the running board and carefully swung myself into the driver’s side of the antique cab. I couldn’t help noticing that the dash board and instrumentation was in mint condition, with a new oil pressure gage added to the lower left side. And interestingly, the windshield was the kind that you could crank up, so that air entered from the bottom. I was suddenly in old car heaven!

At his urging, I turned the ignition key to “on” position and, as instructed, compressed the starter motor button on the floorboard with my right foot, after making sure it was out of gear. As soon as it started, I killed it. It did sound terrible, making loud metal-to-metal sounds while it ran. But I had a suspicion based on all my hot rod experience as a teenager, that maybe just a rod had slipped off a piston (which later proved to be the case), and that everything else was OK.

I told him I’d think about it, and arranged to see him in a couple of days. I was living so frugally that I actually hesitated to buy the truck, wondering if I could afford to spend that much on a vehicle. But my doubts vanished the next day, when a friend offered to buy it for $150, sight unseen. (How could I go wrong?). At any rate, in that three-hour period the gods had gifted me with not only a free art studio, but also a great Dodge truck.

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