Vermont Barn Doors

We just returned from Vermont late Monday evening, exhausted from driving, hiking, and enjoying the fall foliage. This will be the first of several posts on our annual trip since I took lots of photos and have lots to share. Friday afternoon and Saturday morning we spent on Scott Farm, near Putney. Known for its orchards filled with heirloom apples, the farm was used as a location for The Cider House Rules, which I've mentioned in several other posts which include a couple of my paintings. We fed the sheep, moved them between a couple of fields with the help of a border collie named Kip, and walked through the orchard rows, picking apples and munching on wild raspberries. As I walked around the farm Saturday morning, wandering from barn to barn, I noticed that the doors were quite striking in the beauty of their weathered wood and peeling paint. I started snapping away. These are the digital photos of four of those doors. I also took black and white film shots and will post some of those when they're developed.

This is so NOT the American Dream

Every now and then a member of my family will make a comment that - whether explicit or implicit - essentially asks the question, "How can you live in noisy New York City in such a small apartment?" There are times when I ask myself the same thing. But having lived in suburbia both as a child and young adult homeowner, I have to admit that I wouldn't want to live in suburbia at this point in my life. (On the eve of our family's annual Columbus Day weekend trip to Vermont, I should point out that I could move to a small burg in Vermont or New Hampshire and assume the mantle of full-time artist and genttleman farmer while our family raises a few sheep for my wife's knitting/spinning obsession. But I don't see that happening any time soon.)

But back to this issue of living in New York City versus living the "American Dream." Obviously the ideal of owning a home, a little plot of land, a couple of cars in the driveway, cable TV, with a couple of kids in tow is still a powerful symbol for many Americans, particularly those recently arrived. This has been the benchmark for middle class success since the end of World War II, when the GI Bill, easy credit, and the largest expansion ever in new housing stock made it all possible. Fed up with overcrowding and pollution, tens of thousands of New York City residents (like the Levittown family pictured here) abandoned the Big Apple after World War II for the suburbs of Long Island, Connecticut, and New Jersey.

But as I've written in other blog entries, that "Dream" is becoming increasingly elusive for a growing "underclass" of Americans who are often marginally employed, lack health insurance, and have somehow missed out on many of the trappings we usually associate with "middle class" life in the U.S. Yet odd as it seems, I like the fact that New York City is so NOT the "American Dream." I like it that I don't have to rely on my car to purchase even basic staples like milk and bread. (When I visit my parents in Virginia, I'm always frustrated by the routine of getting in the car and driving 15 minutes just to do ANYTHING. Walking is not an option.) Indeed, since moving to Manhattan nearly 10 years ago, there have been periods in which I didn't sit behind the wheel of a car for stretches of several months. And I don't miss it. I like the city's diversity. I the like the incredible access to the arts. I like the walkability of the city. And I don't think it's that crowded, in an agoraphobic sense, unless I decide to venture into mid-town with the tourists and business-suit types.

Ironically, some recent demographic studies have shown that Manhattan is becoming a popular retirement destination for people who had left the city for suburbia decades ago. Retirees cite the advantages of good public transportation and nearby airports, access to the best medical care available, and the proximity to museums and the arts.

So as I explain my choices to the family for the umpteenth time, I'm sure I'll have to do it all over again at some point in the not too distant future. New York City is like Mars to them. I honestly think that they would have had an easier time understanding if I had moved to Vegas, because for them Vegas at least has the trappings of suburbia under the gilding of neon.

Scrapple: The Other White Meat

After watching Super-size Me! a couple of years ago and reading Fast Food Nation at about the same time, we earnestly tried to remove McDonald's and its competitors from our family's list of dining choices. We've done a pretty good job, limiting ourselves to only a handful of family visit each year. Occasionally we'll break down and agree to a trip through the Golden Arches as a treat for the boys . . . or we'll be out in suburbia and have no other options. The other day we stopped by McDonald's after the boys' fall baseball afterschool activity. It was late and we were in a generous mood. An old fan of Big Mac's, I was indulgent and ordered one. It tasted great, particularly the tangy essence of the "special sauce" (mere Thousand Island dressing). But within an hour my intestines were tied in knots like my kids' double-knotted sneakers and I was longing for the couch and some Tums.

Hearing about my gastrointestinal agony, a friend offered a finger-wagging remonstrance and admonished me about the cartilage, fecal matter, and "god knows what else" that might be in the burgers. What one forgets, however, is that being from the South, I'm hard-wired to have an affinity for highly processed meat products. Bacon, for example, is the most perfect food in the world. I could eat bacon every day if my conscience - and arteries - would let me. Sausage, country ham, pork shoulder, pork chops, pork bbq, pulled pork sandwiches, and pork tenderloin are all delicacies on par with the richest foie gras or caviar.

I should note here that having grown up just minutes from Smithfield, Virginia, site of Gwaltney's main processing plants, I was doubly inclined to avail myself of the world's porcine delicacies. Driving along Route 10 near Smithfield one couldn't avoid encountering the truckloads of hogs, destined for the abattoirs of the Gwaltney corporation. An old friend, himself an enthusiastic connoisseur of bacon, would regularly drive the Route 10 bypass to avoid passing near the plants. One time I asked him why, thinking that it might be the pervasive smell of slaughtered pigs which prompted his reluctance. "No," he replied, "It's not the smell. I just want to keep thinking that bacon comes from a happy, magical place." Fair enough. I guess it would be nice to believe the fantasy that bacon was like manna from heaven, without the reality of freshly gutted oinkers traveling from the kill floor to the "disassembly" plant.

Indeed, I do love pig. But I draw the line on some pork products, like scrapple, pictured at left and below. A friend who visited the South back in the summer encountered fried scrapple on a breakfast menu at a diner. He asked me, "What's in scrapple?" My reply: "Everything but the squeal." (The reality of scrapple is this, taken from a typical store-bought package: pork skins, pork livers, pork tongues, pork hearts, corn meal, salt, spices.) Blanching, he was glad he hadn't tried it, along with a few other southern delicacies that one encounters in bars, "juke joints," and cinderblock convenience stores: pickled eggs, pickled pigs' feet, scrambled pig brains, deep-fried chicken's feet, pork cracklins (essentially deep fried pieces of pig fat), pig ears, and smoked pig tongues. Neither I nor my parents ever sampled these piggy treats. However, my grandmother still enjoys a scrapple sandwich for lunch, while my dad's younger brother and his wife swear by fried scrapple sandwiches for breakfast fare.

