WALKING on the Lower East Side of Manhattan six years ago, Tom Fruin noticed a yellow plastic drug baggie. Curious, he picked it up, thinking that as an artist he could do something with it.
He did. Over the next 18 months, Mr. Fruin, 27, who lives in Brooklyn, collected almost 3,000 drug bags from around the city. They were plastic or glassine, some clear, others solid-colored or patterned, and they ranged from pinkie-nail-size crack bags to credit-card-size marijuana packets. He sewed them together into a quilt that sold for $20,000.
These days, collectors are snapping up Mr. Fruin's works faster than he can make them. His first solo show, at the Stefan Stux Gallery in Chelsea last year, sold out. Almost all of the 19 quilts in his second solo exhibit, ''Cultural Narcotics: The Straight Dope,'' were already sold when the show opened at Stux on March 30. The buyers included the actor Willem Dafoe, who paid $30,000 for a piece.
He did. Over the next 18 months, Mr. Fruin, 27, who lives in Brooklyn, collected almost 3,000 drug bags from around the city. They were plastic or glassine, some clear, others solid-colored or patterned, and they ranged from pinkie-nail-size crack bags to credit-card-size marijuana packets. He sewed them together into a quilt that sold for $20,000.
These days, collectors are snapping up Mr. Fruin's works faster than he can make them. His first solo show, at the Stefan Stux Gallery in Chelsea last year, sold out. Almost all of the 19 quilts in his second solo exhibit, ''Cultural Narcotics: The Straight Dope,'' were already sold when the show opened at Stux on March 30. The buyers included the actor Willem Dafoe, who paid $30,000 for a piece.
Asked about the Dafoe purchase, Mr. Fruin looked abashed. ''I guess these things are sort of prestigious,'' he said. ''But that's not an indicator of success for me.''
Mr. Fruin had a graphic design career in mind when he moved to New York in 1996, after receiving a degree in studio art from the University of California at Santa Barbara. Instead, he spends his days bicycling around parks and housing projects, storing his findings in Ziploc bags and scribbling notes (''extreme corner light blue bags 5'') for later reference.
Over the years, random collecting revealed patterns: a cluster of colorful heroin bags had been opened the same way, presumably by the same user; bags from the same drug batches were decorated with dinosaurs, dollar signs or logos like ''Dirty Urine'' and ''R.I.P.''
Mr. Fruin hangs his quilts from metal rods extending out from the wall, creating a stained-glass effect. ''For me it's not so much about the imagery as what it actually is,'' he said. ''The light going through completes it for me -- it's sort of an ephemeral, nonexistent residue of itself.''
Equal parts anthropology and art, Mr. Fruin's pieces are usually composed according to geography or chronology. One quilt maps out a housing project, with lighter bags representing buildings and darker ones the surrounding grassy areas. Another, replicating the American flag, contains baggies and documents -- a scrap of a tax return, a name tag -- found under the floorboards of an apartment in Manhattan's meatpacking district.
Collecting bags is occasionally hazardous -- Mr. Fruin has had boiling water and diapers thrown at him and has had run-ins with the police -- and usually solitary. With little information about the bags' origins, he spins his own tales. Finding bags with cocaine straws inside, he imagines a user tossing evidence out a window. Most bags are empty, but they sometimes contain seeds and on a rare occasion are filled with drugs (which hasn't caused legal problems in galleries so far).
''I like to think that's sort of a rich addict,'' Mr. Fruin said, laughing. ''Maybe they're just doing it in the dark.''
By Deborah Bach New York Times April 14, 2002
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