Two Quarter George
Over coffee at Trumpet and Drum, I asked George Anthony Jena, better known as Two Quarter George, how he would describe his life. His answer was pretty simple: “Life hasn’t been good. I’m an alcoholic, I must admit. I haven’t had a drink since June 26.” A candid admission from a man whose story is messy, incomplete, and still in the process of defining safety. “I play it by ear, I improvise, day to day, week to week. That’s how I take it.” When I asked him what he thought he’s gotten out of life so far, he responded, “a lot of frustration.” We laughed. “Is it worth it?” I followed up. “Yes, it is, and don’t forget there’s always hope.”
Two Quarter George was introduced as a concept back in April when I interviewed artist Jamie Chiarello, who compared him to a Dostoevsky character and described him as her muse. One night, I modeled for Jamie’s drawing cohort and met the legend himself. While I settled into the pose, he asked if I could move my head a little to the left, my torso to the right, and maybe elongate my legs. Naked and frustrated, I threw my hands up in a half-joking come on, man gesture. During the break I chatted with George: “You’re George, the myth!” I said, recalling Jamie’s story. “George the Myth—I like that!” he responded. I looked into the myth, and found a deeply human man.
Two Quarter George earned the nickname by asking passersby for two quarters. His goal was to collect enough to buy himself a drink. The practice developed into a philosophy born from his admitted alcoholism: “I never really wanted to ask for too much.” This sentiment of just enough to survive seemed to be the thread keeping him together.
Two Quarter George enters the art community through striking work as a nude figure model along with his drawings. George’s portraits are artful, but his abstract work stands out. Art opened his eyes to fractals, patterns found in nature that repeat endlessly. You can see this fascination influence the linework in George’s ink drawings. “Fractals are a beautiful aesthetic in mathematics. It’s called chaos theory, you know. You see certain patterns in nature which do have mathematical order. You can see it in a flower or in a wasp nest.”
Born to a schizophrenic mother who was consistently subjected to electroshock therapy and an abusive, alcoholic father, the search for safety started young. By 45, he struggled with alcohol addiction, made a few artistic friends, experienced on-and-off homelessness, and faced bone-breaking brutalization by people he trusted. Nothing seemed to rival his ability to survive Katrina, which he describes as “a crazy, singular, one-of-a-kind experience that can never be duplicated.”
George lived on Annunciation Street when the storm hit in the morning. He walked to the Uptown precinct and caught a ride to the Superdome, leaving behind his two dogs and cat with as much food and water as he could. For six days, George and 26,000 other people were locked in the Superdome as the hurricane disassembled our city.
George remembers the ceiling rumbling while they were inside. “The Superdome, being like a big tin can, amplified the sound. The next morning, we realized it was the canvas covering that was beating, pounding, and punishing the roof of the Superdome. After the storm subsided, we could see corpuscular rays coming through, like light coming through a cathedral window.”
When I asked him what that moment meant to him, he responded, “Nothing that man builds is going to be perfect.” He didn’t know he was capable of surviving something like that. For all the turmoil that came with the storm, he was grateful for the stolen top-shelf alcohol kept in empty suites that was passed around. “I had the two best bottles of wine I’ve ever had in my life in the Superdome during all of that chaos.” After the storm, his brother went to check on the animals—they were all OK, though George and the cat came out the other side with PTSD.
When everything around you is collapsing, joining in on the destruction is seductive. New Orleanians are no stranger to crepuscular rays highlighting our darker urges—It’s human nature to repeat the geometry of our environment. On a micro level, destruction looked like bliss found at the bottom of a rare and expensive bottle of wine. On a macro scale, it was sexual assault, violence, the federal government’s delayed response, FEMA’s utter failure, police brutality, and military occupation. There is self-similarity in self-destruction—a numbing feedback loop in our city that echoed the internal, external, systemic, and natural collapse. After all, we are no exception to being shapes in a fractal, and nothing man builds is going to be perfect.
When I asked George where he found his place in the community, he said he didn’t have one. He felt isolated, describing himself as a singular being. While that may be true, I couldn’t help but see him as a fascinating fractal, contributing to the macro fabric of the art world.
About a week after our initial interview, I met with George at St. Roch Tavern for karaoke night. He remained sober when he strummed an air guitar while singing “Pinball Wizard” by The Who, which is more than I can say for myself when I sang “The Devil Went Down To Georgia” by Charlie Daniels. In the corner of the tavern, his best friend Olivia was cutting hair. George was chatting up the bartender and the owner about his picture being taken for this column. A week ago, over coffee at Trumpet and Drum, I asked him what motivated him to find life over and over again. His answer was pretty simple: “I don’t wanna die.” We laughed.
Top photo by John Stephens
Bottom image courtesy @GeoJFineArt