Of course, the South doesn't possess a monopoly on utilizing every part of its slaughtered animals, as I've witnessed during trips to some of the City's more traditional butchers. Ottomanelli's has the largest beef tongues I've ever seen proudly displayed in its windows. Faicco's, the West Village's famous Italian market and "pork store," has hearty displays of tripe and various organ meats in its cases. But there's something to be said for pulling up to a low, cinderblock building in your F-100, walking in past the Miller Lite neon, through the pool tables to the bar, and asking for a pickled pig's foot from the big jar on the counter. Add a cold Meisterbrau or Milwaukee's Best to your order and you've just tossed your testosterone on the table for all to see, without having to pull out an NRA card or brag about the new NASCAR-themed La-Z-Boy now sitting proudly in your double-wide.

Sidewalk Auguries & the Commodification of Halloween

Since the dawn of human existence we and our antecedents have looked to certain events as omens, divinations, and signs from god. These potential predictors of future events have been evinced in the form of everything from natural phenomena like eclipses and animal sightings, to a turn of tarot cards or a roll of the dice. Today I think I experienced my own augury of the future. As I stepped off the bus at Astor Place to catch the uptown subway I was greeted by a large puddle of Halloween-orange vomit. Surely that is an unwelcome sign that the day is not going to go well, an omen for rough sailing ahead. And sure enough it started off badly and hasn't improved. Let's hope the day brightens.

Speaking of Halloween, does anyone else out there think that retailers and advertisers have gone way overboard in the marketing of Halloween? I remember as a child how Halloween was a pretty low-key holiday. With no days off for school and only "It's the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown" for kids' TV specials, Halloween seemed like the step-child of the bigger holidays, like a warm-up for Thanksgiving and Christmas, or a teaser for the mayhem of December 25th and Hanukkah. A few weeks before October 31st the candy displays would hit the Woolworth's, Grant's and Rose's (retail mainstays in the age before Wal-Mart and Target) and those crappy costumes with the plastic masks would find their way to the shelves. We would agonize over the "what are you gonna be" question and usually at the last minute we'd buy something from the store - a Frankenstein, Dracula, Casper the Friendly Ghost - or my mom would help us slap together something easy: hobos and football players were perennial favorites in our house. Jack-o-lanterns might appear a week or two before the revelry of trick-or-treating, but lawn decorations were simply non-existent. Occasionally there would be a community Halloween party and in elementary school we'd have a little party in our classroom. The night would arrive and we'd spend several joyous hours marching from house to house in my little subdivision of about 100 homes, and we'd fill our bags with the typical assortment of candy. (In that sense, the holiday has changed little. My kids pretty much get the same kinds of candy I received. And my wife and I always scrounge their bags for our old favorites - Three Musketeers, Nestles Crunch, and Butterfingers!) We didn't really worry about our personal safety or the safety of the candy. It really was a very innocent affair. Even when we were older and had stopped dressing up and trick-or-treating, we didn't engage in some of the nastier rituals associated with Halloween revelry. In such a small community, egging someone's house or toilet-papering their trees would have been foolhardy and the scoundrels pretty quickly rounded up. Our biggest concern always seemed to be the weather. In southeastern Virginia, October 31st could bring either frigid temperatures - necessitating an extra layer of clothes underneath those flimsy costumes - or balmy "Indian Summer" weather with 70 degree temps at trick-or-treat time. Cooler was definitely better, particularly from a psychological standpoint. I always associated the holiday with cool weather and the rustle of dried leaves underfoot as we clomped from door to door. Breaking a sweat in a Frankenstein mask was a long way from fun.

Today the holiday seems so much more complicated. I'm still amazed, for example, when I see the amount of decorations so many people place in their yards: inflatable monsters, elaborate haunted house displays, strings of plastic jack-o-lantern lights hung from trees and porches, and even orange Christmas-like strings of mini-lights. Indeed, Halloween - at least in suburbia - seems to rival Christmas for the sheer volume of stuff with which people adorn their homes. When did this happen? I'm guessing this is another product of the Wal-Martification of America. Cheap, plastic, and "made in China" are temptations simply too powerful to avoid on October 31st. The sheer commodification of the holiday is made all the more worse by the fact that the candy and decorations - even here in the City - start appearing in store as early as August and the beginning of September. (This marketing pattern is no surprise, of course. Christmas decorations will hit the stores on November 1st - if not sooner - and Valentine's candy and cards will appear on shelves by December 26th.)

Equally puzzling is the appeal of so-called elaborate "haunted houses," including some that employ Hollywood-style special effects to scare patrons. I remember "haunted houses" as a kid, but they were always amateurish affairs that were primarily fundraisers for various community groups like the volunteer rescue squad or fire department. Particularly troubling are the insidious "hell houses" run by fundamentalist Christian groups. These concoctions expose kids to the supposed "torments of hell" for those who sin, drink alcohol, engage in premarital sex, seek abortions, or engage in homosexual behavior. In the end, they're merely more tangible expressions of the hate-mongering these groups soft-peddle from the pulpit during the other eleven months of the year. Of course, these are the same people who refuse to let their kids read Harry Potter books or take part in the innocent play of Halloween because they associate these symbols with evil and Satanic worship. I'm still shaking my head over these examples of religious extremism.

Luckily, Halloween in the city is still fairly low-key. Some apartment buildings have trick-or-treating for the kids, with sign-up sheets posted to let everyone know who's taking part. In my neighborhood, West Village businesses along Hudson Street have trick-or-treating on the Saturday or Sunday afternoon closest to Halloween, usually in conjunction with a Halloween party held at the Bleecker Playground the same day. The kids march up and down Hudson Street and most businesses hand out candy to the costumed kids. It's fun, safe, and people in the neighborhood have a good time. Our kids' school will also have a "Monster Mash" Halloween party on the Saturday before Halloween as a big fundraiser for PTA programs.

