Once, there was a hobo on 14th Street who collected peels from dumpsters and made collages.

He was seen cruising the back alleys of the finest shops, looking for the best. From Morrie's the pastry shop he took apple peels; from the Golden Oyster, shreds of lemon zest; and from Pauline's, the corkscrew orange peels that remained after the inside had been used for low-calorie, all-natural juice. The bars downtown were an excellent source of lime peels (all the tequila, you understand), and the bakeries provided exotic pomegranate and mango peels. The hobo arranged all the peels into frames made from broken wooden windows and poured shellac over them.

Being a smart man, he sold his wares outside the modern art museum, next to the sculpture of nude women wrought in burnished aluminum. Awed by the textures frozen in time, the people couldn't believe the vibrant colors. Such beautiful shades from the dregs of the street, such daring avant garde work from a man whose face looked like a crumpled and dirty paper bag.

He sold them for a modest price, just cheap enough to make people buy them but rich enough to allow him to replace his patched and dirty socks with new ones. Each sale made his beetle eyes shine and shoulders straighten a little.

In time, his dumpster diving made him famous. His artwork started to make a profit and he was seen wearing better clothes. He started to shave and clean his fingernails; he was growing out of the alley a little bit at a time.

I was the first reporter on the scene when he was found. I never bought any of his pieces, but I could never forget that the color of blood from his temple matched exactly the apple peels clutched in his right hand.

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