| What We Endure for Art: A True Story |
On a bright, gray, February Sunday, Gina, Greg and I entered the furnace room of a burnt out brick building in a lawless section of Brockton where Greg has been filming for three years. The furnace room is accessed either through a second room in the building, or through a back door that opens onto a rusted platform grate, beneath which is a six foot drop to the concrete floor, which is littered with trash of all sizes, and feces of questionable origins. Greg calls this place the furnace room because it is dominated by a dormant furnace, which is at least twelve feet high, and can be scaled by use of a metal rung ladder attached to its side. The land this building occupies is peopled by the homeless and witnesses shady transactions on a daily basis.
That Sunday we were preparing the furnace room for a small film shoot. Some of the equipment bags were left on the platform by the back door; the rest was on the floor of the furnace room. It was 11:30; we had been setting up there for twenty minutes. Greg was halfway up the furnace ladder to tie off a string when we heard a clang in the adjoining room. We all paused and looked at the door. A moment later we heard another clang of metal against metal, accompanied by angry grunting. We exchanged concerned glances.
Without thinking twice about it, I hurled myself at the metal platform with an overwhelming sense of urgency. My chest was on top of the grating, but I had difficulties pulling myself up. The clanging and yelling was still going on in the next room. Someone pushed my foot and I scrambled to my feet. Gina came up after me. Our eyes darted to the other door in anticipation and dread of who might enter the furnace room at any moment. Greg handed us the film equipment and we helped him out last. He closed the door and peeked through the crack. “Maybe he’s collecting metal,” he said. We picked up the gear and walked quickly along the chain link fence that runs beside the train tracks, maneuvering through underbrush and junk piles. At a safe distance from the building we stood and stared, the noise was still audible. A few minutes passed, and then a dark figure emerged from the building. He had a sledge hammer, and grunted as he smashed an oil drum on his way out of the lot. “Or maybe he’s just really pissed-off,” Greg concluded.