Union Square

Washington looks out over the sea of flowers, candles, and
posters at Union Square Park

I remember emerging from the subway at Union Square and being slightly bewildered. My neighborhood on the Upper West Side had some small memorials and there were supportive signs for the FDNY and NYPD, but nothing on the scale I witnessed at Union Square Park. Candles, photographs, prayers, pleas, home made poster board "have you seen?" signs--they were everywhere. Taped to the triumphant statue of Washington, on the subway station supports. Everywhere. Unlike most occasions of ubiquity, however, these small bits of remembrance and support never failed to elicit a deep, emotional response. You couldn't NOT look, and when you looked, you would feel another wave of sadness envelop you.

Union Square Park

Union Square subway station

One of the brilliant editorial cartoons, Union Sqare Park

Another of the small "altars" left in the park

Remember them, too...

St Vincent's, and Yet Another Sad Farewell

I was working on Hudson Street on the morning of the September 11th attacks. I'd heard something odd as I walked into our office building, but nothing that really gave me pause. The timeline of that day, for me, started with my cubicle partner getting a phone call from her husband who worked farther downtown than we were. He was calling to tell her that a plane had flown into one of the towers of the World Trade Center--and said we should turn on the television. (At this point I'll admit saying something that has haunted me ever since...) As my colleague hung up from speaking with her husband (who I'm happy to say was unharmed) I quipped, "Well, at least it wasn't the Chrysler Building!"

Obviously, I felt like the colossal ass that I can be from time to time when events unfolded so horrifically later in the day. The scope of that day still is beyond my comprehension and I think I'm grateful for the memory gaps that do exist in my timeline of both that day and the following weeks.

We all stayed put for most of the day, either glued to the television in our spectacularly intimate "conference room" or trying to get thru to loved ones and let them know we were okay, at least for the moment. Once the fighter jets began making their flights over the city, a few of our staff ventured out to St Vincent's to give blood and see if there was anything they could do. St Vincent's would become the site I most identified with as I often walked past it in the months after the attacks. It was where the doctors and nurses waited in vain, mostly, for patients that never arrived. Watching the missing persons wall and all the photographs and flowers and wishes wither away as the days at "the pile" dragged on was heart wrenching and now and then, tragically, you'd see the person's obituary in the NY Times.


So when I heard months ago that St Vincent's was to close, I felt especially sad and as though a nearly decade old scab had been pulled off, exposing long buried pain. For me it was a spot by which I could ascertain small steps of progress, healing. Herewith, St Vincent's Hospital during the immediate post-September 11th days. The photo at the bottom, the ambulance with the "Last Roll Call" newspaper on the dashboard may have given me the roughest punch to the gut when I saw it among the other images.

Love is everywhere, light is everywhere

Following up on my post from yesterday, here are a two more photographs. Homemade signs like these were everywhere in the days and weeks that followed September 11. Missives and messages were attached to buildings, mailboxes, railings, light posts--practically anything that stood still. I photographed many signs but these two stood out as memorable, meaningful, and straightforward. And in the sign below, with two seemingly commonplace words that many of us use nearly every day, a deep resonance was achieved. Remember. Rebuild.

Just when you think it's safe...

I went on the hunt for a couple of pictures of a failed preservation project I'd worked on with a friend who passed away yesterday. My digital archive, (thanks mostly to iPhoto and DropBox) is far easier to sort through than my actual photographs, which are, to put it bluntly, a jumbled, bollocksed up mess. TOTAL CHAOS. And yet, occasionally chaos points us toward something important; important and safely tucked away.

In two oversized Spectra Photo envelopes (from when I took actual photographs and had them developed at the wonderful Spectra store on W 72nd street), wedged between packets filled with romantic photos of London cemeteries and my photographic "homage" to Henry Adams Mont St Michel and Chartres, there they were. Not the hoped for photographs of the old pool house at Soldier's Field where we'd waged our failed preservation campaign, but instead a treasure trove of a different nature--my photos of NYC in the early days after September 11, 2001.

I've said before that I am perpetually surprised at how quickly and powerfully that day and the maelstrom of memories attached to it flood back to the surface. The deep, dull ache is nearly as immediate and as raw as it was a decade ago. The tug in your gut never totally goes away. The emotions grasp at you, pulling in every direction from sadness, to anger, to uncertainty and back again. I cannot begin to fathom what it was or is like for those who lost loved ones and friends, the depth and breadth of their pain is on a completely different level. I was merely a bystander--a proud New Yorker--and I was and am forever altered.