I do know a few families who take their kids out to suburbia to trick-or-treat with friends so they can experience the more "traditional" door-to-door Halloween ritual, as if they're missing something in the City. Is this holiday really so important that kids need to take part in what some consider a "typical" ritualized experience, as if they're passing on some significant piece of cultural baggage without which their kids would be incomplete? And it's not like the Great Pumpkin is going to fly in and reward kids with toys and presents like poor Linus perennially hopes in the the Peanuts holiday special. It should just be fun, without ideological or philosophical strings attached. I remember no angst-ridden discussion by my fairly conservative parents about the pros and cons of dressing up as monsters or wizards for Halloween. In that sense, one can excuse the garish lawn displays. They're still tacky, but in the name of pure fun, a little tackiness is excusable.

More photos from Central Park

I was going through some photos this morning and ran across these two from about 4 years ago. I remember they were among my favorites back then, and was curious about whether they could be held up to the scrutiny of time and changing perspectives. Obviously the photo of an archway and steps in sunlight and shadow is a little more abstract than most of my photographic work, which tends to be more narrative. It was taken near Bethesda Fountain.

The second photo, with the park bench stretching away from the viewer from an out-of-focus foreground to focused background is almost abstract in its composition, but for the presence of a couple sitting on the end of the bench. I remember being curious about their presence on a cold winter's day, the only people perched on this long stretch of empty bench. I remember suspecting at the time that this couple likely spent a lot of time in Central Park, huddled on benches to escape the stifling confines of a small apartment or nearby home for the elderly. Who knows. I think if I could take this photo over again I'd try a broader depth of field to bring the foreground portion of the bench into focus just to see how that image might contrast with the one I snapped.

"Sweet Land"

Last night I watched one of those quiet, indie films that obviously didn't have a big budget or flashy publicity run-up, but nevertheless can leave an indelible impression on those lucky enough to see it. No doubt this film made the rounds of the "artsy" and "indie" theaters around the country and I'm sure it played one of the City's numerous smaller theaters that eschew the glitz of blockbuster offerings. "Sweet Land" tells the story of a bachelor Norwegian farmer living in Minnesota shortly after World War I. (Fans of Garrison Keillor will recognize the "bachelor Norwegian farmer" character from stories about Lake Wobegon. This story, however, is not about humor or stereotypes.) In "Sweet Land" a mail order bride arrives to marry a Norwegian farmer. However, the fact that this bride is of German descent nor has valid immigration papers makes marriage an impossibility, particularly given the wave of anti-German sentiment that swept across the country during this period.

Based on the short story, "A Tombstone Made of Wheat," this film is at once a love story between the farmer and his bride and a look into the prejudices and limitations of ordinary people. At the same time, "Sweet Land" examines the connection to place - and the land itself - for this couple and their descendants. In an age in which family farms are disappearing at a rapid pace in favor of large-scale agri-businesses, this look into the hard and lonely lives of individual farmers on the prairie offers a stark reminder of that way of life. It even addresses - albeit obliquely - the theme of farmers vs. bankers in a sub-plot more recognizable in a story drawn from the Great Depression. And if one listens closely there are even the whispers of the old-fashioned populism that had galvanized American farmers in the last quarter of the 19th century. Add the stark beauty of Minnesota and an excellent cast that includes Alan Cumming, Alex Kingston, and Ned Beatty, as well as Tim Guinee and Elizabeth Reaser in the lead roles, and one has a great little film that doesn't have much in the way of special effects, but shines in terms of pure storytelling and lovely cinematography. It really is one of the most poignant films I've seen in a long time, and likely bears another viewing just so one can absorb the more subtle details of the spartan dialogue.

Given Blockbuster's habit of marketing the more mind-numbing fare offered by Hollywood, I was surprised to find this tucked onto shelves dominated by ad nauseum copies of the latest action films. I guess its presence was management's nod to NYU's neighborhood presence and the possibility that denizens of the East Village might just wander in. If you're a fan of quiet films in which telling the story takes precedence over blowing up cars or saving the world from aliens, I heartily recommend "Sweet Land."

Conservatory Garden, Central Park

Here's my latest work, just finished yesterday. It's from the Conservatory Garden, Central Park's only formal garden. Although I'm a frequent visitor to the Park - and knew that the Conservatory Garden was among its most beautiful spots - this was the first time I had wandered up into that northeastern corner. I was not disappointed. Even at this point in the season, on the cusp of autumn, I was amazed at the number of flowers still blooming, particularly the butterfly bushes, which were attracting both butterflies and hummingbirds. Indeed, when I first walked into one of the paths full of blooming flowers, a pair of hummingbirds buzzed by and around me, chasing each other. This image was part of a bronze statue/fountain that attracted many birds - as well as other photographers and artists. I think the Conservatory Garden is going to be one of my new favorite places in Central Park, and I look forward to observing its metamorphosis through the changing seasons. There are several other fountains as well as a beautiful iron gate - usually called the "Vanderbilt Gate," because it had once graced the entrance to one of the city's Vanderbilt mansions. Fountain, Conservatory Garden. Watercolor, pen and ink, on Fabriano paper, 9" x 12".

Family Reunion Cancelled

Back in April I wrote about my mother's family and its tradition - stretching back to the 1920s - of having a reunion each year in south-central Virginia. I just learned this past weekend that for only the third time since the 20s they will not have a reunion. Illness has prompted the main organizer to bow out and it's too late for someone else to step up and organize the event. My grandmother, at 93, is understandably disappointed because it represents a lost opportunity to see people she may not see again. My mother, likewise saddened by the cancellation, has offered to step up next year and organize the thing if the same situation presents itself. With that reunion and what it has meant to my family fresh in my mind, I'm reposting the entry from April. Enjoy!
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For southerners, a large-scale family reunion is an event - the Jerry Springer Show and Jeff Foxworthy's redneck family jokes notwithstanding - that can rival a county fair for groaning tables of food and animal exhibits. And whether "Baptist dry" or punctuated by worries over alcohol poisoning, these affairs, particularly when measured out over decades, take on an organic life that echoes the births, deaths, and divorces of the actual participants.

