Spirit of the Evening

Pony Boy

Pony Boy with Mom

 This past weekend I attended my second pow-wow for the year. This one was the Redhawk Native American Council at FDR State Park. There were several things on my calendar for that day (Sunday) but I thought I'd go up there since I didn't get deep enough into the last one. I got a great seat and just settled into it.

The first delight was the sight of my favorite little dancer from the Bear Mountain Pow Wow.
I'd dubbed him (to myself) 'Pony Boy' because of the horse image on a piece of his regalia.
Looks like he was there with his mom and he looked even younger than I remembered him.


The spirit of this evening was phenomenal, I think it was my best pow wow experience ever, and although I didn't get to see Pony Boy dance, what I did see didn't disappoint. There was a lot of wonderful dancing - about 150 frames worth - yet these quiet moments were the ones that stayed with me: Pony Boy - of course; the pensive, almost tender teens; the passionate, soulful youth, and the striking man with the black and white painted face. Intense, intelligent and electric.

Heroic Portraits

Alberto Korda's Che Guevara

This past Friday I went to the International Center for Photography at 43rd and 6th Ave. There were two exhibits running: The Mexican Suitcase and Cuba in Revolution. Both exhibits showcased the work of photojournalists covering in one case the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939), and in the other, the Cuban Revolution of 1959. I went at the end of the workday before heading home. The museum was packed as it was opening day of the exhibit and the first exhibit since the reopening of the Museum itself. 

The Mexican Suitcase exhibit was made up of 4500 photographs which had been lost for almost 70 years until (their negatives) turned up in Mexico in 2007. The exhibition showed them all, the ones which had been published during the war, as well as the ones which had not been selected for publication - what you could call the out-takes. Out of focus, uninteresting, poorly lit, badly composed - the kind of pictures that a photographer would probably destroy or certainly not let into the light of day. Not that they were all without merit, but the value of these photos was not so much in their artistry as in their completion of a narrative. They showed what the photographers (Capa, Chim and Taro) were doing in the 'in between'. 

The Cuba exhibit was interesting for another set of reasons. There was one wall titled 'Heroic Portraits', the centerpiece of which was Alberto Korda's iconic photograph of Ernesto 'Che' Guevara.

The original picture isn't as well known as its cropped and Warhol-ized versions. Here is the original which includes the partial profile of (presumably) another revolutionary. The top part of Che's jacket subtly suggests a Power Ranger costume. Which is to say that the Power Ranger costume looks a lot like Che's jacket.

Michael Jackson's red 'Thriller' jacket isn't far off either, now that I think about it.

Che's combination of physical beauty, what I would call a 'reflective and virtuous face', and charismatic bearing were irresistible. This was all my impression, however I'd tempered that with the knowledge that all of these photos were posed for. Which was true except for one set.

In a small room, on the last wall of the exhibit, were Che's death pictures. After his execution by firing squad in Bolivia, the Bolivian Military and the CIA were eager to show proof of his elimination. Maybe because of the ridicule inherent in this exercise, or perhaps it was just the way his physicality was set in death, but the result was beatific.These were the photos in which the subject could not compose himself, but somehow did.

Luca Del Baldo's portrait of the dead Che - after the photograph.

Back to Backpacks

School is in, and I am once again aghast at the heavy loads that schoolkids have to carry each day. For the past few years we have tried to alleviate the problem by purchasing an extra set of textbooks to keep at home. This saves my son the lugging of books back and forth, and eliminates the 'I left my textbook at school' excuse. School textbooks are outrageously expensive - more than $200.00 for the Religion textbook ( I have my own not-so-nice take on that) and more than $100.00 a piece for math, science, social studies textbooks. We don't pay directly for textbooks, (they are supplied by the school ) but we pay alright.Tuition is quite a tidy. So, to furnish the duplicate sets, we turned to Ebay. We've been Ebay junkies for a few years now - car parts, sunglasses, cell phone accessories, spare camera batteries, books, shoes to name just a few things. The school books were a revelation: Social Studies text, $11.00; English text - $4.00; Spanish text - $2.00. One year we got his summer reading books for a penny each. A penny!

