2 days ago
Sunday, March 27, 2005
New York break: the Cloisters, 2005
Exactly forty years have passed since I last visited the Cloisters in New York. To the month.
I do believe the Cloisters contain the finest pieces of Medieval European art on this side of the Ocean. But that’s not why I went there – not this day, not forty years ago.
On a bluff, overlooking the Hudson River Valley, they are magnificent.
I never understood, when I was little and dragged there by my parents, that the Cloisters were real – that the columns and the art within were brought over from Europe.
I remember going there in my childhood on the off-Sundays: when my parents hadn’t the will to go elsewhere (Bear Mountain in New Jersey! Miniature golf! Coney Island! Please, not the Cloisters!).
My last visit was when I wasn’t quite twelve. My mother’s closest friend in New York was dying of lung cancer and my mother had gone to see her one last time – to say good-bye. Afterwards, we went to the Cloisters.
My mother wore sunglasses frequently (she liked to imitate Jacqueline Kennedy in this) and so it was not unusual to see her hidden behind the dark lenses.
But that Sunday, she was also unreachable. Baricaded in her own grief, she was unavailable. I have pictures of her then – I always carried my little Kodak with me – and even those little snapshots demonstrate this side of her that I was only then beginning to understand: when tragedy struck, she accepted no consolation.
Exactly fifteen years later, again in spring, after freshly moving to Madison, my own good friend died of cancer. I saw it coming: soon after we became close, she said to me: I did my research, I will be dead within a year. She was.
The Cloisters are the most peaceful spot in all of New York, of that I am certain. I went there yesterday morning, the day before Easter. I went alone, but I was not as alone as on the day when my mother drew boundaries around herself or when my friend faded away. There are good and not so good ways of being alone.
To my Ocean community of family, friends, bloggers and readers -- if you celebrate Easter, have a happy one. And in any event, may we all stay happily connected to each other, in the many good ways available to us.
I do believe the Cloisters contain the finest pieces of Medieval European art on this side of the Ocean. But that’s not why I went there – not this day, not forty years ago.
On a bluff, overlooking the Hudson River Valley, they are magnificent.
I never understood, when I was little and dragged there by my parents, that the Cloisters were real – that the columns and the art within were brought over from Europe.
I remember going there in my childhood on the off-Sundays: when my parents hadn’t the will to go elsewhere (Bear Mountain in New Jersey! Miniature golf! Coney Island! Please, not the Cloisters!).
My last visit was when I wasn’t quite twelve. My mother’s closest friend in New York was dying of lung cancer and my mother had gone to see her one last time – to say good-bye. Afterwards, we went to the Cloisters.
My mother wore sunglasses frequently (she liked to imitate Jacqueline Kennedy in this) and so it was not unusual to see her hidden behind the dark lenses.
But that Sunday, she was also unreachable. Baricaded in her own grief, she was unavailable. I have pictures of her then – I always carried my little Kodak with me – and even those little snapshots demonstrate this side of her that I was only then beginning to understand: when tragedy struck, she accepted no consolation.
Exactly fifteen years later, again in spring, after freshly moving to Madison, my own good friend died of cancer. I saw it coming: soon after we became close, she said to me: I did my research, I will be dead within a year. She was.
The Cloisters are the most peaceful spot in all of New York, of that I am certain. I went there yesterday morning, the day before Easter. I went alone, but I was not as alone as on the day when my mother drew boundaries around herself or when my friend faded away. There are good and not so good ways of being alone.
To my Ocean community of family, friends, bloggers and readers -- if you celebrate Easter, have a happy one. And in any event, may we all stay happily connected to each other, in the many good ways available to us.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
New York break: next time, do your research, kid
I mentioned in my previous post the invitation I got to join a couple of journalists* on their hike this afternoon around the jazz hot spots of Harlem.
I have actually not a thing to say about the walk.