That's certainly true of my mother's family, which has held a yearly late-summer/early fall reunion since the 1920s. (My mother hasn't missed one since 1941.) Started by my great-grandparents' generation but nurtured carefully by my grandparents and a gaggle of nearly two dozen siblings, these day-long spectacles draw family members from the isolated corners of Virginia to Halifax County, an area south of Lynchburg in the heart of one of the oldest tobacco producing regions in the country. (The maternal side of my family has been farming the land there since the 1730s.) We would converge on a local community center or, most often, on the spacious grounds of the home of the lone, openly gay member of the family. His hospitality knew no bounds, nor did his sense of humor, although I think he began to worry some of the family when, in his dotage, he began to take great pleasure in announcing loudly that he wasn't sporting underwear.

I remember all of this because naturally I was dragged to the reunion each year from birth until I left home for college . . . and for most of my childhood the event was a very ritualized affair, as if my grandfather had drafted a liturgy, interspersed with hymns of "when will we get there" and "I need to go to the bathroom." For example, each year he and my grandmother would arrive at our home on the appointed Sunday at 5:00 a.m. sharp, his Ford Galaxy 500 packed like one of those brain-teaser puzzles with coolers and tupperware and plates and everything but the kitchen sink. My parents would pack their car quickly while my brother and I would fight over the best spot to sleep in the Gran Torino station wagon. And off we'd go, a few car lengths apart, in a family caravan of four hours, driving across Route 58 through little towns like Disputanta and Appomattox.

Although far from summer and those cicada Sunday afternoons, I'm reminded of these reunions and their characters because the ancient wife of a long-deceased great-uncle passed away recently, leaving this world in the child-like stupor of Alzheimer's. Aunt IdaMae was famous in family circles for her biscuits and the perpetual uncleanliness of her home. We loved the biscuits but preferred not to contemplate their provenance. IdaMae was also what the elderly ladies of the clan called "pixillated," a term which refers to someone who is overly eccentric or whimsical . . . "inhabited by pixies."

IdaMae's passing reminded me of the more colorful characters who would show up each August to eat and reminisce. No doubt every family has its personalities: the law of averages dictates that all families need to have at least one convicted felon, one "drunk," one "dirty old man," one prankster, one religious zealot, and one suspiciously effeminate uncle. My family, to the great delight of those of us who take note of such things, has managed to cover all of these bases, including the convicted felon, who now arrives in a BMW roadster.

There was Uncle Clyde, for example, who was in charge of lemonade each year. He would arrive with two massive 10-gallon stoneware crocks - one for super sweet and one for pucker-inducing sour - and set about making batch after batch for those who eschewed iced tea for a mason jar full of icy lemonade. He was also renowned for policing the lemonade against dirty hands trying to reach over the lip of the crock to steal ice or lemons. As if swatting insects with a flyswatter, he'd smack the fingers of transgressors with the long aluminum ladles used to fill the glasses. (His son, Clyde, Jr., would delight the boys by removing his glass eye, the product of a July 4th fireworks accident in the 1940s.)

Aunt Nancy, a member of the Pentecostal Holiness Church was the permanent bearer of responsibility to "say grace" and bless the food at the start of each reunion. Nancy would announce her presence with shouts of "Amen!" and "Who loves the Lord?!" Her blessing, offered over tables of rapidly cooling food, took on the character of sermons and one always wondered if she would spice it up with some "speaking in tongues," which happened on quite a few occasions. (One of the more irreverent and colorful cousins would invariably add after Nancy's loudly prayerful disquisition on the resurrection and "saving grace of god": "Good bread, good meat, good god, let's eat." I always chuckled and was always smacked for it. My father, never a keen participant or observer of the more "charismatic" displays of religious fervor, would predictably remember at the start of Nancy's exhortations some item "forgotten in the car."

Finally, we also enjoyed seeing the jovial Uncle Edgar and Aunt Edna, because they always arrived with their little chihuahua "Ladybug" who delighted the children with tricks. Edna always seemed painfully thin and frail, a condition likely exacerbated by the parade of Benson & Hedges cigarettes that passed her lips nonstop from the instant she stepped from her Buick to the late afternoon moment when, rising from her folding chair, she theatrically announced "I'm goin' to the potty one more time before we leave!" Her husband, Edgar, perpetually carried around an erection the way some 8-year olds carry No. 2 pencils, tucked neatly into his pants but clearly visible. We would try in vain not to stare but usually excused ourselves quickly to join other cousins in a game of softball or a clandestine climb through one of the tobacco curing barns on the edge of the estate. Still, despite his evident priapism, Edgar could be counted on for funny anecdotes and mildly dirty jokes acceptable to a largely Baptist crowd.

(As an aside, I remember once visiting their home in South Boston, Virginia. Unlike IdaMae's home, Edna's was spotless. But every piece of furniture in the house, all of it vintage 1950s, was covered in those clear vinyl slipcovers. Edgar and Edna died, childless, about 15 years ago within just a few months of each other, which was probably a blessing given their devotion to each other. As Aunt Nancy liked to say about deceased family members, "They've gone on to glory!" My mother and grandmother were among the family members invited to pick over the remains of Edna's estate before everything was sold in a public auction on the front lawn. I was given a gleaming chrome 50s-style Sunbeam toaster, which I used for years thereafter, invoking the memory of Edgar and Edna on each occasion.)

The family gathered again last September, my 93-year old grandmother the last of the generation that had built up the reunion during the lean years of the 1930s and 40s when the ethos of "close-knit family" actually meant something. Their numbers no longer legion, around 30 people gathered at a cousin's home for another day of eating and storytelling. Mind you, the family is no less numerous than it was 50 or 75 years ago. But the connection to "place" and "history" isn't as strong, nor is the generations-old bond to the land. The family has dispersed, leaving the red clay soil of the Virginia Piedmont for more prosperous climes. Only a few cousins, in fact, still grow tobacco, holding on to some closely-measured Jeffersonian agrarian ideal in a threatened market they no longer understand.