I'm quite certain that back then I could not even begin to project out into the future ten years ahead, and I'll wager that I haven't looked at these photographs since I took them. Maybe now is the time to share them. So over the next few days I'm going to scan a few of the images and will post them here, perhaps with some other odds and ends of remembrance from those days.

I, along with many others, I think, took a kind of comfort in being out and gathering with people--mostly complete strangers--to share stories and do whatever we could do in our own small ways. There were some incongruosly beautiful autumn days right after September the 11th, at least as I recall (and admittedly, there are large blank gaps in many of those days that I can't remember, and I'm guessing that's for the best) and I spent a lot of time wandering around the city and taking photographs.

This isn't where I expected to end up today, but here we are and here's photo 1. Taken from a Labor Day, 2001, walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. It's one of my favorite photographs ever.

Oh the weather outside is frightful...

Winter at Bull's Bridge near Kent, CT

I have a zero tolerance policy for vicious heat indices and drippy levels of humidity. Let's face it, I'm a weather whinger. It's too hot, too cold, too wet, too windy. I'm like Goldilocks when it comes to weather, I want it just right. Just right means picturesque snowy winters, temperate springs, balmy summers (with ocean breezes and low dew points, maybe the occasional thunderstorm) and chilly evenings that follow warm autumn days. So thanks in advance to whomever is working on this kind of Utopian climate for New England in the future. (As Craig Ferguson might say,"Thank you, I look forward to your letters.")

Weather fantasies aside, how do you beat the heat? Obviously cool drinks--lots of water and iced tea in my case--light colored clothing, don't over do it in the sun, the usual "dog days of summer" admonitions.  I know it isn't in the official summer swelter survival handbook, but I'm also a fan of the summer cocktail. Sangria, a margarita, or my personal choice, a refreshing gin and tonic. I'm far more partial to this option than hot coffee. Seriously. Hot coffee. According to family lore, when my grandfather was farming in Wisconsin back in the 50s my mother recalls that she or her sister would have to take him a big old thermos filled with hot coffee for lunch and breaks. When I looked at both my mother and grandmother with utter disbelief at this nonsense, I was given some claptrap having to do with hot beverages acclimating your body to the heat better, blah blah, blah. I've no idea if there's scientific basis to this idea (it seems unlikely) but I won't be testing it out any time soon. Science aside, I do have a wonderful mental image of my overall-clad grandfather--thermos in hand, steaming coffee being poured--taking a break under the tree that sat in one of the fields. 

All this said, I'm going in a slightly different direction to keep myself cool...a few favorite hibernal photograps and a bit of Longfellow guaranteed to fool us all into thinking it's January all over again. Ahhh, January, the layered clothing, the short days, the low angle of the sun, the long shadows, the bitter windchill, the...oh, wait...hmm. Right. Well, at least winter is photogenic? 

Looking down the Hudson from the Vanderbilt's little jewel box on the hill.

Hiking trail in Lover's Leap State Park, New Milford, CT

Woods in Winter

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

When winter winds are piercing chill,

  And through the hawthorn blows the gale,

With solemn feet I tread the hill,

  That overbrows the lonely vale. 

O'er the bare upland, and away

  Through the long reach of desert woods,

The embracing sunbeams chastely play,

  And gladden these deep solitudes. 

Where, twisted round the barren oak,

  The summer vine in beauty clung,

And summer winds the stillness broke,

  The crystal icicle is hung. 

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs

  Pour out the river's gradual tide,

Shrilly the skater's iron rings,

  And voices fill the woodland side. 

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,

  When birds sang out their mellow lay,

And winds were soft, and woods were green,

  And the song ceased not with the day! 

But still wild music is abroad,

  Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;

And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,

  Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

 

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear

  Has grown familiar with your song;

I hear it in the opening year,

  I listen, and it cheers me long

Mayowood Road, Rochester MN

The Rustling Leaves of Memory

Just stopping by and clearing away some of the cobwebs that have filled this space in my prolonged absence. With other projects at the forefront of my daily work, I've been a very poor landlord and correspondent. But I've got a virtual broom and bucket, so here we go.

While I was spending time in my hometown in Minnesota I had a fair amount of time to think about the importance memory. Picture it as my bouncing a tennis ball against the old garage door...pondering, considering with each toss. And not just memory, but the ways, large and small, that we keep people and places (and the memories associated with them) close to us. 

