Cynthia Chaldekas's blog

The largest cultural institutions of New York City like the Metropolitan Museum of Art, The American Museum of Natural History and New York Public Library, were established in the latter half of the 19th century and the early part of the 20th century. There was a major push among the wealthiest Americans to establish a cultural identity of our own. We were a young country, bereft of the cultural lineage that existed in Europe. Despite America’s youth we showed ourselves to be a vast country, devoted to the dollar, with seemingly room for little else. But men, like J.P. Morgan understood that life void of education and culture was a life not worth living. A balance must be met, to soften the edge of a hard capitalist society. Despite the controversy surrounding Morgan in regards to how he conducted himself in business, the fact remains that we owe much to him and others like him who bestowed great wealth on institutions, whose sole purpose was to enrich the lives of everyone and that tenet still holds today.

A number of years ago while in graduate school, I took part in a private tour of the Morgan Library. While we sat in Morgan's sumptuous jewel toned library, replete with priceless volumes from the 16th century to the 20th century, the speaker encouraged us to read Morgan: An American Financier by Jean Strouse. He described the book as the definitive biography of J. P. Morgan. At the conclusion of the tour, my mind a swirl in the world of J.P. Morgan, I made a mental note to myself to read Strouse’s lengthy tome. A few years later, I did.

After reading Strouse’s biography of Morgan, much impressed me about the man: his power, vision and his philanthropy. During the bridge years between the 19th and 20th century, tremendous energy was devoted to giving on a truly monumental scale. Morgan took the lead in giving among his peers. He perhaps more than any other of his colleagues combed the world over for treasures to fill the museums he was establishing back in America. With the steady intelligent eye of Bella de Costa Greene by his side, Morgan created a grand and lasting legacy. Every time I enter the Morgan Library or the Metropolitan Museum, I bow my head in thanks.

Please join Jean Strouse as she examines J.P. Morgan’s legacy in the arts on Wednesday, Oct. 28 @ 6:30 @ the Mid-Manhattan Library

Images of the Morgan Library courtesy of the Morgan Library
http://www.themorgan.org/about/historyMore.asp?id=11

Image of the Metropolitan Museum courtesy of: http://www.nyc-architecture.com/UES/UES074.htm

The commercial strips of the neighborhoods of New York City are the lifeblood of the community and city at large. It is where the action is. People shop, stroll, and mingle on the street. In warm weather men often pull up chairs, to discuss the day’s events in front of their local barbershop, with the twirling barbershop poll acting as a beacon in the background. While bodegas with their blinking colored signs often seem to host a never ending domino game in front of their storefronts. And corner candy stores are magnates for youngsters, tossing balls or cruising on skateboards. Teenage hoods hang out too but at curbside with cigarettes in their mouths. The commercial strips of the neighborhood of the city are a microcosm of the city itself. You can feel the life and energy in front of many storefronts. The social community that is organized around the business district help gauge the health of the neighborhood. Commercial strips are fluid entities and change like a river. In one generation the street may be lined with mom and pop businesses: a bread store, dry cleaner and an Italian deli with meats hanging in the window, while in latter generations the street may change many times over. In Park Slope, where I live, I have witnessed one storefront after another close, because the next generation did not want to continue in the family business.

In the time that I have lived in my neighborhood, I have seen the closing of many storefronts. Some close up shop because storeowners want to make a big buck as developers greedily eye the strip and think of tearing down and building anew, while others can’t bear the thought of having an outsider running their business, choosing instead to shut down their business that was instrumental in supporting their family. Remnants of the old sign of the business are often buried under the new signage, sometimes it is visible: a shadow on the wall where the letters were once placed or painted words that peak out from under the new sign and sometimes you can even see hints of where the neon tubing was attached. Or in the case of Garry Jewelers on 5th Ave, in my neighborhood, it is the name Garry in a smooth mosaic tile on the ground, at the entryway. The neon of Garry Jewelers is still there, but now it is always dark and it is only a matter of time until this beautiful sign, established in 1951, finds its way to the junk heap.

Please join the authors of Store Front James T & Karla L. Murray as they present a slide lecture on the Disappearing Store Fronts of New York City on Monday, Oct 26th at 6:30 PM on the 6th floor of the Mid-Manhattan Library.

Images from: http://www.jamesandkarlamurray.com/JamesandKarlaMurraySTOREFRONT.html

In the Rossville section of Staten Island there is a small little graveyard. It is hidden away, on the side of a two-lane road. This tiny graveyard seems out of place in an area that is dotted with light industry and that’s about it. The smattering of houses that probably once existed, as well as a store or two are long gone. Perhaps there was a ferry crossing here and a depot too, but whatever was here long ago is only represented by an early 19th century graveyard. The graveyard sits on a bit of land that is on the water, near the infamous Tugboat Graveyard. Stone stairs lead to a shaded spot, where the overhang of the trees acts as a natural screen, blocking any view from the street. No one has stopped by this graveyard in a long time. Maybe a dozen grave markers rest on either side of an overgrown path. Some gravestones are in very good condition, made of stone that has withstood nature’s natural erosion process. Other markers are in much poorer condition, almost bare with only a hint of letters on the face of the marker. The stone of these naked markers is sparkly with crystals and when you touch them, the crystalline grains of stone come right off in your hand. Sadly some markers sit in heaps of thin sheets of shirred brown stone on the ground. It has been years since anyone has taken care of this graveyard. At one time this was a visited place. People whose lives were taken from them while they were in their prime are buried here: children and men and women of varying ages, many quite young. These beautifully carved stones may have been the only relic remaining to give solace to the living for their loved ones who are buried at this graveyard.

At the time these stones were made, they were carved by hand. Chisels and mallets carved sinuous lines into the hard stone. No computer driven machine wrote the tender missive underneath the name and date of death on one stone. The elegant decorative design that is at the top of another marker was carved by a caring hand. Men with tremendous skill, cut into the hard stone in such a way that makes the letters look light, even ethereal. Some stones show a combination of writing styles. Script with arabesques may be followed by a heavily stylized letter design, and then followed by yet another style. The letters rest on an invisible line of unbelievable straightness. The beauty of these stones is the result of dedicated training, strong hands, simple stone carving tools and an intuitive design sense.