My grandfather, eldest of 10 and tired of being "land rich and cash poor," departed in 1941. I still remember vividly the stark contrast between his prosperity and the privations of his siblings who remained in Halifax County. I've not returned in about 20 years, but plan a visit this July when visiting my parents in Virginia. I won't get to experience the reunion itself, but it will be reunion enough.

Update: I did travel to Virginia in July but was unable to make it back to the area from which my mother migrated.

All-Time Greatest Sports Movies

At soccer yesterday, several dads were standing around comparing notes on what we considered "the greatest sports movies of all time." This exercise had been sparked by the fact that one dad in our group simply hadn't seen what most of us considered the "canon" of sports-related movies. Indeed, his exposure to this genre had primarily been dictated by his young sons, who favored baseball movies targeted at kids: Sandlot, Sandlot 2, Sandlot 3, Rookie of the Year, Angels in the Outfield (the Disney-fied version), and the basketball-themed Like Mike. These candy-coated choices are all fun movies for the under 12 set - and count as favorites for my sons - but as classic sports movies they just don't make the cut.

So we started naming off favorites, compiling a list of must-sees for our clueless friend. From that conversation I started thinking about which films would make up my own list of "greatest sports movies." Here goes my dozen, in no particular order after 1 and 2:

1. The Natural

2. Hoosiers

3. Miracle

4. Field of Dreams

5. Breaking Away

6. Chariots of Fire

7. Bend It Like Beckham

8. Slap Shot

9. The Rookie

10. Bad News Bears

11. Bull Durham

12. Requiem for a Heavyweight

If you're a fan of sports movies I've no doubt left out some of your favorites. First, these are all movies I've seen. It wouldn't be fair to judge films I hadn't viewed. Although one might be tempted to drop in the first installment in the Rocky series, I so dislike Sylvester Stallone as an actor, I've never been able to watch more than about five minutes of any of his films. Go ahead and say it: "My loss." You'll notice that five of the twelve are about baseball. This is no surprise, given my love for the game. Also, realize that more movies have been made about baseball than other sport. The only close contender is boxing, about which there are numerous films. (Having been forced to take boxing class as a freshmen in college - a military school requirement - I've come to loathe the sport . . . although I'm willing to acknowledge the brilliance of Rod Serling's Requiem for a Heavyweight.)

Something should be said about my picks for the top two slots. The Natural and Hoosiers are routinely considered among the top sports movies of all time, and in the 20+ years since they were released they've held up well. Hoosiers has even made it to the Library of Congress's list of culturally significiant films worthy of preservation. (They're still among my personal favorites of ANY genre.) Both, I think, have broad appeal because they portray the mythic qualities of their respective sports. The Natural is set in the 1920s or 30s, often considered a "golden age" for baseball - the era of Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and their larger-than-life contemporaries. The film also tells a classic underdog story, with hero Roy Hobbs battling the forces of age and corruption to triumph in the end with a game-winning homerun. Toss in a nice little love story with Glenn Close, some intrigue with Barbara Hershey, an Oscar-nominated Randy Newman score, and one has the makings of a great film. On a deeper level, The Natural also touches on that significant inter-generational aspect of the sport, through which the skills of baseball and a passion for the game are passed from father to son in a process repeated over successive generations. It's a process with which I immediately identify, because my boys and I play and watch baseball constantly.

Although focusing on basketball, Hoosiers mines some of the same psychological ground to achieve its greatness. There's the obvious element of the underdog, embodied in the Hickory High School team itself, Gene Hackman's character as the embattled head coach, and Dennis Hopper's basketball-obsessed alcoholic father. (And hey, there's another Barbara Hershey siting as well! Hmmmm, could she be the glue that holds these films together?) Like The Natural, Hoosiers is set in a romanticized landscape - small-town Indiana of the 1950s. But here, unlike the solitary heroics of Roy Hobbs in The Natural, the hero is "teamwork" and the ability of five players to work together with their coach to overcome adversity and the pressure of "the big game." I still think that scene in the Bradley University gym when Gene Hackman pulls out the tape measure to reassure a team suddenly overwhelmed by a giant arena is brilliant. The movie also benefits from a fantastic Jerry Goldsmith score that propels the action to the final shot at the buzzer. If you love basketball in its purest form, without the glitz of slam dunks and egos on display, Hoosiers is a winner.

Finally, I have to give special mention to the more recent Kurt Russell vehicle, Miracle, which chronicles the 1980 U.S. men's hockey team and its "miracle" victory over the Soviets at Lake Placid. Having watched that game as an excited sixteen year old, I think the movie does a nice job of capturing the moment. Moreover, Russell delivers a great performance as head coach Herb Brooks, eclipsing some of the more notable roles in his long career, including his turn in The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes, a Disney classic from 1969.

Thankfully, all three of these films have become favorites of my boys, which suits me just fine after watching Air Bud for the fiftieth time. Each one says a lot about patience as a player and the value of good sportsmanship, lessons they need to learn in an age punctuated by bad behavior among so many professional athletes on and off the playing field. These films also say a lot about the theme of redemption. The lead characters in each movie carry some personal tragedy or mistake for which they're trying to redeem themselves. Their success in this endeavor is indeed a valuable lesson. My kids may not understand that aspect of these stories right now. But eventually they'll get it after they've suffered their own setbacks in life. Then these films will take on an even deeper poignancy.

The "Decisive Moment"

Before I became serious about painting, I spent a lot of time toting around cameras - heavy, all-metal, vintage cameras with lots of glass and few, if any, of the modern conveniences of digital or even late-model film cameras. Indeed, most of my vintage cameras don't even have light meters, so I always carried a 1950s-model Weston Master III or IV to hand meter everything. When I initially took up photography with vintage equipment as a serious hobby, the process of metering, selecting aperture and speed, focusing, and composition could be quite time consuming. Getting my children to sit still at such a young age was a challenge. More spontaneous photography was just out of the question. Yet with experience came speed.

