Poverty and the Eroding American Dream

Several events and encounters have prompted me to write on the subject of poverty and the eroding attainability of the "American Dream." (And hopefully I can do this with a minimum of bloviation . . . Yes, it's a word!)

Although our country has a well-documented history of poverty (even in the best of times), boom and bust economic cycles, and inequitably dispersed wealth, since the end of World War II we've come to expect certain "basic" commodities that define the American Dream. Indeed, in a society that from its genesis eschewed the hereditary aristocracies of our European forbears, we've taken pride in the presumed ability of any person to become successful and comfortable with a modicum of intelligence, hard work, and luck. Ask Americans where they "fit" in the national social structure and a majority would no doubt declare "middle class."

To most of us, "middle class" has come to mean certain things: a modest house and yard, at least one and usually two cars, a couple of weeks or more for vacation each year, access to affordable health care, adequate food on the table, enough money remaining in our bank accounts to enjoy some of the myriad leisure activities available, and the promise of job stability and a comfortable retirement. And for a long time, we could realize these goals with no more than a high school diploma. A college diploma, which in the immediate aftermath of World War II was earned by a minority of Americans, offered the possibility of an even higher standard of living. Recently reading Bill Bryson's wonderful memoir on growing up in Des Moines, Iowa, during the 1950s, I was struck by a photograph used for the book's endpapers. Featured in a 1951 issue of Life magazine, the photo shows a "typical" family of four from Cleveland, Ohio, surrounded by the two and a half tons of food that an average blue-collar family ate in a year. The father, earning $1.96 an hour, was a shipping clerk in a DuPont factory, and his well-scrubbed, happy-looking family enjoyed this cornucopia of commodities on a budget of $25 a week. Amazing!

And today? Obviously much has changed in the 50+ years since that photo was taken. Perhaps most significant is the growing inability of "middle class" Americans to realize the basics of the American Dream enjoyed by their parents. Job security is clearly a thing of the past. Moreover, we're all painfully aware of the rising cost of decent healthcare - even with insurance. A college degree no longer assures access to adequate employment. (I have a Ph.D. and found myself unemployed for 18 months in 2005-06.) Retirement with sufficient income to survive one's "golden years" is a more tenuous goal than ever. Minimum wage - a hard reality for a rapidly expanding part of our workforce in a service-based economy - is no longer a minimum. Just look at Barbara Ehrenreich's books, Nickle and Dimed and Bait and Switch, which touch on these issues with excruciatingly real examples. Indeed, the single-income family in that Life photo would not be able to survive today without some kind of public assistance.

In New York City these disparities in wealth and opportunity seem all the more visible, particularly in terms of the massive homeless population. The place of my employment runs a homeless shelter on Friday and Saturday evenings. It is always full. Walking the streets, one sees everywhere the casualties of socio-economic change - as well as the casualties of a mental health system that has turned out most of its institutionalized patients in the last 25 years).

Clearly something is amiss in our society. And unfortunately we have neither a charitable infrastructure vast enough to tackle the problem, nor the political wherewithal to address the more fundamental causes of these problems. The romantic side of my personality favors socialism as a response to the crisis. However, the more realistic side understands that the rosy promise of socialism simply will not work in a nation so large and heterogenous.

Tangentially, I'll note that my art has rarely addressed these problems. As a photographer I've had countless chances to document the face of poverty in New York City, but have been reluctant to invade the privacy of the homeless. Only once as a painter have I tried to capture one of these moments. The image at left is of the swollen ankles and bloody feet of a homeless woman who often sits - or in this case, stands - in the Lincoln Center neighborhood. Walking appears to be an arduous undertaking. I was also struck by the contrast between the red of her dress, the obvious dirt and grime which defined its hem, and the bloody bandages on her heels. Painted almost a year ago, I vacillate in my opinion of this painting. At present, I'm pleased with it, hence its inclusion on the blog. Perhaps it's a subject I'll revisit.

Homage to Ralph Goings: Part 2

This is the second in a series of three watercolors in which I'm drawing on the inspiration of "Photo Realist" painter Ralph Goings. As mentioned before, I've rarely succumbed to the temptation of copying other artists' paintings, although realizing this is a pretty common practice for artistic apprentices. I guess my aims here are to a) fine tune my own style, which tends toward realism; and b) see how far I can push the watercolor medium in copying works that were either oil or acrylic. I'm happy with the results, altho' perhaps not as enamored with the more narrowly defined palette (compared with Homage #1). Enjoy! Just click on the image for a larger version.

A few photos . . .

Thought I'd start off with just a few photos from the last week. Actually, I should just call these "snapshots" because they were quick, digital cam shots taken during my walks around town over the last week.

My more serious stuff will almost always be in black and white and will have been shot on film. I guess the unifying theme in this trio is Light and its effect on the architectural landscape of the City. (Oh, and for those of you not acquainted with NYC, the trees sprouting from the top of that 12+ story building are part of a roof garden, a nice addition to many buildings, including the one in which I live.)

As always, these enlarge with a click of the mouse.

The Flatiron Building Revisited

Walking home through Madison Square Park yesterday, I spied the Flatiron reflected in the basin of a park fountain. Turns out I wasn't the only photographer in the park taking advantage of the view. I was quickly joined by a couple of guys shooting the same image with very fancy cameras. This is just a quick snap with my crappy digital and not a particularly artful picture. (I did, however, take some film photos with one of my vintage cameras . . . so we'll see how they compare to these.)