Oh, fine, I will bravely post on, though I’ll limit myself to just four points:
1. It is remarkable (albeit depressing) how little I know about jazz (after the conversation moves beyond Duke Ellington, Charlie Parker, Billie Holiday, Dizzie Galespie, Louis Armstrong, Miles Davis, Dinah Washington, Pearl Bailey and Benny Goodman, I’m out of it);
2. It is remarkable (and again, depressing) how little is left of the jazz scene in Harlem (the Cotton Club? The Paradise? The Savoy Ballroom? Rhythm Club? Mother Shepherd’s? – all gone, without even a single plaque to commemorate them; no wonder I could not find them on my own);
3. It is remarkable how much territory I had already covered here during my solo trek last week (in a state of jazz ignorance and in hellish weather conditions, true, but with time to take out the camera and shoot; today I was totally traumatized by having jazz journalists with me and so I kept my camera, for the most part, in its case, as I mumbled things like “that’s okay…” each time someone asked me if I’d like to take a minute for some camera work);
4. It is remarkable how beautiful the music is of the people whose work I don’t know at all (I was given a handful of CDs, I’m sure out of benevolent compassion for my state of almost complete lack of knowledge about almost everything).
Just two photos then: one of a row of beautiful houses that I had somehow missed last week, and the other of the Lenox Lounge – one of the few spots that is still up and running.
* One of the journalists, Paul Blair, does (as a hobby) walking tours with a jazz focus in and around the city. If you’re ever in NY and want to join his groups, look up his operation at www.SwingStreets.com. The guy knows a hell of a lot about jazz.
I have actually not a thing to say about the walk.
Oh, fine, I will bravely post on, though I’ll limit myself to just four points:
1. It is remarkable (albeit depressing) how little I know about jazz (after the conversation moves beyond Duke Ellington, Charlie Parker, Billie Holiday, Dizzie Galespie, Louis Armstrong, Miles Davis, Dinah Washington, Pearl Bailey and Benny Goodman, I’m out of it);
2. It is remarkable (and again, depressing) how little is left of the jazz scene in Harlem (the Cotton Club? The Paradise? The Savoy Ballroom? Rhythm Club? Mother Shepherd’s? – all gone, without even a single plaque to commemorate them; no wonder I could not find them on my own);
3. It is remarkable how much territory I had already covered here during my solo trek last week (in a state of jazz ignorance and in hellish weather conditions, true, but with time to take out the camera and shoot; today I was totally traumatized by having jazz journalists with me and so I kept my camera, for the most part, in its case, as I mumbled things like “that’s okay…” each time someone asked me if I’d like to take a minute for some camera work);
4. It is remarkable how beautiful the music is of the people whose work I don’t know at all (I was given a handful of CDs, I’m sure out of benevolent compassion for my state of almost complete lack of knowledge about almost everything).
Just two photos then: one of a row of beautiful houses that I had somehow missed last week, and the other of the Lenox Lounge – one of the few spots that is still up and running.
* One of the journalists, Paul Blair, does (as a hobby) walking tours with a jazz focus in and around the city. If you’re ever in NY and want to join his groups, look up his operation at www.SwingStreets.com. The guy knows a hell of a lot about jazz.
New York break: hanging with the big-time boys
When I was twelve I had an autograph book. Every girl in my class (I was in New York then) had an autograph book. We wrote little messages about how we’d be each others’ friend forever. Boys wrote little messages about how great they were.
On the title page of the book you had to write certain things about yourself, including what job you’d eventually like to hold. I put down “journalist.”
I don’t know why I wrote that. I had the label in class of being “good in math.” I didn’t especially like my English teacher. She had milk-breath. I read no Nancy Drew type books about women reporters. In fact, I’m not sure women were very visible in the 1960s world of newspapers, were they? Yet, in my mind, it was clear as anything: I wanted to be a reporter.
Moving back to Poland the next year put a lid on that career choice. Journalists, lawyers and cops – all ratty jobs for the unimaginative, the corrupt, the apologists.
And now, here I am, almost thirty years later -- a blogging member of the legal profession. Ocean is like this fantasy bubble where I can pretend that I have something that resembles a column, with a handful of readers who actually glance at the first sentence of each paragraph (just like in reading news stories).
Today, my circle is complete, because I actually get to hang with my heroes – a handful of reporters and photographers. I have Ocean and the Net to thank for this. I am set to spend the afternoon roaming the upper blocks of Manhattan with people who are professionally documenting life and the music scene of Harlem. I couldn’t be happier.
[What do I wear?? A black turtle neck and washed out jeans? Will they make fun of my dinky little camera? Of my yellow and navy note pad?]
Tune in later.
On the title page of the book you had to write certain things about yourself, including what job you’d eventually like to hold. I put down “journalist.”