Please join us on Tuesday October 20th at 6:30 PM when Mid-Manhattan Library will be presenting New York’s Early Gravestone Imagery: The Artisans of the 18th Century Memorials in the Metropolitan Area with guest speaker John Zielenski.

Photographs courtesy of Peter and Genevieve:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/peteandgenevieve/3645700576/in/set-72157619...

Almost 30 years ago, my husband and I stood on a corner in Brooklyn, to watch the New York City Marathon. We were essentially alone watching the runners on that cool fall day so long ago. We watched, as a trickle of runners became thousands of runners, coursing through the streets of New York City, eventually to the large fanfare that would greet them in Manhattan along 1st Ave, Central Park South and in Central Park itself at the finish line.

Since that day, I have watched a lot of NYC marathons. I live on a street that is steps away from 4th Ave, the long stretch the runners hit as they come off the Verrazano’s Bridge. I leave my house early, grab a spot next to a traffic light on my corner, I place a step stool at the base. I bring a warm drink and I sit on the stool and wait. It will be hours before the main body of runners come. I cheer and clap as the early starters pass my spot. Sporadically, a few at a time come by, often with guides by their sides. I think about the commitment it takes to undertake such a feat. Soon my corner where I have set myself up becomes incredibly crowded. Police try to hold back the crowd, as spectators lean out far into the street to catch a glimpse. I now stand on my stool and over the heads of others; I can watch the mass of runners pour down the avenue better than anyone else. I scream, clap and shout the runners names who have them affixed to their jerseys. I become overcome with emotion and sometimes my eyes tear up. The sea of bobbing bodies that is the New York City Marathon, is my favorite event of the year.

What draws me to watch the NYC marathon year after year is the simplicity of the event. It is a footrace where runners take to the streets of New York, running an incredible distance, touching a foot in each of the boroughs to complete the race in the fastest time possible. On the surface that’s all there is to it and it’s free to watch. But it is the stark reality of a 26 mile race juxtaposed against the stories of each and every runner: from the elite runners to the everyday runners, some of whom just might be your neighbors, which make marathon watching such a pleasure. I often wonder what it would be like to inch my way forward to a finish line I could not even see, even if all 26 miles were laid out in a straight line right in front of me. Roughly 30 thousand runners from all over the world take part in the race every year. And every year I marvel at the beauty of the mass of runners as they come barreling down past my lamppost where I stand atop my stool. Arms raised, hands waving, I scream at the runners to forge ahead to the end and with joyful eyes and sometimes with shouts of enthusiasm of their own, the runners answer back and in an instant a bond is formed. On that day a part of them is in me and I in them, as I cheer to heavens “COME ON RUNNERS…YOU CAN DO IT….RUN, RUN, RUN…YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL!!!!”

Liz Robbins, author A Race Like No Other, presented a program on the New York City Marathon at the Mid-Manhattan Library on Tuesday October 13th. Liz revealed that the reason why the New York City Marathon is so successful and different from any other marathon is that the race is in the streets of New York, a city of people. Two million race watchers line the street to watch the runners. And runners will testify to what a joy and pleasure it is to run through the neighborhoods, with people cheering, handing out water and marching bands playing music for them. The runners feed off the good energy of the spectators. And there is no race in the world that best does this than the New York City Marathon. During the program Liz asked some of the audience members who had ran the marathon before to talk about what it is like to run this race. Feelings of joy, accomplishment and camaraderie were touched up, as well as debilitating pain. What I found interesting is some participants in the audience did not consider themselves athletes. They took up running late in life, though now they are committed runners, with some having run in hundreds of marathons already.

Lisa Peterson-de Cueva attended Tuesday night's program and posted about the event on her blog.

I am embarrassed to say but up until a week ago, I had never read The Great Gatsby. I had never been assigned to read it in school and frankly over the years I never wanted to read it. I actually had developed an aversion of sorts to the book. This was founded on nothing more than air. Seems strange but I can develop an instant dislike to anything based on nothing and unfortunately have it flavor my feelings for a book and for that matter, a movie, type of cuisine, a neighborhood and finally something as innocent as a public beach, sadly almost anything.

Fortunately no one ever as asked me about the book and so I did not have to reveal my completely unfounded, unintelligent, biased opinion about a book I never read. Until that is my boss at the time Rene Kotler made reference to The Great Gatsby when we were in conversation. She then looked to me for a response and I had to admit that I never read the book. Rene looked at me sideways and said “You have never read The Great Gatsby?!?!” I could feel my cheeks turn red and I made a lame excuse and then boldly told her I actually had no interest in ever reading it. Incredulous and shocked, she shook her head. She then went into an emphatic defense of why the book is so good and should be read by me, “It is really a love story more than anything else, a truly passionate love story… you would love it. Trust me you will.” That was in the summer of 08 and I thought a bit about The Great Gatsby after our talk and put it in on my mental list of books I would read one day. However, I still had an uneasy feeling about the book despite the glowing recommendation of Rene, a woman I like and respect. One year later I still had not read The Great Gatsby but it was on my mental list. It was July and I happen to be in the car driving to the Rockaways to spend a glorious day at the beach. It was a Saturday morning around 10:00 and I was listening to WNYC. The radio show about to begin was NPR’s Studio 360 and on that day the show was to be devoted to F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby. When I heard this, I turned the volume up a bit more, ready and interested to listen. It was a wonderful broadcast. On one of the segments, writer Jonathan Franzen was interviewed about his feelings on The Great Gatsby. It was at this point that all the bad feelings I had about the book went away. The entire show was very good but it was Franzen’s remarks about The Great Gatsby that singlehandedly changed my feelings about this American classic. After listening to the show, I knew shortly I would be reading The Great Gatsby.

