NO WORDS_DAILY PIX BY HUGH CRAWFORD
POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_SWEET AND LOW
The small and large ways that people look out for one another in a big city sometimes go unnoticed. But these efforts save lives and help make our city feel like a realy community.
Case in point. In a co-op apartment building in Park Slope, a 77-year old man I’ll call Mike, lives in a small rent-controlled apartment, which he has occupied for 40 years.
Mike has diabetes and in the last year his health has taken a turn for the worse. My friend who lives in the building, noticed the way his shoulders looked bony and sharp through his shirt and asked him if he was okay. "They don’t know what’s the matter with me," he told her. "But I can’t eat. Sometimes I go over to Methodist and have lunch in their cafeteria."
For a few days my friend brought him plates of roast chicken and spagetti. "Don’t bring too much," he said. "My refrigerator is broken."
My friend then decided to contact Meals on Wheels. Mike now gets one hot meal a day delivered Monday through Friday.
The Department of the Aged, which administers Meals on Wheels, assigned Mike’s case to the Prospect Hill Senior Center (PHSC) on Prospect Avenue.
Last week, the case supervisor from PHSC called my friend to say that Mike wasn’t answering his door when his food was delivered. "Is there a problem with him?" she said. "Why don’t you knock on his door."
My friend went upstairs and knocked on his door but there was no answer. She left a note that said "I’ve got your food."
The next day the note was still on the door. She asked the super if he had Mike’s keys but he didn’t. He did have the keys to the apartment two floors below Mike’s and climbed up to his apartment on the fire escape in a teeming rain.
Mike wasn’t there.
My friend called the case worker at the Prospect Hill Senior Center, who suggested that she call the local hospitals. "Don’t call the police yet," she advised. "If they don’t have a key they will just break the door down. And Mike doesn’t need that on top of everything else."
A call to Methodist Hospital revealed that Mike was there. However, he didn’t have phone service in the room. My friend was unable to find out how he got there and why.
Another man in the building who I’ll call Dave has also been looking out for Mike. He put a up a note near the elevator in the lobby that said:
Concerned neighbors: Mike is at Methodist Hospital. He would appreciate visitors. He likes his coffee light with Sweet and Low.
Dave later informed my friend that Mike had taken a fall and had a gash on his head. Another neighbor had taken him to the hosptial and waited with him there for six hours. My friend recognized that there needed to be more communication between the people in the building who were making efforts on behalf of Mike.
Mike is back home. But he’d probably still appreciate visitors. And he likes his coffee light with Sweet and Low.
POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Celebs at the Playground
Today I saw two movie actors at the Third Street Playground. And I have to say they looked like incredibly nice and normal people.
Period.
They were sitting on the side of the sandbox just like all the other parents who sit on the side of the sandbox, watching their child play in the sand.
Period.
The guy, who is incredibly tall, looked like any Sunday morning dad, enjoying time with his son.
The woman, is every bit as beautiful as she is in the movies. In fact, seeing her made me realize what a natural beauty she is. She glows. But she doesn’t look particularly glamorous or celebrity-like.
She looks like a real person. A real person with really nice causual clothes. Great boots, a cool down vest, cashmere sweater, perfectly fitting jeans.
Period.
The other night, I watched "Requium for a Dream," the movie version of the Hubert Selby Coney Island novel. It’s an intense and devestating movie. A really hopeless sad story told with an inordinate amount of style.
She is just incredible in the movie. So very real. I believed her completely as the character.
I think she’s a teriffic actress. And he in "A Beautiful Mind" is just magical. They both were.
What a pair.
I for one am proud that they live in Park Slope and can go to the Third Street Playground without anyone making a fuss.
Yeah, I know I’m writing about it. And that’s kinda making a fuss. I thought about that as I tried to keep my eyes off of them. I can’t lie: I did observe them. Not in a stalkerish way. But in a — "I just saw you yesterday in a movie I rented from Netflix and now you’re in the sandbox at the playground…"
Truly, though. I think they’re cool. They can afford to live anywhere in the world and they choose to live her. This is a nice place to make a life.
Even if you’re a movie star.