I don’t know why I wrote that. I had the label in class of being “good in math.” I didn’t especially like my English teacher. She had milk-breath. I read no Nancy Drew type books about women reporters. In fact, I’m not sure women were very visible in the 1960s world of newspapers, were they? Yet, in my mind, it was clear as anything: I wanted to be a reporter.
Moving back to Poland the next year put a lid on that career choice. Journalists, lawyers and cops – all ratty jobs for the unimaginative, the corrupt, the apologists.
And now, here I am, almost thirty years later -- a blogging member of the legal profession. Ocean is like this fantasy bubble where I can pretend that I have something that resembles a column, with a handful of readers who actually glance at the first sentence of each paragraph (just like in reading news stories).
Today, my circle is complete, because I actually get to hang with my heroes – a handful of reporters and photographers. I have Ocean and the Net to thank for this. I am set to spend the afternoon roaming the upper blocks of Manhattan with people who are professionally documenting life and the music scene of Harlem. I couldn’t be happier.
[What do I wear?? A black turtle neck and washed out jeans? Will they make fun of my dinky little camera? Of my yellow and navy note pad?]
Tune in later.
Friday, March 25, 2005
New Haven break: the other side of whatever
At Atticus books, they claim that March is “umbrella month.” Makes sense. Tends to be wet now. The window display pulls together books with umbrellas on covers.
Which month is railroad track month? I’m on the Metro North now and so I cannot Google this important question, but I am curious.
This morning, I walked over to Wooster Square, which is on the other side of the tracks from Yale. I am interested in things that are “on the other side” – of oceans, tracks – it has implications about how you regard yourself.
Wooster Square is the Italian enclave of New Haven (see photos below). Yalies cross the tracks for a slice of Pepe’s (that’s right, Mr. know-all-about-pizza, it’s Pepe’s, not Sally’s). I cross the tracks for the cookies and the houses (Pepe’s lines are so long!).
The cookie store was closed this morning. My images of tiny Italian confections had to be pushed aside (replaced by a cake slice from Claire’s – see photo below). The streets were empty and no one was buying the Easter bunnies casually displayed in front of a store.
But there is something very reassuring about crossing these New Haven tracks and placing yourself in a neighborhood where eateries and shops have signs indicating a long, if not always prosperous, existence. You leave behind a university-focused set of blocks and enter a neighborhood. Crossing railroad tracks (and oceans) can displace you or place you. They are like oceans, only a hell of a lot more narrow.
Which month is railroad track month? I’m on the Metro North now and so I cannot Google this important question, but I am curious.
This morning, I walked over to Wooster Square, which is on the other side of the tracks from Yale. I am interested in things that are “on the other side” – of oceans, tracks – it has implications about how you regard yourself.
Wooster Square is the Italian enclave of New Haven (see photos below). Yalies cross the tracks for a slice of Pepe’s (that’s right, Mr. know-all-about-pizza, it’s Pepe’s, not Sally’s). I cross the tracks for the cookies and the houses (Pepe’s lines are so long!).
The cookie store was closed this morning. My images of tiny Italian confections had to be pushed aside (replaced by a cake slice from Claire’s – see photo below). The streets were empty and no one was buying the Easter bunnies casually displayed in front of a store.
But there is something very reassuring about crossing these New Haven tracks and placing yourself in a neighborhood where eateries and shops have signs indicating a long, if not always prosperous, existence. You leave behind a university-focused set of blocks and enter a neighborhood. Crossing railroad tracks (and oceans) can displace you or place you. They are like oceans, only a hell of a lot more narrow.
New Haven break: Bright college years with pleasure rife, the shortest, gladdest years of life…
Parents have a way of labeling their children, weighing them down with the burden of their own impressions – ones that you either cannot live up to or are desperate to get rid of. I had both. Their “sunshine” thing was just plain wrong and I proceeded to spend much of my adolescence trying to disprove it. Unfortunately, my parents hardly noticed, being themselves then firmly ensconced in an anti-sunshine phase of life.
The other one – “meet our daughter, she is the perpetual student!” was a blatant apology for my academic indecisiveness. They were not saying – meet Nina, always the learner. They were saying – meet Nina she will never get out of the classroom, ever ever; we’ve basically given up on the idea that she would actually be done with pursuing an academic degree of some sort.