Now it is September and I have just finished the book. After hearing The Great Gatsby broadcast on Studio 360, I knew that I was in store for a treat. From the very first page, I was pulled into the book. The story is a good one, but more importantly it is Fitzgerald’s deft command of the written word to tell the story that is dazzling. The writing is so powerfully good. In some passages it is one phrase after another, a confluence of words and rhythm, creating a lexiconal beauty that is magical to experience, as line after line unfolds before your eyes. Some passages warrant a re-reading because the language is so tight, poignant and light, almost ethereal. The Great Gatsby was far greater than I ever could have imagined.

Below is one passage that made me pause…

“He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in a life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as much as you would like to believe in yourself and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.” (from chapt.3)

It is odd that I was able to miss out on reading The Great Gatsby all these years. It was simply chance. Honestly though had I been assigned to read it in high school or college, I think I might have liked the book, but not fell in love with it the way I have now, after just reading it. There are many things I would have missed: the nuances, the imagery and the shifts in tone, the wonderful construction and the important social history displayed within the pages. Had I read it many, many years ago The Great Gatsby may have just been a good book and nothing more to me and that would have been a crime. I am actually thankful that somehow I missed out on this American masterpiece all these years until now. I actually feel fortunate to have read The Great Gatsby at this point in my life, many years later than most have read it.

Now when someone makes reference to The Great Gatsby and looks to me for a response, I will be able to add my two cents based proudly on the fact that I have actually read the book.

And another beautiful passage...

“…Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalk really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees---he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder.” (from chapt. 6)

Artists have long used the NYC subway system as a wellspring of ideas, using their experiences to express themselves by way of the written word, visually on film, in oils on canvas, pen to paper, prints and sculpture. Sometimes the artwork is officially sanctioned and sometimes it is not.

When I moved to New York the 1982 the subway system was like a traveling road show of urban expression. Graffiti covered the walls inside and out, where there was a space to make a mark a mark was made. It was a cacophony of visual noise, much of which I could not understand.

It was big, bold and brash, loud and lovely. The graffiti in the interior of the subway cars was mostly black and seemed to be signatures. However on the outside of the subway cars, the colors were vibrant, expansive and the voices unique. The artistic strokes that jacketed the cars were energetic and beautiful. The work was detailed, precise and great care was put into these displays. These were serious artists even if at the time their art was not considered serious but more of a nuisance. A visual revolution was taking place and much of it seemed inspired by the New York City subway system.

Early on, the New York City subway system commissioned artists and artisans to create beautiful designs to decorate the subway walls.

It was utilitarianism taken to its highest level, all for our pleasure. Grand decorative pieces of terracotta announce the station name and each station’s motif is different. Rich and varied colors accent the old crazed white subway tile. Interestingly the colors vary from station to station. In other stations not as grand but clearly as beautiful, wonderfully brilliant mosaics, made up of tiny squares imbedded into the walls create large rectangular plaques that display the station name. In one station the mosaics are made up of varying colors of matte finished squares and in another station the mosaics are of rich jewel tones and yet even another station’s mosaic could be of shimmery iridescent colors. These designs, though purposeful and formal are not in the least bit bland despite their context. On the contrary, they are lively, expressive and display a distinct individualism that is still refreshing a hundred years later.

In the early part of the 20th century, the mechanical wonder of the subway system was a catalyst for visual expression by some artists of the Futurist movement. The speed and power of moving trains lent itself nicely to the overall theme of this group which emabraced the energetic and accelerated pace of the world beginning at the 20th century. Paintings of the Futurists broke down motion in fractured slivers of color, like Max Weber’s 1915 painting Rush Hour, which is a visual display of the New York City rush hour commute done in kinetic geometric planes.

It is not unusual while riding the train to witness an artist sketching the passengers on the trains. In a number of quick fluid strokes, these artists capture the emotions of the people on the train. The sketches may be used later as a reference tool or may exist simply as lovely discreet items. Artists such as Marvin Franklin who as longtime subway worker used his first hand knowledge to create beautifully rendered paintings of the people who ride the trains. Elbow Toe is a street artist whose sketches of subways riders in lines of red ink are expressive and energetic.

Every morning thousands of people descend into the subway stations across the city, hundreds more wait on platforms for their trains to take them to their destination points. The train enters the station, doors open, people crowd into the cars, some sit, some stand, some read, some think and some look about, eventually the train moves, bumping along the tracks as it courses its way through the tunnels. It’s a scene repeated day in and day out, every month and every year for a hundred years. To the daily commuter it is simply a ride; to an artist it is a vast and endless opportunity.

Please join Tracy Fitzpatrick as she discusses her book Art and the Subway: New York Underground on Monday, Sept 14, at the Mid-Manhattan Library @ 6:30 PM

I have also included a link to javier hernandez-miyares blog featuring film clip of posterboy's art, an anonymous New York City based street artist whose only utensil is a razor. He is known for satiric college-like works created by cutting out sections of the self-adhesive advertisement posters in the platforms of New York City subway stations, and pasting them back in different positions.

37 years. That’s what it was, 37 years working at one job. She came to NYC from Strawberry Point, Iowa in 1970 and started working at New York Public Library in 1972 (can you believe that name "Strawberry Point"?, note there is a new book that was recently reviewed in the NYTimes Book Review, titled Methland – it recieved a good strong review too- the town that is the focus of that book is 20 miles outside Strawberry Pte! Dorothy, I guess you can never go home again.). She worked everywhere, in every condition and in every capacity; trudged through blizzards to make it to work, broke an arm doing it too and at another time she was relegated to taking a ferry to a train and finally a bus to the outer regions of Staten Island. She even tried to get to work in the debacle of 9/11, only to learn that there was no work to go to that day. Instead the decision to heed the call to help others was greater than staying home and watching the disaster unfold on TV. Marie trekked all the way to the east 90’s on foot from Alphabet City to donate blood. She made it there waited and waited until sadly she learned as the whole city learned that there would be no need for blood on that day. She made her way home in the wee hours of the night, satisfied she tried.