What I was ultimately trying to achieve was an ability to capture what Henri Cartier-Bresson called "the decisive moment." "Photography is not like painting," Cartier-Bresson told the Washington Post in 1957. "There is a creative fraction of a second when you are taking a picture. Your eye must see a composition or an expression that life itself offers you, and you must know with intuition when to click the camera. That is the moment the photographer is creative," he said. "Oop! The Moment! Once you miss it, it is gone forever."

For me, if operation of the camera - whether a Leica III or a Soviet version of the remarkable Contax II - became intuitive, requiring little thought about the mechanical, then one could devote more attention to realizing the artistic potential of the medium.

Occasionally I felt as if I achieved some success. For example, I was able to capture my kids in some images that are spontaneous and say so much about their personalities. Walking around the city, camera in hand, realizing that kind of spontaneity proved a bit more elusive. But sifting through some of my prints recently, I came across one image that really illustrated that equation of luck, good light, and appropriate subjects that equals an interesting photograph.

I had been walking through Central Park, down the Mall, with the Bethesda Fountain as my destination. Stopping at the parapet which overlooks the fountain, I looked down and saw a bride in white, walking from one of the frequent photo shoots at the fountain, moving from bright sunlight, into the dark shadows cast by the parapet. I grabbed the camera, made an educated guess at the aperture and exposure time based on the conditions, focused, and snapped the picture. I had time for only one shot: a second later the bride had disappeared into the arched recesses under the parapet. When I had the photograph developed, I was pleasantly surprised by the results. So, what story line, if any, can one infer from this photograph? I was especially pleased with the level of contrast between the bright sunlit areas and the shadows. Also, the resolution on her dress is a testimony to the quality of the German lens, given that I was probably 50 to 60 feet away, using a standard 50 mm lens. I can tell you one thing: None of my digital cameras would have yielded this image.

Vermont Farm, Part 2

Here's the second in what will likely be a series of several paintings of scenes from the Scott Farm in Vermont. Not as detailed as the first painting, this is more a study of the different roof lines and my usual look at the contrast between light and shadow. Watercolor and pencil on Fabriano paper, 9" x 12".

Phone Booth

I hadn't really given this painting much thought in the year since I executed it. I liked it, but hadn't included it among my favorites. Looking at it more recently, I realized that my biggest complaint was the same issue I've raised with some of my older works: Technically it just doesn't equal the images I'm producing now.

Yesterday, however, a friend was going through some of my images, a product of my invitation to have a fresh perspective peruse my catalog in preparation for the November show. This new observer stopped at the Phone Booth image and decided it was a favorite among the myriad subjects I've portrayed. Why, I wondered. Because it's "enigmatic," he noted. It invites question and speculation. Honestly, I hadn't considered these adjectives, but was thrilled that one of my paintings could prompt this kind of rumination. And I realized, in the end, isn't this what art is supposed to do - elicit thought and contemplation?

I spent some time on Google - and even Flickr - and discovered that phone booths, especially old phone booths, are a popular subject for artists and photographers. There's an obvious nostalgia attached to the phone both in this age when nearly everyone has a phone in their pocket. Indeed, phone booths of any variety, whether vintage or modern, are rapidly facing a dinosaur-like extinction that will consign them to a technological dustbin shared with rotary phones, 8-track players, and turntables. (In England, the demise of traditional red phone booths, seen as iconic national symbols, has generated widespread outrage over the last decade.)

The subject of this painting is part of a line of about six vintage phone booths at Manhattan's Pier 40 complex. I hadn't seen this many phone booths together since my undergraduate years. But sitting in one recently, I realized that there's something to be said for the simple pleasure of walking in, closing the door, and having the light flicker on as the ventilation fan begins its faint humming. Removed from the comfortable climes of one's home phone, chatting in the fluorescent glow of a vintage phone booth, semi-isolated from the outside hustle, isn't a half-bad substitute for lounging with one's phone on the couch. As a slave to nostalgia, I couldn't help but smile and ring up my wife on her cell phone just to relive the experience of my youth.

"Phone Booth" (2006). Watercolor, pen and ink, on 9"x12" paper.

Unfortunate Celebrity Sighting

So here I go, mentioning a celebrity sighting in my neighborhood, just minutes after finishing a post on the idiocy of celebrity worship. Celebrity sightings are nothing new in the West Village. It seems that half of Hollywood has decided to move to the neighborhood. Why? Probably because they realize that they're less likely to be bothered by photographers and star-struck tourists in the maze-like streets of townhouses. Matthew Broderick or Julianne Moore, frequent visitors to the playground, can enjoy themselves with minimal interference. Tying this to my previous post . . . shouldn't they be able to enjoy some family time at the park without celebrity-crazed people invading their privacy? Thankfully, those who frequent the playground are gracious enough to preserve that privacy and treat them like ordinary people - which they are.

But I digress . . . This morning, while walking the kids to school, we encountered Billy Joel walking his fat little pug on Perry Street (where he and his much younger wife have redone a nice townhouse). I titled this "unfortunate celebrity sighting" because Billy just didn't look good. Sure, how many of us look great at 7:45 a.m. while taking the dog out for his morning pee? Nevertheless, I've always been a fan of Billy Joel, so it was a little sad to see him looking hung over and paunchy. Actually, he and his pug were vividly embodying that joke about how people and their pets start looking like each other after a few years together. (The same thing is said about spouses, I believe.) So Billy, next time you're walking in the 'hood, at least put on some sunglasses so we don't have to see your swollen, bloodshot eyes.

Full Circle in the Slavish Worship of Celebrity

So here we are, 12 years after the "trial of the century" - an event scarcely worthy of the title, given more significant plaintiffs like Sacco and Vanzetti or Julius and Ethel Rosenburg - and O.J. Simpson is back in the news, with video cameras and "reporters" glued to his every move. Why this fascination with a has-been athlete and so-called celebrity being led away in handcuffs? He's no more worthy of our attention today than he was in 1994-95.