I thought that was unfair for reasons I do not want to go into now. Ocean has long renounced the label of “a blog where one relives one’s grievances against one’s parents.”
But there was a grain of truth in both labels: I was (am) (on the surface) as cheerful as they come. And I do seem addicted to adding fields of interest. I don’t drop them so much as I add on others. A friend told me yesterday about a dissertation being written on the topic of Venetian art and I thought – now that sounds like something I would like to write, even though my knowledge of Venetian art is limited to what I read in guide books. Not worthy of dissertator status, of that I am sure.
In part, I do admit, I simply love universities. I pass Hunter College (part of the NY City College system) almost daily when I am in New York and I get a thrill seeing students pile into the urban halls, plastered with notices of lectures, events, apartments to sublet. The Jagiellonian in Krakow is equally wondrous. I could do the Copernicus tour each time I am in Krakow and each time I will be awed. Yale – say no more. I choke at their alma mater song and it’s not even my song (see lyrics in title of post).
I’m in New Haven for one more day (Brooklyn visit has been moved to another day – keep checking!), as a chance meeting with a law prof forced an extended further meeting today. But I am secretly glad I am part of campus life for just a few more hours.
True, this morning, as I walked up and down New Haven, looking at the beautiful play of a morning sun on the towers that dot the campus, I was very much alone. What academic gets up at dawn these days? But it was a lovely walk, invigorating and inspiring, so that I indeed could imagine myself as a happy student again. This, in turn, lead me to conclude that my parents, in their infinite ignorance about their kids, nonetheless did recognize within me these two strands that are always threatening to disturb my firmly engrained Eastern European angst: I can wake up buoyed by a sunny day and I am indeed deeply in love with the unreal world of academia.
The other one – “meet our daughter, she is the perpetual student!” was a blatant apology for my academic indecisiveness. They were not saying – meet Nina, always the learner. They were saying – meet Nina she will never get out of the classroom, ever ever; we’ve basically given up on the idea that she would actually be done with pursuing an academic degree of some sort.
I thought that was unfair for reasons I do not want to go into now. Ocean has long renounced the label of “a blog where one relives one’s grievances against one’s parents.”
But there was a grain of truth in both labels: I was (am) (on the surface) as cheerful as they come. And I do seem addicted to adding fields of interest. I don’t drop them so much as I add on others. A friend told me yesterday about a dissertation being written on the topic of Venetian art and I thought – now that sounds like something I would like to write, even though my knowledge of Venetian art is limited to what I read in guide books. Not worthy of dissertator status, of that I am sure.
In part, I do admit, I simply love universities. I pass Hunter College (part of the NY City College system) almost daily when I am in New York and I get a thrill seeing students pile into the urban halls, plastered with notices of lectures, events, apartments to sublet. The Jagiellonian in Krakow is equally wondrous. I could do the Copernicus tour each time I am in Krakow and each time I will be awed. Yale – say no more. I choke at their alma mater song and it’s not even my song (see lyrics in title of post).
I’m in New Haven for one more day (Brooklyn visit has been moved to another day – keep checking!), as a chance meeting with a law prof forced an extended further meeting today. But I am secretly glad I am part of campus life for just a few more hours.
True, this morning, as I walked up and down New Haven, looking at the beautiful play of a morning sun on the towers that dot the campus, I was very much alone. What academic gets up at dawn these days? But it was a lovely walk, invigorating and inspiring, so that I indeed could imagine myself as a happy student again. This, in turn, lead me to conclude that my parents, in their infinite ignorance about their kids, nonetheless did recognize within me these two strands that are always threatening to disturb my firmly engrained Eastern European angst: I can wake up buoyed by a sunny day and I am indeed deeply in love with the unreal world of academia.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Take note: a modest suggestion, humbly stated
If you like Ocean, do click here and cast your vote in support of it. Ocean has indeed been nominated (it's one of ten) in the blog contest sponsored by MKEonline and though I’m not in it for the win (really truly), I would be a tiny bit traumatized if I collected only ten votes -- from my immediate family and closest friends who feel duty bound to register their approval (they’d vote if I wrote "padooooka" each day ten times and left it at that).
Thank you!
Thank you!
New Haven break: Question: Why is a Wisconsin law professor sitting in on a Yale Law School class?
