Charles Jardin took the cage from his Soho gallery and walked it up to Times Square. Like a man with a crucifix in a Good Friday procession, he it carried on his back along 5th Avenue, attracting stares as he did. The strangeness of his burden meant that his fellow pedestrians gave him a wide berth.
When Charles arrived at Times Square he first found one of the police officers there. He provided his papers and explained what he’d be doing. While the officer scratched her head, everything appeared to be in order so she showed Charles to the area designated for his “art exhibition.” Only then did Charles set his cage down and began to assemble it. Tourists stared while the natives passed by, pretending not to notice.
The cage, when completed, was only four feet by four feet, the largest Charles’ permit allowed. He climbed into it, taking the bucket he had brought with him, and locked himself in. For the month that he was allowed to remain there, his only real contact would be his an assistant who would come to bring him food and water, and empty the bucket.
And a long month it was, sweating in New York’s famous June humidity, protected from the sun only by the concrete canyon’s shadows. Most people ignored Charles, while a few benign ogled him or posed in front of his cage for pictures. A few taunted him, some throwing their garbage at him. Charles only watched it all.
Eventually, a reported at the Village Voice got word about a man that had been sitting in a cage, permits and sundries paid for by government grant. Smelling an odd story with a possible hint of scandal, he headed to midtown and asked Charles, “So why are you doing this?”
Charles, battered and dirty, replied without guile. “I’m hoping to go mad.”
“Why on Earth would you want that?”
Charles stared out of his cage and the parade of humanity he had been observing for weeks. “I’m hoping it will make sense of all this.”
See the author’s published work here.
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