Marie is quirky, even scary. She has a reputation as being a bear, most stay away from her. She has a personality as obtuse as a funhouse mirror, a will as strong as tempered steel and a depth of intellect as great as the information contained in the authoritative works she dispensed with on a daily basis at the reference desk. Her character was unequaled. Her loyalty unwavering. Her integrity was of the highest standard. When a co-worker had a baby, Marie was at the hospital to welcome the new face to the world before anyone else. When another co-worker was stricken by a stroke, Marie maintained a vigil by this person’s side long after others stopped going. Quietly she showed herself to be one of the finest people I have ever worked with.

Marie could be abrasive. She would often bark at co-workers. She saw nothing wrong with how she went about her life. Her life was full and rich. She breezed through life like everything was copasetic. She lived in essentially the same apartment she had when she came to the city so long ago. Her place on east 7th street, directly across the street from Tompkins Square was once a hotbed of civil unrest in the 80’s and before that it was destination of drug addicts. I often asked Marie to talk about the tough times of Alphabet City. To listen to her talk about squatters that would often occupy the foyer of her apartment building, was funny. The thought of Marie taking care of bad guys on the Lower Eastside is surprising and humorous to me, but she did just that. With her red and white gingham shirt and sensible denim culottes and a topper of a Gilligan’s Island hat, Marie cut a striking figure amongst the downtrodden that once occupied her area. With a paper under her arm and a packed lunch in her bag, Marie traveled about without fear. She believed she earned the right to be where she was and somehow she coexisted with others that would surely make most of us crumble. Marie can now enjoy the fruits of her longevity in a once crime controlled area, in her rent controlled, no doubt book filled apartment. Right outside her second floor living room window, flowers adorn well tended park side gardens where once bald covered hills, pocked with little islands of weeds, strewn with the human detritus of broken glass, discarded needles and other garbage were the visual delights of the 70’s and 80’s in Tompkins Sq Park. Now Marie has only beauty and for the most part safe streets to deal with.

The quality of Marie’s work was unequaled at New York Public Library. When at work, she worked. Her specialty behind the scenes was the detail of cataloging records and her ability to order the best in any subject. She knew respected works of criticism from reliable publishers, as well as the best translations of any work. Her strength at the reference desk was her willingness to go the distance with a patron. Generally though, she was so good she could size up a patron and give him three or four of what he wanted before he even knew what he wanted. She could talk about this and that edition of Shakespeare, or American theatre, or Joyce, or Hemingway, or French Literature and Greek literature and histories like it was happening right now. Her mind was keen, her memory astonishing. Marie had it all stored behind that big eyed face of hers, full warmth and humor if you only took the time to see it.

I was once at the reference desk when a patron came up to me and pointed out as Marie walked by that as a child he was her librarian at Hamilton Fish. He said she was the best librarian there was and he learned the love of books from Marie. Marie Zwanziger you will be sorely missed at the library.

Last week with a dinner among friends, we bid our brilliant colleague a fond farewell from the grand institution she so loved.

I am from Detroit and I don’t remember noting the ethnic background of anyone while growing up. In Detroit we seemed to organize ourselves by way of race not ethnicity, you were either black or white. The food had more distinction of ethnicity than the people responsible for making it. For the time we lived in Detroit, it seemed like it was the center of the world. My folks, really my mother, would travel all over the city to get her taste of food she craved. Years after the riots in 68, when our family followed white flight, just like everyone else, my mom would say “hop in the car Cyn, lets go to Etta’s Shrimp Shack” or someplace else. She and I would drive into Detroit via the expressway, get off at the desired exit and travel a few miles. We would come up to Etta’s a take-out shop. The place would be packed with cars. I would wait behind the wheel and in my mom would go, a short time later she would appear with a bag of good smelling food. Sometimes it would be barbeque, but it would always be shrimp, my personal favorite. The order would be accompanied with tasty side dishes like greens flavored with pork and flavorful black-eyed peas. For dessert, my mother would order the rhubarb pie too. Too tart for me but she and my dad loved it.

For many years, that type of food, what I came to know as soul food vanished from my life. I went to college and there seemed to be very few African Americans on the western side of Michigan. Eventually I moved back to Detroit and then to New York City. Once in New York, Harlem was close by and when the urge hit, my husband I would be on the train. I was happy with the nameless spot that had the mouth watering menu in the window and I was never disappointed. Now it seems you can find soul food or a variation of soul and southern cooking in any of the boroughs. Likewise barbeque is everywhere. In the last twenty years there has been a hybridization of food styles, though the roots clearly are southern or what I would call soul food, like what I had in Detroit.

Fortunately in New York City we reap the benefits of this food revolution. Greens smothered in flavorful bacon fat (lardon or pancetta) are an offering on any number of menus in French restaurants to eclectic dining spots all over the city. Where race seemed to clearly divide us not that long ago, it’s food with its many offerings that seems to be bringing us back together.

Frederick Douglas Opie will be discussing his book Hog and Hominy: Soul Food from Africa to America at the Mid-Manhattan Library this evening at 6:30 PM.

In the next coming weeks I will be hosting a series of programs on the subject of NYC sanitation. Below is a post devoted to the first program Gotham and Its Garbage: A History of Public Waste, Public Health and the Department of Sanitation. A Slide Lecture with Robin Nagle Ph.D.