Answer: To get to the other side.
Really. How else am I supposed to understand the “student perspective” (on computer use, boredom, tension, etc.) if I am never on the side of the audience? ...If I have lectured for more than fifteen years, but have never sat amidst the students, taking notes on my computer?
One objection raised by faculty who conduct classes in this Internet-driven climate is that flashing screens are a distraction to those (few? many?) who are paying attention.
I am simul-blogging this class, trying hard to have my screen remain as dull as possible. I want to blend! Be part of the pannelled walls! The room is full and every single person is using a computer. A few are, indeed, reading the NYT (though he is talking about the Schiavo case, so the NYT is not irrelevant), a few are emailing. But he’s pacing, moving into the room. Interesting.
New worries for the connected generation: did I remember to mute the volume on the computer? To turn off the cell? Did you know that a NY museum will fine you $50 if your cell phone goes off on its premises?
Oh dear, why does my computer give out occasional puffs, as if it’s revving up for something big, pushing itself to make that extra leap, then giving up? No one else’s does that! I am learning something about the age of my little Dell. And my age as well: dear prof, you are mumbling the ends of sentences. Keep your energy ‘til the end: the last words are not mere shadows of the rest.
Oh! He’s taking a five minute break… says he has something in his eye. Maybe he’s crying?? Everyone of us has had this happen: a lecture must be delivered, even though our emotional world is a complete bloody mess: we enter class and we push ourselves to be in control and we can barely make it until the end. He does seem sad...
And now I am sweating for him, for myself as the interloper, and for the students who are on call. I’m looking at the clock. It’s tough to be in the middle. Next week I’m at the podium again. Nice and safe, with my notes and the seating chart.
Really. How else am I supposed to understand the “student perspective” (on computer use, boredom, tension, etc.) if I am never on the side of the audience? ...If I have lectured for more than fifteen years, but have never sat amidst the students, taking notes on my computer?
One objection raised by faculty who conduct classes in this Internet-driven climate is that flashing screens are a distraction to those (few? many?) who are paying attention.
I am simul-blogging this class, trying hard to have my screen remain as dull as possible. I want to blend! Be part of the pannelled walls! The room is full and every single person is using a computer. A few are, indeed, reading the NYT (though he is talking about the Schiavo case, so the NYT is not irrelevant), a few are emailing. But he’s pacing, moving into the room. Interesting.
New worries for the connected generation: did I remember to mute the volume on the computer? To turn off the cell? Did you know that a NY museum will fine you $50 if your cell phone goes off on its premises?
Oh dear, why does my computer give out occasional puffs, as if it’s revving up for something big, pushing itself to make that extra leap, then giving up? No one else’s does that! I am learning something about the age of my little Dell. And my age as well: dear prof, you are mumbling the ends of sentences. Keep your energy ‘til the end: the last words are not mere shadows of the rest.
Oh! He’s taking a five minute break… says he has something in his eye. Maybe he’s crying?? Everyone of us has had this happen: a lecture must be delivered, even though our emotional world is a complete bloody mess: we enter class and we push ourselves to be in control and we can barely make it until the end. He does seem sad...
And now I am sweating for him, for myself as the interloper, and for the students who are on call. I’m looking at the clock. It’s tough to be in the middle. Next week I’m at the podium again. Nice and safe, with my notes and the seating chart.
New York: Louise's on a wet day
I cross the street and finally I see it: a diner that is open. I have been walking for hours, past blocks and blocks of closed and boarded up houses and stores, barber shops without customers, funeral homes – lots of funeral homes, and every once in a while a grocer with Coors beer flags flapping in the strong gusts of wind. Every square inch of me is saturated with wet snow. And then, on the corner of 121st and Lennox, I see Louise’s.
This post is about nothing at all. Because nothing took place there, I saw nothing of note, heard not a whole lot, ate little, talked less. And yet, it may have been my favorite half hour of the day.
I walk in. Shut that goddam door! --shouts a patron, seated on a stool at the counter. Ten stools, three tables, that’s it.
Sorry, I say and I close the door. I didn’t know that it didn’t swing shut.
It’s open, isn’t it?
You’re right. It’s open. And now it’s shut.
From the woman behind the counter: It’s dinner time now. (at 1 pm?) Here, we have these. I am shown a sheet with a list of hearty dishes, all below $10. Way below $10.
