this is a detail taken from a red and grey painting.  the painting is based around a piece of writing describing the transparency of a homeless man in victoria station.

'He sits slumped forward his hands open, a finger, lonely, hooking the handle of a hole ridden Tesco’s carrier bag.

Dressed head to toe in grey green he blends seamlessly into the nondescript hording behind.  This is a quiet out of the way part of Victoria station.  Commuters rush past, heads down, their shoes scuffing a black path into the once white floor.  His uncovered head reflects the flashing light from the Krispy Kreme doughnut sign blinking above the nearby booth.  The assistant boldly dressed in red and green arranges the artificially coloured doughnuts with translucent blue latex covered hands. ‘Sandra I am here to help’ hangs, angled, from her left bosom.  The sickly sweet smell mixes with the damp musty air.

It becomes clear from his clothes that he is homeless, a stray, a hobo whatever you want to call him.  Circular stained patches cover his trousers, some oil black some milky white each radiating out and joining until none of the original fabric remains. The shutter from the sausage and mash shop rattles open, ‘finest porcine in London’.  He grunts and throws his head backwards hands grasping the over filled shopping bags.  The heavy head flops to the side and down again rolling his body even further in on it’s self.

Worn thin by time the once sturdy leather black boots provide little rest bite from the elements.  His socks are rolled over the top, two maybe three pairs, their different colours bleached into one grey green form.  Six inches of leg exhibits itself to the world, the vibrant pink skin of youth dulled by flakey white patches picked red.  Dried blood the colour of beetroot is interwoven with long black hairs.

A boy, black, sits beside him.  His brown tracksuit silhouetted with three orange stripes.  Thin white wires run from his groin to his ears feeding a steady pulse to which his head gently nods.  It has reached him now; the heady smell of doughnut has separated itself from the stench of being unloved.  He jumps to his feet before pursing his lips and spiting at the ground in front of the grey green man.

Alone again the man is left fixing his eyes at the wet stain on the floor, he stares at it without blinking as he wills its absorption into the cracked concrete.  An automated tannoy system stutters into life and jolts the grey green man away from his contemplation ‘this is a platform alteration…’ he looks down at his hands now laying open on his knees, palms facing up his head hanging as if in prayer.  They lay as if waiting to catch his soul permanently scared with the imprint of his heavy bags tattooed over his pummeled lifeline.  Fissures like gutters cover his fingers weeping for this sorry man.

A cleaner appears, his fluorescing vest illuminates this dark corner, halfheartedly sweeping around the grey green mans feet, prodding his bags with a broom implying they are rubbish.  The cleaner is scrapping now, a high-pitched scratch, picking at the ground.  Gum slowly peels off in large rippling discs before being dislodged into the yellow trolley with a sharp tap.  They catch each other’s eye.  The cleaner shrugs his shoulders and pulls his knitted blue hat down over his ears before walking off and slowly shaking his head.

It’s raining outside, people are dripping and wet shinny footprints tracking their journey soon merge into one.  Umbrellas drip-dry.  A dower lady in disgust with the weather firmly grips the handle of her umbrella and shakes it over the grey green man.  She stops and looking through him squinting to fasten the press-stud strap around its red wings. 

Translucent to the world the grey green mans tears mix with the rain.'

andrew duff november 2010