No matter where you live or what your economic status is, in New York City garbage is your neighbor. You may live in a penthouse apartment and never actually touch the garbage yourself, but chances are you pass it all the time on the street. If you do live on a high floor, in a full service building, on garbage days you will undoubtedly notice a mound of filled fat black garbage bags piled high and long on the sidewalk curb, outside your building. When you have lunch at your favorite café, you may notice that the outdoor seating is beautiful but just beyond the greenery is a mound of black garbage bags. Everyone everywhere in New York City has an intimate knowledge of the garbage that is piled on any given block or corner on any given day. Like any disgusting entity, we choose to ignore what is a necessity and obvious nuisance rather than adequately address it. Not that any one of us could actually do anything to help change the way we process our trash. Because of this, we have an uneasy arrangement of being silent and patient, as the trash is picked up and hauled away. At the same time, we seethe with anxiety until the streets are empty of the big black bags that line the sidewalk at least twice a week, in front of where we live. For homeowners, it is hoped that no animal will tear into the bags for the chicken carcass resting inside or that a bottle collector will not aggressively rip through the plastic to get to a redeemable bottle, clearly visible through the blue plastic bag.

We live in probably the greatest garbage producing city in the world, with tons of trash being collected daily. Garbage collection has had an interesting history in New York City from swine roaming the streets as the first street sweepers, to white coated men who swept the street in the 19th century into the 20th century, to incinerators and transfer stations of present day and a host of recycling attempts. Early on in NYC’s sanitation history, garbage was transported to the piers of lower Manhattan, piled high into big barges and then brought out to sea and dumped. This practice went on for decades. The many changes of garbage collection in New York City has been initiated through political reform and public health campaigns, plus simply education, throwing trash out your window is not the way civilized human beings live. Garbage collection has also been closely associated with the underworld, where crime families controlled the dumping of commercial trash. New York City garbage collection is a complicated affair. From the beginning there were always problems and there still continues to be. Nonetheless trash must be collected and dumped and preferably “not in my backyard.”

Please join Robin Nagel as she presents Gotham and Its Garbage, on Monday June 8th, at 6:30 PM at the Mid-Manhattan Library.

Realistically we know no relationship is perfect, especially the relationships we have with our families. They say you can choose your friends but you can’t choose your family. My father has not talked to his siblings in years and three out of the five are dead and the rest are in their late 80’s. My father can’t accurately state what it was that drove them apart. The wedge that was forced into the heart of my father’s family was powerful enough to keep the siblings apart forever. I see elements of regret, even remorse when my father speaks about his family, even after so many years, the hurt is still there. Perhaps because it is family. They say blood is thicker than water and a hurt within family hurts deeper than any other. In one sense, you can never walk away from your family, even if the steps you take, take you clear across the country and to a far distant city. Your family is still with you, by way of shared experiences and at some point shared values and a shared intimacy, even if that all ended, when as young person you decided to walk away and never looked back. Blood is blood.

What is it about a family relationship that creates such a hotbed of tension? In the case of my father, he talked about money, jealously and dysfunction that began with his parents. Sometimes it can be a slight or it can be the marriage to a person who will never be accepted into the family fold, which causes the destruction. Whatever the cause, nothing displays this tragic disarray better than Brooke Astor’s family. Plastered all over the papers, from the revered New York Times to the daily rags, we are witnessing the unraveling of Brooke Astor’s family. It is hard to believe that Brooke Astor, truly one of the most beloved philanthropic individuals in New York Society, could have been the catalyst for the manifestation of such vitriol unfolding in the papers.

Anyone who had a chance to meet Brooke Astor, not only felt anointed but also felt the caring and warmth that she shared the littlest of people. Well into her 80’s, Brooke Astor was still at the focal point in the elite social circles of New York Society. Many parties were given in her honor over many years, simply because tagging her name to such an event caused much money to be donated. She knew it and she used her power to generate millions of dollars for charities across the city. She treated New York Public Library as her home and for a long time, when you talked of one, you naturally talked of the other. It was Brooke Astor’s money that helped turn the library around after a very bleak period in the 70’s. Mrs.Astor and New York Public Library were as one. She was like that to a lot of institutions, namely the Metropolitan Museum.

Interestingly the maxim “you can choose your friends but you can’t choose your family” rings like a clear bell when talking about Brooke Astor. It is her friends who remained loyal to her during her declining years and now even in death. Fiercely, they stand by her symbolic side to protect her integrity and intentions. The fight that is currently taking place in court today, is a brutal one. It pits family against family, severing a bond of familial love that will never be mended. It also pits Brooke Astor’s son Anthony against Brooke Astor’s closest and devoted friend Annette de la Renta. Always one to be the center of attention, it is hard to imagine what Brooke Astor might think of about the legal battle being waged in her name.

Please join Meryl Gordon as she discusses her book Mrs. Astor Regrets: The Hidden Betrayals of a Family Beyond Reproach on Monday June 1st at 6:30 PM, at the Mid-Manhattan Library.

A great work of art is evident almost at once. We sence its greatness the moment we experience it. It may be a painting or a work of fiction or a piece of music or a body of work, but intuitively we know it to be a masterpiece. It is unique, special and a rarity. There is no pretense to a great work of art, there is only a clarity to the work, making it accessible to all. We can’t predict when something wonderful will be created. Great ideas and vision come together all the time. People paint, write books, choreograph, photograph all with the intention of creating a masterpiece. Unfortunately, it is not enough to have desire or even talent and skill. Sometimes the creation of a great work of art is simply all the given variables thrown into together at the right moment and like magic a masterpiece is created. That masterpiece will live on as such to the end of humanity. Each generation who experiences a great work of art seems to have a better understanding of its importance and raison d’etre, than the generation before.  read more »

I first learned about Stanford White in E. L. Doctorow’s book Ragtime. It was the lurid tale of lust and murder regarding Stanford White that remained in my mind until I moved to New York City many years ago. Over a long period of time, I have come to learn Stanford White was much more than the scandal that I first associated with him. Stanford White was a master designer and instrumental in many of the great architectural works of the city.