NO WORDS_Daily Pix by Hugh Crawford
POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_ONLY THE BLOG KNOWS HOW TO ADMIT THAT SHE’S WRONG
Only the Blog Knows How to Admit that She’s Wrong. I stand corrected. I want to thank Eric Richmond, owner of the Brooklyn Lyceum, for clueing me in on what’s been going on at the Lyceum. I have attended a couple of events there — a Polygraph Lounge show (and auction for MS51) and a fabu dance party. I love the space and love to hear that it is alive and well. I apologize for saying that the space was underutilized. I don’t know a whole lot about what’s been going on there. Here’s what Richmond had to say:
come on guys…
it appears that this "blogdoesntknow" and that the"blogdoesntresearch".
a cursory review of the events at the lyceum at the bizarre name of brooklynlyceum.com probably wouldnt turn up much.
not.. the brooklyn underground film festival
not…mum
not…cyro bptista(two runs)
not…the circus of vices and virtues(docuumentary on the bbc)
not…duck baker and marc ribot
not…dance theater workshop
not…the polyphonic spree
not…asbury shorts of new york
not…cmj music festival (2002 & 2005)
not…marshall arisman exhibt for 3 months
not…several weddings
not…fundraisers for a number of groups and schools.
not..the improv summit where the best improv groups in the city perform
not..the 6 month run of too much light makes the baby go blind.
not…the 500 people who visited it during open house new york 2005
not…posters for shows that have at times laminated park slope and ft greene and williamsburg.maybe a perusal of one link on the brooklynlyceum.com website such as http://www.brooklynlyceum.com/before might shed some light
maybe a perusal of another link http://www.brooklynlyceum.com/RE/photos
maybe a litsearch on nytimes.com for "brooklyn lyceum" or "public bath #7"
maybe read one of the banners or signs or posters on the exterior of the building.
as for the scaffolding, until such time as we get a good
contractor/architect combo up to the task, it will remain in place. a
bit of an eyesore, but get a grip folks. of all the things in life to
have an opinion on, isn’t that a pretty superficial one. to come up
with all that negative conjecture without ever visiting the buiding or
its website and denigrating its based on its exterior and having no
clue that it is a theater that has been attended by over 100,000
patrons in the last five years is pretty pathetic.maybe the folks running the lyceum(me plus one other person) have
figured out that the glib brooklyn faux-journalists are not the target
market. the lyceum has been open for 5 years and has had over 75
productions and over 500 nights of events. and it is still here.think about it. the tough marketing-phobic skin that park slopers
have precludes many different experiences. a friend of mine nailed it
several years ago when we were discussing the differences betwen new
york and chicago. Chicago is a theater town, new york is a fashion
town. paraphrased, chicagoans enjoy the hunt for art, new yorkers
refuse to hunt. that is changing as new york is invaded with the rest
of america, but not in time for you.reviews and listings in the times, new york magazine, time out new
york, the new yorker, the voice and others have completely passed
beyond your view. more likely is that without a million dollar ad
capaign to search you out you are completely unable to navigate culture
at the sub-broadway, non bar-band levels.i always find it humorous when i get european tourists who visit because they have seen footage of it on the bbc.
the lyceum is a wonderful building and a cultural resource in a
resource starved region. too bad you missed it, you might enjoy it. but
more likely those who supplant you in brooklyn will.
NO WORDS_DAILY PIX BY HUGH CRAWFORD
NO WORDS_DAILY PIX BY HUGH CRAWFORD
POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_STRANGERS
Day after day, I see the same people on Seventh Avenue. They are not really strangers and certainly not friends; I don’t really know them but they pass through the same spaces I do. We trade smiles and sometimes say hello. Sometimes, we even have short conversations.
There’s the guy who introduced himself to my sister and me at the Mojo. He overheard us talking about "The Catcher in the Rye," and told us that it was his favorite book. Months later, I bought a shelf unit from him at a stoop sale. Recently, he told me about his plans to become a veterinarian.
Then there are the people that seem to keep the same schedule as me. Those I run into every time I go out. It can be embarassing to say "hi again," again and again. But I do.
Some of these "strangers" make me curious like the handsome PS 321 dad who looks like a gray haired Christopher Reeves. And the interesting woman some call "Skirt Lady:" she wears a hand-sewn black skirt and a white t-shirt most of the time. Her style could be described as minimalist/Amish.
Then there are the ones I sort of know: the parents I see at drop-off and pick-up day after day, or run into at the Mojo; who I know through the PTA; whose children have been in classes with mine; those I see at the co-op, the playground, or running around the park.