Hmm. I was thinking more like a cup of soup.
No soup today. (Bad timing. Today seems like a soup day if ever there was one.)
Okay, just tea then. I get my tea. The news is on the TV. One of Louise’s crew is eating eggs, sausages and pancakes. The others are sitting, watching – first me, then the TV. Finally, one says: would you like something with that tea?
Like what?
We have cornbread.
I’d like that.
She (Louise? Probably not. Why do I think there hasn't been a Louise around for years...) smears butter over two pieces (Okay! That’s enough, thanks! – I say, and then I catch myself. Maybe it tastes great with lots of butter). She grills them until they’re good and crisp.
Want jelly on that?
Is it better that way?
Yup.
Lay it on.
The cake under that dome, it’s home made?
It is.
Horrible weather. Came as a surprise, didn’t it?
Yes, it sure did.
The one decoration is a big poster describing what to do if a customer chokes.
The first patron leaves having ordered nothing, a second comes in, sits down next to me, orders toast and lemonade. He stares at me taking my picture of a cup of tea. [Sometimes blogging is impossible to explain and so I offer no explanation.]
I hate to leave. It’s so warm – the kind of place you can doze off in. I watch the weather on the grainy TV screen. More snow-sleet-rain. Check please. I look at my total for the tea, cornbread with butter and jam: $1.45.
I’m energized. I take on the next several dozen blocks of my Harlem walk.
This post is about nothing at all. Because nothing took place there, I saw nothing of note, heard not a whole lot, ate little, talked less. And yet, it may have been my favorite half hour of the day.
I walk in. Shut that goddam door! --shouts a patron, seated on a stool at the counter. Ten stools, three tables, that’s it.
Sorry, I say and I close the door. I didn’t know that it didn’t swing shut.
It’s open, isn’t it?
You’re right. It’s open. And now it’s shut.
From the woman behind the counter: It’s dinner time now. (at 1 pm?) Here, we have these. I am shown a sheet with a list of hearty dishes, all below $10. Way below $10.
Hmm. I was thinking more like a cup of soup.
No soup today. (Bad timing. Today seems like a soup day if ever there was one.)
Okay, just tea then. I get my tea. The news is on the TV. One of Louise’s crew is eating eggs, sausages and pancakes. The others are sitting, watching – first me, then the TV. Finally, one says: would you like something with that tea?
Like what?
We have cornbread.
I’d like that.
She (Louise? Probably not. Why do I think there hasn't been a Louise around for years...) smears butter over two pieces (Okay! That’s enough, thanks! – I say, and then I catch myself. Maybe it tastes great with lots of butter). She grills them until they’re good and crisp.
Want jelly on that?
Is it better that way?
Yup.
Lay it on.
The cake under that dome, it’s home made?
It is.
Horrible weather. Came as a surprise, didn’t it?
Yes, it sure did.
The one decoration is a big poster describing what to do if a customer chokes.
The first patron leaves having ordered nothing, a second comes in, sits down next to me, orders toast and lemonade. He stares at me taking my picture of a cup of tea. [Sometimes blogging is impossible to explain and so I offer no explanation.]
I hate to leave. It’s so warm – the kind of place you can doze off in. I watch the weather on the grainy TV screen. More snow-sleet-rain. Check please. I look at my total for the tea, cornbread with butter and jam: $1.45.
I’m energized. I take on the next several dozen blocks of my Harlem walk.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
New York break: one hundred streets of fortitude
I sit in my chair
And filled with despair
There’s no one could be so sad
With gloom everywhereI sit and I stare
I know that I’ll soon go mad…
[Billie Holiday, Solitude]
Rain, sleet, snow, then a combination of the three. New York, imitating a Wisconsin spring. Thanks, I feel so at home.
No, wait! You’re reading Ocean, written by a blogger made of hearty Polish peasant stock (with strains of gypsy, I am told). I’m out. Billie pushed me out the door, straight into Harlem, where she herself once crooned.
[Here I have to express deep gratitude to Paul Blair, NY jazz journalist who chatted with me for some time this morning about Harlem. Invaluable! For more on Paul, tune in on Friday – he and I are taking a walk through his home turf – Brooklyn.]