Without knowing it, I came across the legacy of Stanford White time and time again while living in the city. Slowly I learned many of the great architectural prizes that exist in the city are White's designs. There are Stanford White treasures all over New York and the ones that are gone nonetheless register prominently if only in photographs. For example the long gone great Penn Station was designed by the prestigious architectural firm of McKim, Mead and White. I had been looking at images of Penn Station long before I moved to New York in the early 80’s. Penn Station’s demise in 1963 by no means crushed the spirit and importance of this building. Tragically its structure was destroyed for something inferior, but the old Penn Station’s voice speaks loud and clear from the many photographs that exist.  read more »

New York City is a big place, very big. The aggregate information out there to describe the city is also big, very big. Its vast, ubiquitous quality makes it seem unknowable and unmanageable. Much of our knowledge about the city is in small bits and pieces, mostly unrelated to each other. Many us may generally know a thing or two about our neighborhood: we may know who lives there, we may even know something about the crime stats or the average price of a co-op. Other than the of odd pieces of knowledge we carry around with us about New York City, the real numbers of the city are essentially a blank in our heads. Outside the fiendishly organized grid of Midtown, New York City is very hard to describe, from the attendance at the major cultural institutions to the most dangerous intersections for pedestrians between 1995-2001. The information is simply too complex for it to be easily accessed.

Many of the librarians at the reference desk consult online or bound references for statistics. A lot of the information is general in nature. For information specific to New York City there is the NYC government website but the information is not readily transparent. Not until the Almanac of New York City was published was there a source unique to New York. Answering questions about New York City was always a complicated challenge. The simplest question requires a multi-step process to get an answer. And the hope is you don’t lose the patron’s interest as you guide them through the labyrinthine process. There is the New York City website, as well the Green Book to direct people where to get further information. United States census has information and then you can even contact your local community board for information related to specific neighborhoods, but all the searches are an involved process.

The Almanac of New York City is unique because it is filled with information that is entertaining as well as informative. It is a comprehensive collection of the information on our city. For example, The Almanac lists the Gravesites of Celebrated Persons as well as the populations of the public housing projects. It also has the names all the winners of the NYC Marathon, as well as the number of seats in each Broadway theatre. It’s the type of book you want handy for a bit arcane knowledge about the city and also the type of book you want to have along side your cereal bowl in the morning to simply wander through as you dig into your oatmeal and berries.

Please join editors Kenneth T. Jackson and Fred Kameny of the Almanac of the New York City on Wednesday April 15th at 6:30 PM, at the Mid-Manhattan Library as they talk about the numbers of New York City

Test your New York Trivial knowledge.

It starts as an almost imperceptible rumble, and then ends with a societal cry of pain. As you read, the tension builds, you become unsettled where you sit; something sinister is afoot. Your eyes willingly travel the lines of the page, the scene is being set, just the right amount of description, a perfect staccato rhythm of words and phrases, resulting in a broiling image of disarray and disorganization. Something dangerous is in the air. Soon it will be upon you, your mind will be filled with a cacophony of shouts and screams, slivers of conversation, slices of pandemonium. Reading further, you discover twisted limbs in grotesque positions, bloodied faces, cruel intentions and inflictions of pain done by one stranger to another. You wince and hope the world you are reading about will once again become civilized and safe. This is a riot, a mob scene, people out of control, people caught up in the moment, murder and rape are happening in the same place where people walked calmly earlier in the day. This can’t be happening, should not be happening but it is happening convincingly so in Dennis Lehane’s new book The Given Day.

I recently finished The Given Day, after patiently waiting for a period of time for the book to come into the library. The Given Day is a big story, with multiple plot lines; the backdrop is Boston in the early 20th century, right after WWI. It is set against the rising tension of an underpaid and overworked police force striving to get their fair share of the salary pie.

Corruption, disasters and terrorism, fear of communism and unbridled racism is the fabric of which this story is woven. Relationships are built while others are destroyed. Betrayal and loyalty are constantly played against each other. This is an epic, a labyrinthine story, culminating in a riot scene that is a turning point in the book. Lehane’s handling of the riot is violent, raw, ugly and real. The impact was such that I found myself rereading passages, so captivating is Lehane’s rendering of such a tragic situation. The Given Day is well worth the 700 plus pages it takes Lehane to tell his story. And for me the riot scenes are the most memorable.

As an aside, there are two other books I was reminded of while reading The Given Day. They too contain very vivid and powerful riot scenes: Nathaniel West’s The Day of Locust and Emile Zola’s Germinal. Both left an indelible mark in my memory, for many reasons one of which is the depiction of human behavior when restraint is no where to be found.

Please join us at the Mid-Manhattan on Tuesday April 7 at 6:30, on the 6th floor, where Dennis Lehane will be talking about The Given Day.

By the time I was old enough to understand the relationship between food and culture, it was already too late for me. It seemed like food and culture and the relationship between the two all but died where I came from. I lived in Detroit up until the riots of '68 and then afterwards my family moved to a rural landscape. In a very short time farmland became a busy bustling series of suburbs. It was one massive series of highways, subdivisions and strip malls. If there was any local food identity or culture it was all but eaten up in chain establishments.

Chains took over where mom and pop food businesses reined, long standing food venues where shuttered closed. My father, who was a waiter, worked in one of the finest restaurants in the city of Detroit. In the 1970s the once solidly established restaurant scene tried to hold on during tornado like changes, my father was relegated to wearing a long white apron and plain white shirt with the sleeves rolled up (no more tux and bowtie) and serving lousy pizza to patrons, who sat at tables covered in red and white checkered tablecloths. The once revered Caucus Club stood out like a sore thumb with new blinky lights beckoning customers to come in.

It wasn’t till I moved to New York that I discovered a deeply rich tradition of food culture, both formal and informal. From my favorite local French restaurant Moutard to the summer time street fairs in the Italian neighborhoods, the culture of food thrives in New York City. Food is so alive in this city that everything seems to be centered around the table, be it at a beloved restaurant or at a friend’s house for a gathering or a picnic lunch with family in Prospect Park. Food is the glue that melds all the different cultures in New York City. Everyone has a food history, and it isn’t Ruby Tuesday’s or Dunkin Donuts. Sure there are chain eateries around but the independents are thriving too. God love them both. And in those independents are the seeds of many new food traditions and cultures.