Over the years, I have developed an easy familiarity with the people who work in the stores on Seventh Avenue: the helpful women at the Clay Pot, who cheerfully check the prices of jewelry I can’t afford. The friendly woman at Cousin John’s who always remembers how I like my coffee, the man at Sound Track who asks my opinion of the music I am buying.
To make a list of all these people would be impossible. First of all, I don’t know their names. Secondly, if I did know, the list would be very long.
These are the people in my daily landscape, who make up the community that I am part of. Not really strangers, not really friends, they are the in-between people who people our lives as we walk to the places we are going; who show up at the same events we do; who happen to be on the street when we are.
There should be a word for it. Frangers. A cross between stranger and friend.
NO WORDS_DAILY PIX BY HUGH CRAWFORD
POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_GUILT
Quite a few times a day I feel little wisps of guilt about things I probably shouldn’t feel guilty about but I do.
I feel guilty every time I pass the panhandler who often stands in front of the Ace Supermarket on Seventh Avenue at Berkeley. He always looks at me so expectantly. That’s probably because I once gave him $10 dollars.
He pissed me off, though. About an hour later he hit me up for more money.
"I just gave you $10 dollars," I said. "That’s right. Excuse me. Sorry,
miss."
I read an article about him once in Stay Free Magazine and found out that he needs $20 dollars a day to pay for his room in a flop house somewhere in Brooklyn. He’s got a handsome face; a winning smile. I feel guilty every time I don’t give him some money. But I also want to disabuse him of the idea that I’m good for $10 dollars.
I feel guilty every time I walk past the coffee cart on Eighth Avenue at Lincoln Place holding a cup of coffee from Cousin John’s. He’s such a nice man and when I do buy coffee he always jokes: "You want it for here or to go?" I laugh and say, "I’ll take it at the cafe table over there pointing to the sidewalk.
Sometimes I cross the street diagonally so that he won’t see me. If I walk right by his truck, I try to hide my coffee under my coat.
I also feel bad not buying the New York Times from the nice man who stands on the corner near the coffee cart selling papers to the morning rush hour crowd. "I mostly read the Times on the Internet," I think guiltily. Sometimes I have to stop myself from blurting that out loud – revealing my patent disrespect for printed matter.
During Pledge Week on WNYC, I feel guilty the longer I put off actually making a pledge to my favorite radio station. Especially when they say stuff like "$100 dollars is what you might spend on a trip to the grocery, or a meal at a good restaurant." WNYC is on in our house practically all day – from Morning Edition to the BBC after 9 p.m. It really does make a qualitative difference in our lives. It is our main source of news and media entertainment. Yet, I always procastinate, waiting until near the end of the pledge drive to actually call in
Similarly, I feel guilty every time I pass the Candy Sale sign in front of PS 321 knowing that I missed the deadline for orders. As one of the biggest PTA fundraisers, it brings a lot of money and programs into the school. Still, I was unable to motivate myself to find anything in there worth buying. Actually, I did make a list of things like magazines subsciptions and wrapping paper that seemed okay. But the order sheet is still in a pile of papers in the dining room.
Guilt is such an overused word. Is it guilt that I am feeling or just a kind of discomfort about these things. The word guilt is from the old English word: gylt, which means crime. In dictionary.com it is described as: "culpability for a crime or lesser breach of regulations that carries a legal penalty." It’s not a crime to walk past the panhandler, buy the kind of coffee I like, read the Times’ on the Internet, procrastinate about making a contribution to WNYC, or decide to ignore the Candy Sale. it’s more like a self-reproach; I feel bad but not bad enough to do it differently.
Tomorrow I am going to buy my coffee where I want to. I will walk without guilt past the coffee man. If he wants my business, he’s going to have to use a better brand of coffe. And that’s final.
NO WORDS_Daily Pix by Hugh Crawford
POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_BOO
My daughter took it upon herself to decorate our building, an 8-unit limestone, with handmade Halloween decorations.
The first week of October, she made numerous drawings — wonderful ghouls, howling dogs, witches, and devils — and taped them on the walls of the public hallway.
Earlier this week at Little Things, we found a soft Dracula candy holder she couldn’t live without. I picked up some candy corn and Halloween signs at Save-on-Fifth. And the Food Coop had some of the most beautifully patterned gourds I have ever seen.
Ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching. (that’s the sound of an old fashioned cash register).
Last night, everything came together: we made a make-shift table out of grocery boxes and used a sparkly silver fabric as a tablecloth. We put it in the hallway by our front door and filled Dracula with candy corn and M&Ms, and little plastic pumpkins.
Voila. I think we’re done. For now.
The sweet sweetness of the candy corn is already getting to me. The chaps for my daughter’s cowgirl costume are at the dry cleaners getting hemmed. My son hasn’t even mentioned his pirate costume (I guess at 14 you don’t need to involve your parents anymore). We’ve got a heinously busy weekend planned.
Take a deep breath and get ready for Halloween.
NO WORDS_DAILY PIX BY HUGH CRAWFORD
POSTCARD FROM THE EDGE_STEVE BUSCEMI SHOW IN GOWANUS AREA
Were you at the Issue Project Room last night? I wasn’t. But I wish I’d been able to get in there.
My husband went but he couldn’t get in because he didn’t have a RESERVATION. They set up a space for some of the overflow crowd to view the event on video. But he couldn’t even get in there. Located in a silo-like building near the Carroll Street Bridge in the Gowanus area, the Issue Projects Room is not a very large space.
But in the teeming rain, there was, of course, a huge crowd for local celebrity-hero Steve Buscemi and Stanley Tucci.
If you were on the e-mailing list of Issue Project Room, you might have known about this special evening which presented Steve Buscemi and Stanley Tucci, reading excerpts from screenplays of current remakes of films by the late Dutch filmmaker Theo Van Gogh.
Turns out Tucci was NOT scheduled to be there. "Stanley Tucci was rumored to be here," Buscemi told the crowd pre-show. "He was never planning to come. He hates Brooklyn. Actually he’s working." (paraphrase by a friend who was there.)
Ida Tuturro was there and, according to my friend, delivered a knock out performance in "Blindate" with Steve Buscemi. My friend, whose boyfriend was smart enough to make reservations on Sunday, said that all the actors were top notch and that it was an incredibly great evening. The surprise musical guests were Chocolate Genuis, but she didn’t stay to hear them.
"Interview", directed by Buscemi, is the story of a star political journalist who must interview a popular soap opera actress against his will.
"Blinddate" directed by Tucci, tells of a grieving couple who cope with the loss of their child by acting out new identities through personal ads.
Excerpts were read from a third Van Gogh screenplay "06", a tale of two people who meet on a phone sex hotline and develop arelationship without ever meeting. Originally nominated for a Dutch academy award in 1994, "06" is set to be directed by Bob Balaban.
And it only cost $20.
ISSUE: Project Room provides "an open and versatile enviroment where both established and emerging artics can conduct, exhibit and perform new and site-specific work according to their respective vision."
Get on their mailing list and find out about innovative projects, rare artist appearances (I’ll say), first time showings, and multidisciplinary events.
ISSUE PROJECT ROOM
400 Carroll Street
(between Bond & Nevins)
on the Gowanus Canal
www.issueprojectroom.org
info@issueprojectroom.org
POSTCARD FROM TH SLOPE_OF POLAROIDS AND LASTING FRIENDSHIP
When Jamie Livingston, photographer, filmmaker, circus performer,
accordian player, Mets fan, and above all, loyal friend, died
on October 25th (his birthday) in 1997 at the age of 41, he left behind
hundreds of bereft friends and a collection of 6,000 photographs neatly
organized in small suitcases and wooden fruit crates.
Jamie took a polaroid once a day, every day, including his last, for 18 years.
This
photographic diary, which he called, "Polaroid of the Day," or P.O.D.,
began when Jaime was a student at Bard College in Annandale-on-Hudson.
The project continued when he moved to apartments in New York City
including the incredible circus memorabelia-filled loft on Fulton
Street, which he shared with his best friend. That loft was the site of
many a Glug party, an "orphans thanksgiving," a super-8 festival of
Jamie’s lyrical films, and a rollicking music jam.
The picture
taking continued as Jamie traveled the world with the Janus Circus, his
very own circus-troupe, and later when he became a much-in-demand
cinematographer and editor of music videos back in the early days of
MTV. He contributed his talents to the ground-breaking Nike
"Revolution" spot and many other commercials, too. Through it all he
took pictures, made movies, and loved his friends. And the polaroids
reflect all of that: a life bursting with activity, joy and sadness, too.
