Matters of Doubt Read Online Free PDF

know. A lot of truth gets told with a spray can. Some good art, too.”
    â€œWhen did you go from spray cans to paint brushes?”
    â€œWhen I was fifteen. I checked out this book in the main library about the murals in Philly. There was a picture of one of Ras Malik’s murals in it, a bunch of children’s hands overlapping, all different skin tones, the fingers kind of chubby so you knew they were kids. Covered the whole side of a two story building. I almost lost my breath when I saw it.”
    â€œSo, you put the spray can down and picked up a brush?”
    â€œSomething like that.” He chuckled and looked wistful. “I had to teach myself how to paint, first.”
    I looked at the mural again, then back at him. “I’d say you made the right call.”
    He allowed himself a smile. “Well, the folks at the Mystic Circle liked it. They bought the paint supplies and threw in a year’s worth of free acupuncture treatments.”
    We continued to talk about the street art scene in Portland as we headed over to Picasso’s new digs, which were in the Sunderland neighborhood, a sparsely populated outpost at the extreme northeast corner of the city. We pulled up in front of what looked like a campground of sorts, although a lot funkier. I said, “What’s this?”
    â€œDignity Village. It’s where I live now.”
    I thought of the ball cap I’d seen him wearing. “Oh, right. I’ve heard about this place.” Actually, I wasn’t very well informed. All I knew was that a small village had sprung up over night when a band of homeless people migrated en mass from the center of Portland. They’d been raising hell for several years and the offer of a vacant lot near the river represented some sort of compromise with the city fathers. It looked to me like the city got the better end of the deal. The village was squeezed between a correctional facility and a large warehouse complex. To the north across a vast, empty field, you could see planes taking off and landing at Portland International. Out of sight, out of mind.
    Picasso had me sign in at a little blue shack at the entrance to the village. It was staffed by a thin, nervous woman with a cigarette cough and an enormous man with long silver hair and a black walrus mustache. As I followed him out, Picasso said over his shoulder, “This place is like a campground with shopping carts. I don’t really dig it. I mean, I’ve been on the streets since I was fourteen. That’s freedom, man. But I was sick of getting ripped off. There’s hardly any crime here. If you screw up, they toss you out on your ass in a hurry.”
    The village spread itself over a sizeable chunk of city land, a crazy quilt of small structures, mostly wood, but I noted some stucco and straw-bale homes as well. Some were painted brightly, others stained by the weather. Bikes stood out front of some places and others had well-tended container gardens. Faint strains of music drifted on the air along with the smell of food cooking. The vibe was cordial, but I did get a couple of who-the-hell-are-you looks.
    â€œI don’t see any kids,” I remarked as I followed Picasso down a narrow path through the camp.
    â€œNot allowed. You can have a rap sheet and still live here. The powers that be decided kids would be a bad idea.”
    â€œWho are the powers that be?”
    â€œSome kind of board. They’re elected by the people living here. I don’t pay much attention to the political stuff. They decide who gets in this place.” He chuckled. “I think they let me in because they want me to paint them something.”
    â€œAre you going to?”
    â€œSure, but they haven’t asked me yet.”
    Picasso led me to a small, wood-sided structure near the back of the lot. Built on a sturdy wooden platform, it reminded me of a tool shed from the outside. Across the path, a burly man sat in a