Gastropolis: Food and New York City, editors Annie Hauck-Lawson and Jonathan Deutsch have compiled a list of essays about food in New York City. The book examines food in places, food and people, food and trade and food and symbols. Some essays examine New York City food history, like Harley Spiller’s essay "Chow Fun City: Three Centuries of Chinese Cuisine in New York City," while Annie Hauck-Lawson’s essay "My Little Town: A Brooklyn Girl's Food Voice" examines food culture by way of an intimate portrayal of her family growing up in Park Slope, Brooklyn. Gastropolis is both enjoyable and informative, an excellent partner to bring when you are dining alone at your favorite restaurant.

On Monday April 13 at the Mid-Manhattan Library, at 6:30, please join us as editors Annie Hauck-Lawson and Jonathan Deutsch discuss food culture in New York City.

There is a story everywhere in New York City. Gotham is a collage of life stories, like a multifaceted crystal where each surface is a new and different tale. Every encounter, everything we see, people we know and don’t know all have stories. Most of the stories are unknown, most untold, but in reality there is a vast richness of unique experiences out there, waiting to be revealed. From Choi and Maria, the gentle and devoted Korean couple who run my corner bodega, to the beautiful line driven art work of Elbow-Toe, that skips across building walls and doors in and around Brooklyn, these are just pieces of the New York City story pie.

What makes a good story? Time, place, situation and most important the person who tells the story. A storyteller who puts words to paper, creating an engaging, intelligent and thought provoking piece, out of the seemingly ordinary, is nothing if not truly talented, gifted even. Dan Barry is one such person. He wrote the About New York section for the New York Times (currently he is writing the This Land section for the New York Times) for many years and those columns were made into a book City Lights: Stories About New York.

Dan Barry has given a voice to the people and places in New York City that would barely register on any scale. Through a combination of words and ideas he has unmasked the mundane of this city, revealing a poignancy and passion that lies just below the surface of all our lives. In 1000 word essays, Dan Barry has crisscrossed the city opening a window into the people and places that would otherwise be unknown to us. Some of the essays are heartwarming, some are tragic, but what City Lights best reveals is the heart and soul of New York City .

On Wednesday April 1, Dan Barry will be reading and discussing his book City Lights: Stories About New York at the Mid-Manhattan Library on the 6th floor at 6:30. Please join us for a wonderful evening.

Exiting the subway at 40th Street and 5th Ave, I noticed that the oasis of Bryant Park was really there. Under all metal girders, draped in white there was a park. The dismantling of the tents signaled the ending of what will hopefully be the conclusion of what had simply been business as usual in this country, like conspicuous consumption. Hopefully we can say good bye to gluttonous MacMansions and grossly oversized vehicles and the celebration of pomp without a lick of substance. If we are lucky, we can say good bye to the arrogance and unrestrained hubris, that had been the mantle of America in general, that is until the collapse this past fall of the financial world.

Contemplating the lovely Bryant Park, I had recently completed reading The Kill by Emile Zola. The Kill (La Curee 1871-72) the second book in the 20 volume Rougon-Macquart series, has been reprinted after years of being out of print. The setting ofThe Kill is 19th century Paris, when Paris was undergoing significant changes. Tiny medieval streets were being destroyed and redesigned into big wide boulevards. Neighborhoods were being replaced with newly minted enclaves, shiny and bright. Despite the grand plans of master designer Baron Haussmann, there existed something sinister lying just under the surface. There always is in Zola’s Rougon-Macquart series.

Zola's colorful tale is peopled with characters not unlike what we presently see in our tabloid smut, there are the Madonna types and characters like Eliot Spitzer and Donald Trump and lovely airhead beauties expounding on fashion as though their opinions were somehow worthy. Schemers, hucksters and land-grabbers decked out in the finest threads, with kid covered hands, smile and peck cheeks as though they were the epitome of civilized society. All the while Madoff type plans are being hatched, fueling the excess that is the backbone of this little treasure. It is a book for our times, showing greed at its worst. What we learn is that history repeats itself over and over again, the good times and the bad times. Fashion Week closed on a somber note, not unlike the final pages of The Kill.

Today is the day I should have bought a lottery ticket. I walked down into the subway station, no rush, simply a calm entry. On the platform I readied myself with my reading material and my music. As I finished, the train was pulling into the station. The day was beginning magically. At the point when the doors of the subway car opened, I turned on my iPod, stepped into the car and Steve Reich’s Music for Large Ensemble began to play. This was a good beginning, if there could ever be such a thing in the morning, during rush hour, on a packed train, heading into work. With Reich playing in my ears at a dangerously high decibel, I was fortified.

I discovered Steve Reich in the 80’s. It was a confluence of events: seeing Laura Dean’s dance troupe perform in Detroit (she and Reich worked together at this point), then meeting Glen Velez who was a performer with Steve Reich early on. I didn’t know then but minimalism was in its heyday in the early 80’s. My listening to Steve Reich was first on albums, then on cassettes, next on CDs and now digitally. I am still listening to Reich with the same fervor and intensity as I did then. I listen to it often, discovering new things in the music each time, even after so many years. I like it so well that I can listen to it time and time again and never tire of it. Actually that is how I like to listen to most of my music, again and again, before I decide to change to something different.

Music for Large Ensemble is roughly a 15 minute piece, written for orchestra. It starts with a foundation of sounds that stay throughout the piece. Strings, percussion, brass and wind instruments, as well as piano, initially present simply and then as the piece progresses there is layering of sounds. It flows and unfolds. There is a back and forth quality created by the string section that is present through the entire piece. Music for Large Ensemble pushes and pulls, driving forward with sounds that grow into and out of the notes, like a propelling body of water. Sections peel off or fall away, in the most natural of ways. Everything makes sense. Horns start quietly on a note and then seconds later develop into a satisfying crescendo, on that same note. It is a big wide open sound. It resonates through out my body, filling every crevice. There is an overall sweetness and tenderness to Music for Large Ensemble, despite the driving nature of the composition. To me it is exciting, exhilarating, inspirational, forthcoming, purposeful, complex and fulfilling. It will always give me joy when I hear it.