Last year ( for the 6th grade) I bought a really great Sharper Image rolling backpack at Marshall's. It was just sitting there at the store. Not another one like it. Forty bucks. Lands End or JanSport would have set me back $80.00 and up. Like everything at Marshall's, its hit or miss. You see an item you want, and the price is good, you grab it. You might change your mind later - but that's what returns are for. I hate Macy's and other large department stores. I'm not much for malls either. Then again, being in garment manufacturing and knowing what it really cost to make things - I try my best to avoid paying retail. That basically leaves me with the discounters like Marshall's, TJMaxx, Loehman's Century 21, and their ilk. They aren't really discounters. They are just ripping you off to a lesser degree. Am I that jaded? Maybe. An old English lady once told me: the price of anything is what people will pay for it. I remember when my son was born there was a nonsensical toy called Furby (a cross between a Gremlin and an owl ) It sold for $60.00. Outrageous, but nothing compared to the 'Tickle Me Elmo' that was going for as much as $1000.00 on the black market. Another inane toy. But, back to that backpack.

This backpack was superbly designed, sturdy, and looked set to make it through the 7th grade, until the straps unexpectedly broke - meaning that my son could not haul it onto his back to climb the 3 flights of stairs to his classroom. We started the hunt for a new bag on Ebay, but click by click we found ourselves in a maze of online stores.We were hit by such a dizzying array of brands, colors and configurations that we quit in exhaustion. An exact replacement of the beloved Sharper Image backpack would cost $80.00 and was on back order everywhere we checked. We weren't feeling that. Then we had a truly original idea. Could we repair the backpack? We scrounged around the house for nylon webbing and found some on an old ratty backpack, which we cut off and fed through the plastic clips. In two-twos we were operational again. It was obscenely easy, why didn't we think of it first?

When I was a child, our parents would have performed this whole dance in reverse - buying new only when repair was impossible, or perhaps just limping along with the broken item, making the best of what was left, and even developing an affection for its new idiosyncracies. We had a car. If you could call it that. It was an English station wagon called a Hillman Hunter. Old as the hills. Handed down from my aunt to my father if you must know the truth. When we hit a pothole, the Hillman (dubbed 'Betsy') would shake violently from side to side (the result of a shot suspension). Steering Betsy got a little dicey when she started with her little shimmey, but we quickly discovered that when we hit another pothole, the shaking stopped. It was like a magic trick that delighted us over and over again. Hit a pothole Dad! Shake and shimmey, mind the ditch, the oncoming traffic! (Somehow it never resulted in disaster) Now let's hit another! We had a similar adventurous (you could even say positive) attitude toward bumps on the head and bodily injuries. The first comment was usually 'You're lucky! Could have been worse'. That was repair. Whether it was a broken backpack, car, appendage or even marriage. How times have changed.


Photo: Tandem bike riders - Madison Ave, NYC ( 9/17/10)

Welcome Intrusions

cucumber flower

  We have new neighbors. Old man Larry died about 18 months ago and his house had been for sale since he passed. About four months ago we saw activity over at the house. Larry was my neighbor at 11 o'clock. Not to be confused with neighbor at 9
o'clock (Nancy, who hardly speaks and keeps a very tidy yard) and neighbor at 3 o'clock, Maria, (whose family were farmers back in Italy, and who crams her backyard with tomato, cucumber, squash, eggplant, peas, parsley, lettuce, peppers, and counsels me on the evils of weeds). Neighbors at noon are Terry and Kathy with the pool, the jungle and a howler of a dog named Barney. All 5 of our backyards meet, which is to say that the properties here are quite small.

the intruder





Larry, who was a WW II Vet, had many a story for me before he passed - but the saddest was of his lonely life in that huge house since the death of his wife and estrangement from his son. Older folks will tell you all sorts of stuff if you just lend them an ear. I hadn't been paying that much attention to Larry's successors ( a large Russian family) until today. Creeping over my fence right by the second birdhouse was... what?? A cucumber vine with big cucumber hanging off it! Welcome neighbors!

                                                                                 

Speaking of the unexpected. Cleaning out my son's room, I came upon his 4th grade science book from which fell these two pieces of paper. The first read: To Dean, from Justin A (still his best friend). Spiderman, you, me. I am sorry, good job on the car.

"I am sorry, good job on the car"




the car

 








I may or may not eat that cucumber as I have to sort through the moral issue of whose it is (just kidding - it'll be in a salad by this weekend), but I am definitely keeping those two pieces of paper.   