Photos, letters, cards, recipes, traditions...each item can be a touchstone for keeping a memory or a person near to the heart. I think of the little mementos that I hold dear--small pieces of what most would consider to be "just stuff"--and how each small item launches an anecdote or memory that is integral to how I think of person. The recipe for my Grandma K's "no fail pie crust" (that I have yet to master) or seeing my Grandma A's singular handwriting on an old birthday card, or the tradition of lifting a glass to the memory of absent loved ones when a bottle of Champagne is uncorked. Each little piece of the memory puzzle is important and necessary...each seemingly minor key opens a part of the vault for us. 

I was privileged to spend a good number of days up at Mayowood--my second home in many ways--while I was in Minnesota. Between writing and leading the behind the scenes "Nooks and Crannies" tour and painting a few outdoor chairs, I had a fair amount of time to myself to just be in the house. As we worked on the tour script and added Mayo family tales and trivia (there are 732 pipes in the main Aeolian pipe organ, 183 in the echo chamber...), I was reminded how much it always meant to the tour guides--and to the visitors--to keep the Mayo family stories alive. When I used to give tours, way back in the day, I always enjoyed the personal stories about pieces of art or furniture and the reactions they elicited from guests. Each day the names of 4 or 5 generations of the Mayo family are mentioned on the tour. Though many are long gone, their accomplishments (as well as their quirks and idiosyncrasies) are kept present in that way. 

Similarly, I have many, many fond memories from a very young age about my Grandma A (some of which I've shared here in earlier posts) but I knew very little about she and my grandfather as a couple. She was often my babysitter when I was a child, and she was a riot. Often she'd regale me with her tales of her unbridled youth, she was utterly blessed with the Irish gift of gab. A bloomer wearing girl basketball player in the 1920s, she met my slick looking grandfather while at a girls versus boys basketball game. He was watching, SHE was playing. Because my grandparents divorced and my paternal grandfather was gone well before my arrival on the planet, I never really knew much about their early years, especially in comparison to how much I knew of my mom's parents. So I decided to interrogate my dad, get some of the details from him. The stories were great, as were the photos he shared with me. I'd never seen photographs of his parents when they were young people and in love. Seeing them as they were brought unexpected perspective and a feeling like I knew my grandfather a little, finally. There's a unique kind of comfort, knowing more about them, about their lives. 

My *gangsta* looking, dapper grandfather, Glenn, in Chicago. 

The Old Heidelberg Bar ladies bowling team, ca 1943-44.
My grandmother, Norma, (with the wild hair) is 2nd from the left in the top row.

There's something important about sharing the stories, too, about keeping the torch lit. Whether it is a beloved pet or a person, the stories matter. I know for a fact that when my dad would sit on the patio outside chatting with our second Golden Retriever, Remi-Roo, that he was telling Remi all the stories of our first Golden, Beaujolais. I have no doubt that Remi was well-versed in all the Beau stories. I'll say it again, the stories matter. 

And the sharing matters not just for us, but for others, as well. I had an incredible day of interviewing local senior citizens about an inn that is now long gone from my area here in Connecticut. I went into the day with modest expectations of what I'd learn, but I left feeling like I'd been able to share a little in return by taking them back 50 or 60 years with old photos, postcards, and menus that I'd collected. The expressions on the faces of the women who'd been waitresses or the woman who'd been married there were wonderful, as were the great stories they shared. The little bits of information--where the serving station was or the stories about Dewey the Bartender--were beyond what I could have hoped for and they brought the place to life for me in a whole new way. Share your stories. One of the great privileges of writing can be that you receive some incredible stories, stories for which you become responsible. Stories you are fortunate to be able to share. 

Wilde wrote that memory is the diary we all carry about with us, I like that thought. I like thinking that the people whose stories I know--the ones I love and miss--are maybe a little less gone because I'm lucky enough to carry a bit of their memory around with me.

ENOUGH! or...The High Price of False Progress.

While I've certainly had other things on my mind this week, the one image I can't shake loose is that of the so-called Gatsby House (Lands End, properly) being razed on Long Island. If you haven't seen the footage or read the article, here it is... CBS Sunday Morning's "The end of an era for the "Gatsby House." Beyond this single house, though, what does this say about us? About how shabbily we often treat our landmarks and important buildings? We're paying a tremendously high price for what often is the antithesis of progress.

The old Mount Vernon-esque pool houses at Soldier's Field in Rochester. RAZED. 

