I prowl the city streets on my Honda, searching for the perfect subject. I can't tell you what I look for, but when I find it, I know because I want to rush in... to start mixing paint right away.

I see the spot! Jumping the curb, I park my bike. The pavement shudders as a bus rolls by. Unfolding my easel, I claim half of the sidewalk - pedestrians detour around. From the box locked to my Honda, I slide out six finished paintings and prop them up in view of passersby.

A stocky man in a sweat-stained t-shirt has been studying me as I set up. He motions toward my work with his hand. "You've got a golden opportunity out here, you know that?" he yells, his fingers circling in the air around my sidewalk gallery. "I could show you a way you could make enough money to just paint for the rest of your life."

Skateboards whiz by. 

"Thanks, but I'm already painting for the rest of my life," I say, squeezing out gobs of oil paint. With a wide brush, I lay in the first lines of my painting. 

A gust of wind knocks two paintings face down on coarse cement, and carries one up the sidewalk. I chase it down.

"I thought you artists were supposed to starve in your garrets," a woman says as I prop my paintings back up. "I'm not too big on supposed to's," I tell her. With my palette knife, I squish a big sign onto my picture. With a small brush, I draw in "MARKET, BEER, WINE, DELI."

"Hey George!" A man named Armondo appears. "Glad to see you back in the neighborhood."

"Armondo! I can't stay away from the city, you know that. How's life?"

"Great, man," Armondo says, moving into a tilted-hip stance.

Standing back from my painting, I survey my progress. I lay on a dark purple shadow and smudge some edges with my thumb.

"You selling these?" a voice calls from a patrol car. "Uh-oh," says Armondo, jumping out of his hypnotized slump, "Catch you later."

A policeman slides out of his car. "I sure do recognize these places," he says pointing to my paintings. "Cool!" I smile, " Which one of these paintings do you like the best?"

He walks back and forth, studying each painting. "How much is this one?" 

I tell him the price.

"That's more than I expected, just being out here on the sidewalk like this," he says.

"When's the last time you've seen paintings of your neighborhood that you've liked?" I ask him.

"Never have."

"What's holding you back then?"

He smiles. "I need to see if my wife likes them." I get his phone number. I'm definitely gonna call this guy later.

I scratch crisp, incisive grooves into the globby pigment of the store front, and throw on vigorous darks near the figures in the crosswalk.

A passing foot whacks my easel. Brushes and paint tubes clatter across the sidewalk. I catch the easel just before it tips over.

"Wow!" says a wiry fellow with an incredulous look on his face. "That guy knocked your stuff all over the place and didn't even stop!"

Scrambling on my hands and knees, I rescue a $30 brush from an oncoming bicycle. "I'd rather that wouldn't have happened," I tell my surprised observer.

"You know," he says, shining an apple on his pant leg, "these are some okay prints. You sell lots of them?" 

"About as many as I paint," I reply as I mop up spilled turpentine. "Want to buy one?" "How much?" he says, biting into his apple. I tell him. "Wow!" he pretends to choke. "You using gold paint?"

"Might as well be," I say, "as much as this stuff costs." I squeeze more gold onto my palette and replenish my turpentine.

School kids swarm in, jumping up and down, elbowing each other. "Hey mister, you paint these?" "Is this watercolor?" "My mom paints." "Are you an artist?"

"I sure am," I say.

"Real bright question, Richard," a big kid scoffs..

"I can paint better than you, Dweeb!" "Come on! There's the bus!" ...Richard stays behind. Watches me work. I gob on heavier paint. A delivery truck blocks my view, so I take a break.

"Is this oil paint?" Richard asks.

"Yeah. You ever try oil paint?"

"My mom says oils cost too much."

"Want to try mine?"

"SURE!"

I mark out a blank area for him on my canvas. "Don't mess up the part I've already done, okay?" I say, handing him my brush.

"Okay, I won't." Richard lifts a big gob of yellow from the palette, and squishes paint to canvas like a sculptor. Hesitating for a moment, choosing his next color, he dips in.

"Hey, George!" A guy named Chan approaches. "Who's the kid messing up your picture?"

"This is Richard."

"George is my dad," Richard tells Chan. "And I'm not messing it up."

"George! I didn't know you had any kids!" says Chan.

"I don't. I've never seen this kid before in my life."

"Aw Dad, says Richard, "you promised you wouldn't say that any more."

"Sorry, Richard, I forgot."

After Richard runs for his ride, I scrape out his brushwork. Nice - but not on my painting.

The sun arches across the sky. I wash my brushes and fold my easel. It's going to take several days to get this painting together.

"You finished?" a shop owner asks, sweeping the sidewalk around me.

"Yeah, for today I am," I answer, sliding my work-in-progress into my paint box.

"You've been out here most of the day. Are you coming back tomorrow?"

"If it's sunny," I say, loading my finished paintings onto my motorcycle.

"You should be painting in Paris, not out here on the sidewalk. They've got lots of artists in Paris."

"That's what I hear," I tell him. "But the way I figure it, this is my Paris. Besides, art is where you find it."

I crank up my motorcycle, and cruise once again north across the Golden Gate, carrying a load of paintings provoked by life on the street.

THE END

Here's an article I wrote for American Artist