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On the blank side-wall of her garage I immediately set to work drawing a sort of triumphal arch. The Turkish woman lends me a ladder so that I can finish the top of the arch. It is a detailed drawing and it keeps me busy the whole day. Her two young sons come and look and, like the local children in New Chicago, they draw their chalk creations between my lines with the odd stump of chalk which falls to the ground. “What’s your name,” they ask. “Bart,” I say. When I come down from the ladder I see they have written my name on the wall what must be twenty times.
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