I'm basically a bleeding heart preservationist at my core and waste of this nature is painful for me to watch. Honestly, I've fought against this kind of thoughtless destruction since before I was even a teenager and it never gets any easier and it seems that so often we fight the same fight over and over. From a seemingly innocent zoning change to barrages of development proposals, it's a street-fight waged daily all over the country.

The former Chateau theatre, now a Barnes & Noble in Rochester. SAVED. 

As I look back over the preservation battles in which I've participated--as well as those I've been on the periphery of--it always seems to come down to money and more often than not, greedy and/or unprincipled land developers. It is seldom about what is actually best for the community, what is best for the landmark or historic structure, but rather about how much more money is to be made by simply knocking down a structure rather than spending any amount of time finding creative and workable outcomes that benefit everyone. Wanton destruction for the sole purpose of lining someone's pockets infuriates me. And when I hear the disingenuous strains of "I'm so sorry this had to happen" spilling from the mouth of a land speculator, my blood absolutely boils...because it so rarely HAS to actually happen.

Why tear down a well-constructed and usable building to quickly slap up one more ubiquitous strip mall? I mean really...why? If the money is to be spent anyway--to tear down and then put up new construction--why not explore and pursue a retrofit or restoration of the extant structure instead? It typically fits better within the character of the neighborhood, to be sure, and still provides numerous construction jobs. And lack of commercial real estate can hardly be raised as a serious issue. Most every road I travel these days has empty storefront upon empty storefront staring out from ugly and nameless plazas and centers with FOR RENT signs plastered all over the windows. It's one of the worst symptoms of sprawl, this proliferation of quickie, unattractive, and often disposable architecture that seems to have invaded almost every corner of the country. If this is allowed to continue, and continue virtually unchecked, we will be a country with far too little left of our architectural past.

It's certainly true that when a building has been abandoned for a long time, either through a campaign of managed neglect or by bad luck and ownership problems, it can be expensive and even almost impossible to restore it, but those cases are fewer and farther between than we're asked to believe. And I don't advocate preservation merely for its own sake or laudatory back-slapping, but some buildings are part of the fabric of a community, others embody an era or bygone way of life and sometimes they need a little TLC in order to rejoin the modern world and resume their rightful place as an integral part of a neighborhood.

And isn't it ironic--and tragic, really--that most of the time people in this country would rather build a replica of something than spend the time, energy, and money to restore the original. And why stop at a replica, if we can build a theme park around it, even better. That way no one has to deal with all the challenges that  are part-and-parcel of caring for older structures. There are, after all, often stockholders who expect a return on their investment and if an extra nickel or dime can be wrung out for them, then what's the harm of razing a building with character, one that is well-built, and putting up an eyesore in its stead? Do I sound bitter? I am. I am bitter and angry at how readily we disregard the importance of our built heritage.

Now and then, someone has to stand up and say ENOUGH. Sometimes it can't be only about the $money$--what is best for the city, community, next generation and history of a place all have to be taken into consideration and the right thing has to be done. Don't we owe both our ancestors and our children at least that?

For a much more level headed take, my friend, Pat Murkland, writes beautifully about a lost landmark in her community here...
http://banning-beaumont.patch.com/articles/an-icon-of-the-pass-past

With that, I cede my soapbox...for the time being. (And #Go HABS Go)

Jailed! And other Thursday morning adventures...

I spent a good amount of my morning in the local jail--in the slammer, the pokey, gaol, the cooler, doin' time--and I enjoyed every minute of it. Sadly, there's no daring tale of escape and I can't even claim that I waved my favorite Liberty scarf out of a barred window to attract a rescuer.

The old Danbury jail

I was, this morning, while checking out a minor (and wholly unexpected) holy grail for my research, presented with the opportunity to spend some time in the old Danbury jail. A building I'd driven by umpteen times, I never expected I'd get to actually see the interior. They're doing a lot of work and it will, I think, house the local WIC program, but it was still pretty fabulous to see the interior details up close and personal. There are many layers of paint over the beautiful mouldings and some of the once elegant hardwood floors show their age, but what a great building it is and I was thrilled to be able to see that they'll really be making good use of it. The elegant long windows--even those that are still barred--let in a surprising amount of light and made the room we were working in quite sunny. Oh, and while I didn't see any of the men's area, I did peek into the eerie bricked and barred walls of the women's cells--not somewhere you'd want to spend any time. Typically not someplace you want to start your day, but in this case it was far too much fun! 