   

    
      

Facing It

Man with pipe, (Bryant Park ) Aug 2010

I take a lot of photos, but I'm always a little wary taking photos of people. It's something I have to work my way around, because I'm actually very interested in how people look, but very conscious of being behind the camera taking the picture. The double introspection is a bit much. Either you are aware that you are asking them to be super-aware of themselves. Or you are 'taking' their photo without their permission and neither seems palatable to me. If you are asking them to pose (or pause) for the photo - then you have to deal with the face most people throw up. The one they think is their best. Then you have to deal with the feeling of putting them in that position. Then, there is only a small window of time within which both parties are actually 'willing' to have the picture be taken. This is just my experience. 'Taking' a picture of someone who is not posing or not in a public performance role feels a lot like stealing to me. The only time it feels ok is when the person is an incidental part of a bigger scene, as in the picture of the girl with the umbrella. Its something I am still sorting out. One morning I saw a fascinating couple near Bryant Park. He was black, she was white, they both wore dreadlocks and were both wearing white except for the brightly colored ribbons in their hair. And, they were pushing a shopping cart with their personal effects. I felt relatively OK with the idea of crossing the street to a discreet vantage point and taking a shot of them. Which I did. But somehow, the man became aware of me, ( Crap! Was I not discreet enough?) turned his partner's head away and started to shake his fist at me. That's right. No-one else knew what was going on - but he and I were very aware of each other and the fight we were having. I felt terrible and deleted the one shot that I was able to squeeze off before he detected me. So, my reservations were not unwarranted. Fast forward an entire year and I'm in the same park ( I pass there every day on my way to work). I went to shoot a gigantic red hibiscus and then sat down for a bit. I was right behind this man. Should I? He was engrossed in his newspaper and his pipe - which he knocked against the side of the park chair every now and then. I took one - he didn't flinch. I took another and another and another - actually not even composing the frame, but working more with the feeling of taking a photo without 'permission'. I'm still not sure that it feels right.

Giant hibiscus - Bryant Park, Aug 2010

Girl, Central Park 10/28/09

Man with smoke  - Aug 2010

Lost Filling Saves Evening.

 Bee on the coleus flower stalk.

There is nothing like fear to cut anger. I think it's a better salve than happiness because when you're really angry you're invested in holding on to it, and nothing as post-ponable as happiness will oust it.

Last night I was stirring the pot again, walking to the corner drugstore to get a repair kit for my mother-in-law, who'd lost a dental filling during her encounter with a slice of cranberry nut bread from Zaro's. That wasn't why I was angry, on the contrary - I'd hoped taking the walk would distract me from the bitter feeling that was threatening to ruin the start of my weekend, if it hadn't already. Anyway, I walk in to the Walgreen's (which has come and plunked itself down in the old location of our neighborhood grocery store, which was itself hemmed out by astronomical lease rates. I heard Walgreen's paid $5 million, and the grocery store manager told me they just couldn't beat or even match it). I went quickly to the dental aisle and picked up the repair kit and some Ambesol in case my mother-in-law started to have pain - then I went to the register to pay. In front of me there was a frail elderly lady who was speaking in a whisper to the checkout girl while sliding her Chase banking card across the counter. Then she turned to me, stepped aside and said - 'Miss, go ahead.' Normally I would, because I am always in a rush, but instead I said - no, no take your time. I realized that the wait was cooling me down and I really didn't mind. So the old lady turned back to the girl and continued speaking: 'This is my card' (again sliding it towards the register). She had no purchases. Waving her hand: 'I went back, but they are all out'. The girl and I turned to look toward the back of the store trying to figure out what it was that she couldn't find. 'They are out and about doing things'. 'I came out and the door closed, see this is my card' (again pushing the bankcard forward as if it would somehow explain everything) 'I put the key in, I think it was the wrong door...' At this, she put her hand over her mouth in a expression that was a mix of despair and "oh-oh, I made a mistake". It was then that I noticed two medical bracelets on her right wrist and my insides dropped. She was lost, or forgetting, or both. I don't know if we were seeing 'Big Al' or a close cousin, but immediately connecting the dots, the room collapsed into concerted action. It was like slow motion suddenly speeding up again as it does in the Matrix movies. The salesgirl took her to have a seat at the Pharmacy, and made a call to the medics. The security guard nodded assuredly as if he'd just foiled a robbery. Another sales person materialized at the register to ring up my purchases which now seemed  ridiculous and comforting at the same time - a lost filling, what a laughable thing! That was when happiness (or a close cousin) was free to make its entry.

Photo: this morning, while writing