Jamie brought his camera wherever he went. As one friend
said, "It probably helped his social life because everyone wanted to be
in a photo of the day." It was always interesting to see what Jaime
deemed worthy of a P.O.D. My husband remembers his own 30th birthday party
in his photo studio on Ludlow Street: "Hundreds of people filled my
loft and the party snaked down Ludlow Street to Stanton. But what did
Jamie take a picture of? A potato chip or something. It was a gorgeous
shot, though."
But more often than not, the photos were of
friends, family, himself, special places he had visited, or just
something that caught his discriminating eye. And if he’d been to a
Mets Game that day, that was it — a Mets game was always a worthy
P.O.D.
And the pictures are utterly gorgeous miracles of
photographic artistry. The color, the light, the time lapse swirls, the
unerring composition. Whether it was a still life of what he’d eaten
for dinner, an unblinking shot of his beloved grandfather (Pops), or
swooningly romantic portraits of his beautiful wife or ex-girlfriends,
any one of these photographs should be in a museum collection. But
perhaps more importantly, Jamie’s friends and the world need access to
these pictures, which is why his devoted friends have been talking for
years about ways to exhibit this massive body of work.
Back in
September at a bris for the son of a good friend, my husband and our friend Betsy, one
of Jamie’s still devoted ex-girlfriends, started talking about the
P.O.D.s: "Why don’t we finally re-photograph all 6,000 of
them and put them on a web site." And that’s practically what they did.
They spent many October days digitally re-photographing the picures.
This labor of love was also exceedingly labor intensive and they only
got up to 1990 (the P.O.D.s started in 1978). But they plan to finish the
rest when they have some time again.
A year ago today there was a "Jamie Fest," a
commemoration of the seventh anniversary of his death, a small group of
friends gathered at the envy-inducing loft of one of Jamie’s oldest,
dearest friends in Tribeca and were treated to a veritable feast of
PODs, films, good red wine, beer, and Chinese food. There was a warmth
in that room, a convivial feeling of purpose, as the friends remembered
their friend who left behind a journal of his life and their’s too.
My husband set up a random, non-chronological slide show of these pictures, as
well as a special "computer station" where Jamie’s friends could browse
the well-indexed shots year-by-year, month-by-month, day-by-day.
Hunched over the computer,some pictures made them sad, some made them
reflective, some made them very, very quiet. Others made them laugh or
squeal with recognition of an almost forgotten face, a wonderful
memory, a special time too, too long ago.
Jamie was the best
man at our wedding. He was husband’s tereasured co-hort since their days at Bard College. I met Jamie soon after
meeting Hepcat, probably at the Great Jones Cafe, and always enjoyed our group adventures, including the annual walk of the elephants down
34th Street when the Ringling Brothers Circus arrived in town, the
trips to photo shows to buy cameras and old photographs, their brunches
at the Cottonwood Cafe, or seeing the Mets, and the Rolling Stones’
Steel Wheels tour at Shea Stadium. I remember when Jamie
visited me at the hospital when I was having pre-term labor with my son and nearly lost him. I remember how he and Betsy carried a heavy gift of a vintage toy box to my son’s first
birthday party in Prospect Park.
At the "Jamie Fest" last year I located the stunning P.O.D. of our wedding day and
marveled at how young and thin I was back then (marriage and kids
really ages you). My husband looked so young and
handsome in his father’s tuxedo. I also found the picture from the
night before the wedding when Jaime and Betsy joined at the emergency room at Beth Israel Hospital because my husband thought he had a broken his neck in a minor (okay major) car accident a
few days before the wedding (pre-wedding nerves, no doubt).
Jaime
and Betsy sat with us from mid-night until five a.m., while we waited for my husband’s neck to be X-Rayed. It turned out that he had a nasty case of whiplash and had to wear a neck brace at the wedding.
When I suggested that Jamie and Betsy go home to get some sleep,
Jaime refused to budge saying, "I’m your bestman. This is part of my
job."
On this the 8th anniversary of Jamie’s death: Thank you, Jamie, for being our bestman. And thanks for
giving us a stunning portrait of our lives. You gave us more than you
can ever know.