And my little photographic grail? Even better than I'd allowed myself to hope for. The photo taken with my BlackBerry can't possibly do the real image justice, but it gives you a good idea. Photo is ca.1899 of the old Gregory place, located in Brookfield, CT, just over the Danbury border. The structure itself is ca.1760, but it looks fabulous for being more than 130 years old back in 1899, don't you think? And notice the 12 over 12 windows--wonderful.

The house on the old Gregory place, ca1899. 

I also wanted to give a little plug for the folks at the Danbury Museum and Historical Society. They've been beyond swell and helpful. Danbury was, of course, the hat mecca of the US for many years and this summer DMHS will be showcasing some really incredible hats, fascinators and beyond. I was lucky enough to catch a sneak preview of some of the exhibit and could've spent a day just looking at all the styles on offer--from the most delicate of hats to sturdy quilted velvet bonnets--spanning much of the long history of the millinery trade. The grand opening of the Magnificent Millinery exhibit is in June, plan to stop in if you're in the area! Info: http://www.danburymuseum.org/danburymuseum/Home.html

All in Good Time

NC Wyeth's title page illustration from The Boy's King Arthur

After a weekend where I just couldn’t make the words fit and every piece I started was unfinishable--not to mention unreadable--what a pleasure it was to break out of my slump today. Now if my beloved Red Sox could do the same…**deep sigh**

As is well documented here, I love the digging and research involved in a good story. I could sit (and let’s be honest, I have done) locked up in an archive with old newspapers, documents and books and be completely happy. While I’ll admit to a wandering eye whilst browsing old newspapers in particular, I’m very content settling into the written records of our collected past. (I am slightly less inclined towards actual person-to-person interviews, but I'm getting over that!) Happily, today's breakthrough was the result not of my nose being buried in a bound volume of land use documents or property transactions, but rather because of a delightful conversation I had over the telephone.

It should be noted here that I’m not generally a big fan of the phone these days, I’d rather take care of most of my work via email, especially when it comes to people whom I don’t know all that well. Email is efficient and you needn’t worry about catching someone at a bad time or sounding over/under enthusiastic--business can be taken care of and both parties get their needs and positions heard.

To every rule or preference, though, there is an exception. In my previous blog entry I wrote about finding a relative of an artist I’d been researching, George E. Porter. The artist’s niece, who has been wonderfully helpful, was kind enough to also put me in touch with his widow who lives in Pennsylvania.

Since then, I’ve been lucky enough to have two productive and utterly enjoyable discussions with this witty and charming woman. She’s lived an incredibly interesting life in her own right and her pride in her late husband’s art is evident as she speaks of his work, commissions, and catalogue. During our chat today we discussed the Society of Illustrators which is located on E 63rd Street in New York City. I shared with her that I’ve grown up with a father who has always had the utmost respect for illustrators, especially when it came to those featured in his favorite childhood books--artists like Howard Pyle and NC Wyeth--and how he’d shared that with me. (I’m one of those people who will argue passionately for holding illustrators and commercial artists in high esteem.) As we spoke, I told her I’d not been in the Society’s museum (though I’d lived on E 63rd Street for a time and tried in vain to attend an exhibit there once) but I’d admired many of its artists. She proceeded to tell me that an original oil painting that George Porter had done hung (and maybe still hangs) in one of the lobbies. I literally laughed out loud at the possible what ifs.

If I had made it to that show I’d missed at the Society in the late 90s, and seen the Porter painting, would I have made the connection? I’d like to think I would have, and that maybe I’d have pulled a staffer aside and found out more information on him then rather than now. His work is compelling and I imagine I’d have been naturally drawn to it, but who can say?

Silly to look back, of course, at roads not taken and connections missed, but it’s amusing to think of the random possibilities--the hits and misses--that we encounter on a daily basis. The truth is that even if I had touched all those bases back then, I wouldn’t have been motivated to write about it. I was too busy finessing and rearranging the words of others to even consider much of my own work at that time, so maybe, on occasion, we’re also given the chance to connect the right dots at the right time--we get the gifts when we’re ready to receive and make the best use of them.

I’m not exactly sure where all this dot connecting will lead, but I am LOVING the journey thus far. What I do know is that I’m fortunate to have the opportunity to correspond with and speak to people who knew and loved George E. Porter--and his work, obviously--and are willing to share that with me. I have a lunch date for when I next find myself in the area of West Chester, Pennsylvania--one appointment I’m very much looking forward to keeping.