Unfortunately, however, coverage of O.J. a dozen years ago represented a paradigm shift in the way our media outlets covered "news." And while more thoughtful Americans realize that we shouldn't pay attention to the likes of O.J., Paris, Lindsey, Britney, and a host of other non-newsworthy characters, the reality is that we do pay attention, and for advertisers in both broadcast and print tabloids, that's where the money is.

So why has our news coverage - and the subjects deemed important - changed so significantly since the mid-90s? First I think it points to an advancing shallowness among average Americans. They don't want to be burdened with daily reality, particularly when it applies to more traditional newsworthy subjects. Americans just don't care about GNP, Somalia, the Sudan, the current credit crisis, or the mounting death toll in Iraq. (If they are finally paying attention to the disaster in Iraq, it's because they're finally witnessing the ripple effect of having the nation at war for so long. With the problem only exacerbated by the awful reality of 9/11, Americans simply don't want to be challenged, preferring instead the "tastes great, less filling" pulp of celebrity and celebrity-wannabe stories.

This crisis of vacuity in American popular culture is nothing new, mind you. Since the birth of the Republic, American culture has invited the disdain of those entities deemed "highbrow" or "intellectual" . . . and, in fact, there is a potent strain of anti-intellectualism in our cultural DNA that persists. Of course, by preaching against the limitations of current popular culture, especially the slavish devotion to the cult of celebrity, I am branded as "elitist" and "effete," charges which I accept with honor. If we wonder why our society has "lost its way" - a criticism levelled by some social critics in the idiotic twilight of the Bush "moment" - perhaps we need look no farther than our role models. If a majority of our populace idolizes wealth, celebrity, excess, and inappropriate behavior, what does that say about the country as a whole? In that context, Bush really is the "people's president" because he reflects accurately their intellectual limitations and ideological narrow-mindedness. In the cult of celebrity, mediocrity can be celebrated - and even elevated to the presidency.

October Nostalgia

There's a very slight chill in the air this morning, a front having passed through yesterday and dragged that September heat and humidity out to sea. There's a hint of autumn in the air, and I'm excited - almost giddy - because autumn is my favorite season, particularly October and November before the cold of winter creeps in. Part of October's appeal is simply a matter of temperature. I'm a hot-natured person who doesn't do well with humidity or temperatures above 75 degrees. So the cooler, dryer days of the fall are welcome relief after the late summer humidity that drives New Yorkers mad.

Mind you, there's more to it than just favorable forecasts from the Weather Channel's hotties. (There's nothing hotter than a female weather-geek.) Autumn also prompts so many good memories for me: field days and harvest festivals, football games and drunken tailgate parties, hiking and camping in the mountains around Lexington, Virginia, family reunions, and family trips to Vermont.

In just three weeks our family will drive to Vermont for our annual four-day trek through back roads and small towns. Although we stay in the area around the Killington resorts, we tend to eschew the usual tourist paths, especially the crowded shopping centers and outlet malls that have taken over Manchester. Instead, we look for unpaved roads, easy hiking trails, and for meals, diners. (Brattleboro has a great diner, the "Chelsea Royal," that has been in business since 1939. Bellows Falls has the "Miss Bellows Falls" diner which is now designated as a landmark. I really should do a whole entry on diners, since they're one of my passions.) About the only bow we make to the tourist trade is a trip to the Vermont Country Store in Weston. Sure, it's overrun with tourists thanks to the buses that disgorge their armies of pensioners. But the boys love the experience and my wife and always end up buying winter socks, candy, and other stuff we probably don't need.

This year we're adding a trip to the Scott Farm near Putney. (See my post from Friday, September 7, "Vermont Farm") The farm is known for its heirloom apples and an orchardist will be guiding us through some tastings on October 6th. The boys will get a chance to hang out with the sheep, a llama, and some herding dogs for the day. We're also spending that first night near the farm at a quaint "mom-and-pop" motel at which my wife has stayed during knitting/spinning retreats.

I can't express how much I look forward to this trip each year. It really is one of the high points for me, and I always feel recharged after visiting Vermont. My wife and I always pick up those free real estate catalogs and look longingly at the homes for sale, particularly those that advertise a barn and some acreage - perfect for raising a few sheep? We laugh that we'd move to Vermont if we could find gainful employment. Even my sons have said, "Let's move to Vermont." It's a nice idea, but I think we'd miss New York City too much. (The painting is a quick 5x7" sketch that I did in situ during our October 2005 visit. It's from the beautiful public library in Woodstock, a town most worthy of painting.)

More from the Archives: Monochrome Studies

As I sift through my paintings in preparation for the November group show in which I'm participating, I've been reassessing some of my earlier work. Indeed, I've found that while some images will never see the light of day again, quite a few have held up under the scrutiny of added experience. This is a set of three monochrome studies that I did nearly two years ago. On several occasions I've experimented with monochrome images, alternating between washes of Payne's Gray (used here) and Sepia. The Payne's Gray is nice because of the blue tint and I use it much more frequently in my works than the flatter, duller color of Davy's Gray. The Payne's, for example, works nicely when I'm mixing colors for shadows.

These gargoyles are located on 110th Street near Cathedral Parkway on Manhattan's Upper West Side. After digging a bit, all I could find on the building is that it was constructed in the 1890s. With its proximity to the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, I wonder if the artist who did these was employed at the Cathedral as well. The gargoyles, which are placed in duplicated sets on either side of the main entrance, are only about 10 feet up, so easily accessible for photography and painting. I wish I knew the artist's point in depicting these images of apparent greed and gluttony. Each character is clearly savoring and protecting his meal. Enjoy!

9/11: Six Years Later

Six years ago right now, I was sitting in my uptown office here in New York City when a colleague announced that a plane had flown into one of the World Trade Center towers. Like everyone else I was shocked and saddened as the tragedy unfolded before us on the TV screen. Here we were, uptown, just a couple of miles away, unable to do anything about what was happening and wondering how we - as a religious institution - would be affected. Naturally we threw open the doors and had people available for prayer and consolation. We became an island of peace in a sea of panic. Then, by afternoon, we began the process of finding our way home, which for me meant walking back downtown to my home, which isn't too far removed from the bottom of Manhattan.

