The Plight of Cherokee Sulfur

Commentary by Robert McEvily



There’s a black man I spot from time to time when I’m driving at the top of the southbound side of the FDR. (Been by lately? You’ve probably seen him yourself.) He’s either a nut-job or an unrecognized artistic wunderkind. (As you know, I live dangerously, so I decided to find out which.)

"Wunderkind" may be inaccurate – he’s not young. But the guy’s creative in that youthful, abstract, "I don’t get what the hell this guy’s trying to say" way. He’s an artist, I believe that. He looks unwashed and he’s occasionally bug-eyed, which makes him look dangerous, so, again, with this descriptive reinforcement, I’m certain he’s an artist.



You spot his work under the Willis Avenue Bridge as you roll into merging traffic, especially when you’re in the right lane. His canvas is the little traffic triangle created by the on-ramp extending from 125th Street. Random, discarded items – tables, wrecked watermelons, yards of rope, etc. – are arranged into alarming images. His genius (if intentional) is the traffic inclusion. Because you're driving, you can only view his work in small chunks, in fleeting glimpses. It’s dreamlike and weird. It’s fun, too. Empty boxes of cereal aligned beneath a hand-painted sign that reads CHEROKEE KNOWS THE WAY. Political statements you can’t quite make out. Headless dummies playing cards. All out in the open.

During the moments your car’s in his zone, you can’t help but wonder about art and fairness and dedication. Who is this guy? And why is he doing this? (He sure as hell ain't gettin' paid.) Sometimes he includes his very own crazy self as a piece of living art in his preposterous scenes. He’ll stand frozen, holding something hidden. You’ll strain to look but you’ll never see it, unless you’re willing to plow into the car before you. I started calling him "Cherokee" because of the sign I described. Then one day, while traffic stopped me right next to him (as he sat on an overturned garbage can, not unlike Rodin’s Thinker), I rolled down my window and asked him his name. Quickly – so quickly he frightened the hell out of me – he rose and started lighting matches from a matchbook. He tossed them wildly in the air. Now I call him "Cherokee Sulfur."



I checked out Matthew Barney’s "Cremaster Cycle" at the Guggenheim last year and I felt like an idiot. Others who’d paid the entrance fee appeared reflective, entranced, moved. I was baffled. I was entertained, but I was baffled. And I couldn’t help thinking of Cherokee Sulfur. HIS stuff would just kill here! A perfect fit. A Barbie reading Glamour on a broken chair? She could’ve easily found a home in the "Cycle." If Sulfur himself were behind the chair, climbing the walls and screaming, that would’ve been perfect too. But no such opportunity, no such recognition. Such is life, though. Who among us isn’t under-appreciated? I know I am. I’m so kick-ass it’s ridiculous. You should see me – you’d faint. Where the hell are MY props?

The plight of Cherokee Sulfur is the plight of the Everyman. We grind it out day after day, hoping someone will notice our hand-painted signs.