Modern Man

Back in my long-haired, (believe it!) hippy days in Fargo, ND I had an opportunity to meet a guy who called himself Modern Man. Modern, as he was affectionately known, was a semi-famous local artist and something of an eccentric. From appearance alone, anyone passing him on the street might have taken him for a bum. For Modern, appearances mattered little though, and he seemed to take more interest in what was on the inside.
The first time I met him was in his studio. My friend Darcy introduced us. It was located in downtown Fargo in an old warehouse. I had been to the building before, having visited the Italian restaurant located in the basement. The ground floor, as I recall, was a meeting hall for some fraternal organization like the Lion's club and was owned by them as well. Modern's studio occupied the warehouse proper, and this meant he also had access to the rooftop, which offered a superb view of the city.
The studio amazed me since I had never before seen where a real artist lives and breathes. It may have been the young romantic in me, but the shabby interior was like a wonderland. Paintings, in various stages of completion, lay all about the place. In one corner, a raised platform, accessible by some old stairs, contained some furniture and served as Modern's living room. While there was a very nice apartment on the floor above, it was obvious that he spent nearly all of his time in his studio. Empty bottles and clutter a testament to the disorganization of a creative and active mind.
Several large painting in one corner told us of Warhol's influence. In another, a giant wall sized canvass portraying Hitler and his ministers observing something wasn't fully revealed until the lights were turned out. The glow in the dark paint then illuminated a mass of corpses. The macabre painting was eerie and moving at the same time.
The paintings, the old and worn interior, the somehow sad, yet ample light streaming in through the large multi-paned windows, it all contributed to a feeling that creativity saturated every conceivable space in the room. It placed in me a desire to someday have a space like that of my own, a creative space, a refuge. I only visited Modern's studio one more time after that, but the memories of the place, and the [Modern] man who lived there are still with me.