New York Public Library has a good selection of his music, as well as information about Steve Reich and his music in both the circulating and non-circulating catalogs. Performances of Reich compositions can also be viewed at the Performing Arts Library.

Below are a collections of websites related to Steve Reich:
http://www.stevereich.com/
http://www.myspace.com/stevereichmusic
note the selection of excerpted video performance on this site

A man toils in the hot sun. He is picking the fruit and vegetables, the kind that are on our sandwiches purchased from a fast food restaurant, the kind that grace the salads we prepare for dinner. If the man working in the field is lucky, he is able to garner a spot closest to the truck where he turns out his bushels. If not he must walk down a long row of plants to deliver his bushel of just picked fruit and vegetables. His walk is long and makes the day seem endless and tiring. It is hot and the sun is burning bright. There is no shelter from the beating rays of the bright sun. His day is not a mere eight hour shift, with a one hour lunch. More likely it is a “sun up” to “sun down” shift, with a half hour lunch break thrown in where he can fit it. It is picking season, the harvest is ready, and time is of the essence. The more he picks the more he is paid. It is a constant grind, a six day a week job. From this crop he will move onto to another, following the fields that are ready to harvest. From the field he does not go to a nice home or a warm meal. His home is a cramp dilapidated trailer. Many men live in the trailer that was meant for no more than four people. Dirty mattresses cover the floor, the shower is filthy and a bare bulb hung from the ceiling lights the room. No one would choose to live this way.

Many of us have a romantic notion about where our food comes from. We see beautiful fruits and vegetables displayed at the store and notions of a man on a tractor, a quaint farmhouse in a pastoral setting come to mind. We simply don’t think about the path our food takes before it ends up on our table.

The food industry is no longer made up of small farms run “mom and pop” style. Instead a huge corporation will own a company that purchases the crops that go into making their product, like tomatoes for Del Monte. Someone else owns the land and someone else acts as a middleman who supplies workers to work the fields. These workers are desperate. They will be lured into working and living in dreadful conditions and then too scared to leave, only because they were gullible enough to think they would be treated fairly and paid a living wage. These are modern day slaves and they exist right here in the good old USA.

Many factors contribute to hiding the practice of slave labor. Big companies distance themselves from the actual illegal practice by not owning the land that is being farmed and not hiring the workers directly, but hiring a labor contractor to secure the workers. Big companies hide behind the letter of the law, knowing full well of the abhorrent conditions of the workers who supply the corporate giant with a product. If the law does not deter these companies to do the right thing, sometimes community protest can. Consumers who become educated will often boycott a product simply based on the knowledge that the company is engaging in shady practices. Globalization, greed and money is the motivation for this inhumane treatment of workers. If a company’s bottom line is being threatened, then suddenly what is being called into question will be dropped. No questions asked. If only we knew.

New York Public Library will host a FREE progam on Tuesday September 9th 2008, at 6:30 PM on the 6th floor of the Mid-Manhattan Library. Author John Bowe will be discussing his new book, Nobodies: Modern American Slave Labor and the Dark Side of the New Global Economy. John Bowe has contributed to The New Yorker, The New York Times Magazine, GQ, The American Prospect, National Public Radio’s This American Life, McSweeney’s, and others. He is the co-editor of , Gig: Americans Talk About Their Jobs, one of Harvard Business Review’s best books of 2000, and co-screenwriter of the film Basquiat.

John Bowe's website and blog.

Our visual world is made up of many bits and pieces. It is the fragments merging together to make up a whole that really make a difference in what we see. Taken alone, these individual parts tend to go unnoticed by most people. For example in architecture, it is the color of the stone, the decoration, the lettering on the sign above the door or the carved letters on a gravestone that help define the structure and create a feeling.

Lettering is a small part of the ornamentation of an architectural structure. It is generally the colossus of the structure itself that grabs the eye first, but if you look carefully and take in the entirety of a structure, a visual reward is there waiting and it is often in the letters of the words that adorn it.

Words are as much a part of our visual landscape as the buildings, streets and trees or the people we see every day. A vibrant visual world indeed. Many of us are inured to the most vulgar visual sights, as well as the sublime. Some of us don’t even notice the first spring flowers or the glowering flashing lights of a neon sign, advertising a dingy car service business. We may take a second glance but we easily move on, letting our eyes wonder aimlessly, registering nothing. But really there is much to admire in the letters of the words that plaster our visual landscape. It is the design of the letters that make words noticeable. Most us recognize what we like in structures all over the city without really even knowing why. Buildings are adorned with incised or raised letters above entryways, signs are brightly lit and splashes of paint in cryptic words jump off building walls on dimly lit streets. These visual displays are designed as a feast for our eyes and it is impressive and purposeful.

On Sept 2. at 6:30 PM, on the 6th floor, Mid-Manhattan will host a FREE slide lecture program From Gravestones to Graffiti: 250 Years of Lettering in New York, with guest speaker Paul Shaw. Paul Shaw is a designer and design historian. His specialty is lettering, whether written, drawn, carved or typographic. He teaches at Parsons School of Design and at the School of Visual Arts. He is also the author of Looking for Letters in New York: A Tale of Surprise and Dismay. Paul Shaw is the recipient of many prestigious grants and lectures widely. Mr. Shaw is an expert on the subject of letters and can speak eloquently on the design, complexity and craftsmanship of letters that are everywhere from subway signs, to grave markers, to graffiti. Please join us for a wonderful evening.

Books on letter design and graffiti can be found at the library in both the circulating and non-circulating catalogs. Also at the Picture Collection at the Mid-Manhattan Library, there are an abundance of images on letters/alphabets/graffiti that can be viewed.

More upcoming programs at Mid-Manhattan.

An article on Paul Shaw by New York Times' Streetscapes columnist Christopher Gray.