The thing is, I want to check out the entire Harlem neighborhood and that place is monstrously big. Indeed, I got off the subway at 168th and Broadway and I honestly did walk more than 100 blocks, this way and that. I’m cold. Frozen, in fact. I’m tired. I saw so much. But I did not see enough.
A great deal has been written about the gentrification of Harlem, about Bill Clinton’s digs there, about 125th street, but are we all on the same page about this? Has Harlem changed that much?
From my walk, I would say not as much as it could have, should have. West Harlem, upwards of 140th, the little Dominica of New York, is significantly disadvantaged. The Black central Harlem around Strivers’ Row (so named because it was, even 100 years ago, a place for the socially and professionally upwardly mobile) has signs of rebirth, but the renovated row houses are completely surrounded by blocks of closed storefronts and abandoned buildings in need of repair. Jungle Alley and Marcus Garvey Park are hangouts – of the type where you don’t want to hang out for long and especially not after dark.
And yet, Harlem still seems alive and pushing ahead, in spite of it all. Art and culture thrived here in the 20s and 30s, even though the anticipated economic rebirth never took off then. The brownstones, some of the most beautiful in the city, were never occupied by prosperous owners. Instead, Black families squeezed out of other New York districts, moved here, rented at inflated prices, and stayed, and with them stayed the music and the clubs and the art. All are evident. It’s a kickin’ neighborhood!
The pictures below are the Harlem that I want to see more of. It is the boom rather than the bust (with an occasional photographic digression). It is the hope, not hype. [The photos follow the geographic progression of my walk – from 168th down to the northern tip of Central Park. Adjust the quality, please, for the fact that it was raining-snowing-sleeting and the wind was blowing me up to the rooftops, along with the goddam umbrella, the bag, the camera and my super-sized scarf, frantically protecting me from the horrible weather.]
And filled with despair
There’s no one could be so sad
With gloom everywhereI sit and I stare
I know that I’ll soon go mad…
[Billie Holiday, Solitude]
Rain, sleet, snow, then a combination of the three. New York, imitating a Wisconsin spring. Thanks, I feel so at home.
No, wait! You’re reading Ocean, written by a blogger made of hearty Polish peasant stock (with strains of gypsy, I am told). I’m out. Billie pushed me out the door, straight into Harlem, where she herself once crooned.
[Here I have to express deep gratitude to Paul Blair, NY jazz journalist who chatted with me for some time this morning about Harlem. Invaluable! For more on Paul, tune in on Friday – he and I are taking a walk through his home turf – Brooklyn.]
The thing is, I want to check out the entire Harlem neighborhood and that place is monstrously big. Indeed, I got off the subway at 168th and Broadway and I honestly did walk more than 100 blocks, this way and that. I’m cold. Frozen, in fact. I’m tired. I saw so much. But I did not see enough.
A great deal has been written about the gentrification of Harlem, about Bill Clinton’s digs there, about 125th street, but are we all on the same page about this? Has Harlem changed that much?
From my walk, I would say not as much as it could have, should have. West Harlem, upwards of 140th, the little Dominica of New York, is significantly disadvantaged. The Black central Harlem around Strivers’ Row (so named because it was, even 100 years ago, a place for the socially and professionally upwardly mobile) has signs of rebirth, but the renovated row houses are completely surrounded by blocks of closed storefronts and abandoned buildings in need of repair. Jungle Alley and Marcus Garvey Park are hangouts – of the type where you don’t want to hang out for long and especially not after dark.
And yet, Harlem still seems alive and pushing ahead, in spite of it all. Art and culture thrived here in the 20s and 30s, even though the anticipated economic rebirth never took off then. The brownstones, some of the most beautiful in the city, were never occupied by prosperous owners. Instead, Black families squeezed out of other New York districts, moved here, rented at inflated prices, and stayed, and with them stayed the music and the clubs and the art. All are evident. It’s a kickin’ neighborhood!
The pictures below are the Harlem that I want to see more of. It is the boom rather than the bust (with an occasional photographic digression). It is the hope, not hype. [The photos follow the geographic progression of my walk – from 168th down to the northern tip of Central Park. Adjust the quality, please, for the fact that it was raining-snowing-sleeting and the wind was blowing me up to the rooftops, along with the goddam umbrella, the bag, the camera and my super-sized scarf, frantically protecting me from the horrible weather.]
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