Not actually knowing anyone who was killed in the attacks, the events of 9/11 were more surreal than overtly painful. We naturally grieved for the families who lost husbands, wives, sons, and daughters. But for us, the daily reality was the smoke that drifted up from the smoldering pile of rubble. And there was that naked spot in the skyline that to this day offers a bleak reminder of the tragedy. We had a great view of the Towers from our roof garden and I would always glance downtown as I crossed 7th Avenue each day. Noting the degree to which clouds enshrouded the Towers, one could often gauge the day's weather. I still look downtown and remember.

Now, six years later, I'm not sure how I feel about the event itself. Although the American people rallied together in those first months after September 2001, as a historian I was immediately worried about the potentially negative consequences of the event, given the ideological profile of our president and the prevailing conservatism of so many people. In the end, 9/11 gave the Bush administration - and a Congress dominated by conservatives - license to abandon moderation, invade Afghanistan and, eventually, Iraq. It also produced a culture of hyper-patriotism in which opposition to Bush administration policies was perceived as disloyalty. At the same time, culturally ignorant Americans lumped all of Islam together in a wave of embarrassing anti-Muslim feeling that was no less racist and unwarranted as the internment of Japanese-Americans in World War II. Rather than being guided by the "better angels" of our nature, this country revealed its ugly underbelly in a time of crisis.

Now, six years later, we're still paying a dear price for 9/11. Except now, the U.S. is no less guilty than the terrorists who piloted the planes into the towers. Thanks to President Bush and those who supported his actions, this country has joined the ranks of the fanatics. And although religion isn't explicitly cited as a force guiding White House policies in the Middle East, it is implicitly there, a hyper-Christianity guiding Bush's actions in a way that reminds one of the medieval Crusades that tried to drive Muslims out of Jerusalem.

If there is another tragedy like that visited upon us on 9/11 - and I believe there will be one - we as a nation can place the blame on the Bush administration, whether it happens this year, next year, or 10 years from now. And the heartbroken families of that future tragedy should lay the bodybags of their bloodied loved ones at Bush's doorstep. Rather than learning from history's valuable lessons under these circumstances, Bush and his cronies have ignored history, and indeed reality, in their post-9/11 conduct. As a result, many thousands of people have needlessly died . . . and the blood is on Bush's hands.

Chinatown with the Kids

Last weekend, while my wife was still in the hospital, I took the kids down to Chinatown in lower Manhattan, just a few subway stops from our home. Chinatown is hardly a new or exotic experience for us, since we go down every three or four months to visit our favorite restaurants and markets to pick up favorite food items, including some wickedly good steamed pork buns from a hole-in-the wall place off Canal St. This time, however, we were trying to complete my third grade son's summer break assignment on China and the manifestations of Chinese culture in New York City. So obviously a trip to Chinatown was in order. This time, however, we went with a camera and a different perspective. It was fun, and we noticed things we hadn't seen before, like the herbalist selling traditional remedies and potions and the shops selling red lanterns and other symbols of good luck. As always, the seafood stalls were enticing, while the dragon fruit, pictured below, were quite pretty (although I'm not sure how one eats them).

Of course there were the usual stalls along Canal St. that sold the knock-off watches and Gucci handbags. Although the city has tried to crack down on the sale of counterfeit merchandise - and there's noticeably less, particularly in handbags and luggage - one can still find plenty of fakes for sale. And the tourists still come to buy this stuff, despite admonitions from the city to eschew patronizing the sellers of fake goods.

Normally we'll eat at a fun restaurant that has good dim sum. Joe's Shanghai and New York Noodletown are favorites, particularly the soup dumplings at Joe's. But this time the boys were clamoring for McDonald's and I was too tired to put up a fight or remind them of what I had read and seen in Fast Food Nation and Supersize Me. So I caved in and we joined the tourists who favor the predictability of the Golden Arches over the potentially confusing - albeit delicious - multi-page menu at the Golden Unicorn.

Violated!

So I get to work this morning, get into the office, sit down and start the routine of checking emails, assessing the tasks for the day . . . and I start to notice a few things awry . . . cabinets ajar, drawers open. Then I see the steel cabinet that holds financial records is open. That's definitely not right. So, upon further investigation I realize that between yesterday afternoon (when the last authorized people would have been in this office) and this morning, someone has broken into the office - without completely destroying the lock - and they've pried open the steel cabinet and stolen about $400 in cash. They even took a bottle of wine from my fridge! Bastards! All that commentary about feeling violated after a robbery? It's true. I felt violated. And angry! Sure, convenience stores and other businesses are robbed in New York City with great frequency. But to come into a religious non-profit, an organization that gives a lot back to the community, and steal their money? That speaks of a desperation and amorality that surpasses run-of-the-mill thefts. This is a person with no conscience. I know, I know. I'm being naively idealistic to think that the "religious" label might make us less susceptible - if not immune - to criminal mischief. But I'm not quite that idealistic. I do understand that thieves don't necessarily follow the same moral compass as the rest of us. Oh well. Time to start investigating alarm systems and security cameras. Ugh.

Vermont Farm

Here's the latest, just completed this past weekend after a couple of weeks drawing and painting. The image is taken from a farm near Putney, Vermont, famous for its orchards. It's also hosted a number of knitting and spinning retreats which my wife has attended. Although not visible here, parts of the farm were used in the film version of John Irving's "Ciderhouse Rules." (Yes, I realize that much of the novel and movie were supposed to have been in Maine. However, most of it was filmed around Putney and Bellows Falls, Vermont.) As always in my paintings, the people are reduced to ambigously defined, shadowy shapes in the background. All in all I was pleased with the final product, particularly the windows along the side of the building. I was trying to define the sense of light and reflection without getting into the "specifics" of what might be reflected. And, as in most of my works, there's the contrast between bright sun and shade. I'd be interesting in hereing how people look at this picture. To what are one's eyes first drawn and where do you go after that? I'm actually a little happier with this scan than some of the others. It's still a little darker than the original, but I was trying not to wash out the sunny areas. Any thoughts? (9"x12", watercolor, pen and ink, on Fabriano 300 lb. paper)