Where's OJ when you need him?

I don't often exhibit my most unvarnished opinions on this blog in an effort to keep it fairly upbeat and rant-free. But watching the local news last night has prompted a brief diatribe.

Scratch the surface of my typically laid-back demeanor and one finds a curmudgeonly cultural elitist. Indeed, I've long eschewed some of the more mundane aspects of American culture, even when they enjoyed "phenomenon" status. I find NASCAR pointless, loathe 99% of reality television, and have long been a vocal opponent of "sprawl" and the "Wal-Mart-ification" of America. (This list is actually far longer, but I have neither the time nor the emotional patience to address my myriad "trolls under the bridge.")

Which brings me to the point of this rant. Remember the whole OJ Simpson tragedy? (And here I mean "tragedy" in a philosophical or "national psyche" sense.) During the morality play of the OJ arrest and trial, I saw so little of the news coverage that I could have served as a juror. I simply refused to be an accomplice in the further "dumbing" of America. Although I've come to understand its long-term significance vis-a-vis the debate over race and the U.S. judicial system, I don't think it warranted the saturation coverage provided by television networks. And clearly it represented a "tipping point" in the way we present "news."

So what does this have to do with watching the news last night? Everything. Rather than lead with actual newsworthy items, a majority of the local affiliates started their broadcasts with coverage of Britney Spears and the continuing saga of Anna Nicole Smith's rapidly decomposing remains. At least the ABC affiliate had the temerity to open with a brief discussion of our weather and possibility of hazardous conditions for some viewers in the area. Even the weather possessed a more obvious gravitas than Britney and Anna Nicole. Twenty-five years ago, these stories would not have made the evening news. One would have encountered them in the supermarket checkout line where they belong, on the covers of the Enquirer and Weekly World News. Entertainment Tonight's Pavolovian producers would have salivated over these stories like dogs in the Alpo factory. But increasingly vacuous Americans have become so enamored with the concept of "celebrity" that "real news" - a discussion of politics, the war in Iraq, a resurgent al Qaeda in Afghanistan, the nascent nuclear programs of Iran and Korea, or a plethora of equally significant issues - has been segregated to the back of the bus. When did the results of a "reality" TV show become newsworthy? Do we really care which aspiring model was booted from Tyra Banks' show? Is "celebutante" Paris Hilton - worth millions - even worth a second glance by news cameras?

On one level the Anna Nicole Smith episode is a sad story . . . and will doubtless prove ready fodder for a made-for-TV movie. She was obviously a small-town girl who had the misfortune of falling in with the worst elements of our celebrity-crazed society and the entertainment industry. It chewed her up and spit her out. She aspired to the celebrity of Marilyn Monroe and realized her dream, right down to the drug-related early death. But as sad as this story might be, particularly for the orphaned baby, it's not worthy of the exhaustive coverage given by major networks and cable "news" magazines. As for Britney Spears . . . to be brutally frank, she's little more than "white trash" to this southerner, who deserves to be swept into the dustbin of celebrity history. Consigning her to oblivion, we should only be subjected to further news about Britney when, several decades from now, authors are penning the newest installment in the "Hollywood Babylon" series. Perhaps a "where are they now" segment on VH-1.

In its Autumn 1993 issue, The Wilson Quarterly published an editorial on television's impact and the rising spectre of reality-based programming. Written at the genesis of the Oprah-era, the editorial worried - with justification, it appears - that a glut of Oprah-like talk shows and "reality" TV would produce a society in which mob opinion is hailed as collective wisdom. And here we are.

Where's OJ when you need him?

I don't often exhibit my most unvarnished opinions on this blog in an effort to keep it fairly upbeat and rant-free. But watching the local news last night has prompted a brief diatribe.

Scratch the surface of my typically laid-back demeanor and one finds a curmudgeonly cultural elitist. Indeed, I've long eschewed some of the more mundane aspects of American culture, even when they enjoyed "phenomenon" status. I find NASCAR pointless, loathe 99% of reality television, and have long been a vocal opponent of "sprawl" and the "Wal-Mart-ification" of America. (This list is actually far longer, but I have neither the time nor the emotional patience to address my myriad "trolls under the bridge.")

Which brings me to the point of this rant. Remember the whole OJ Simpson tragedy? (And here I mean "tragedy" in a philosophical or "national psyche" sense.) During the morality play of the OJ arrest and trial, I saw so little of the news coverage that I could have served as a juror. I simply refused to be an accomplice in the further "dumbing" of America. Although I've come to understand its long-term significance vis-a-vis the debate over race and the U.S. judicial system, I don't think it warranted the saturation coverage provided by television networks.

So what does this have to do with watching the news last night? Everything. Rather than lead with actual newsworthy items, a majority of the local affiliates started their broadcasts with coverage of Britney Spears and the continuing saga of Anna Nicole Smith's rapidly decomposing remains. At least the ABC affiliate had the temerity to open with a brief discussion of our weather and possibility of hazardous conditions for some viewers in the area. Even the weather possessed a more obvious gravitas than Britney and Anna Nicole. Twenty-five years ago, these stories would not have made the evening news. One would have encountered them in the supermarket checkout line where they belong, on the covers of the Enquirer and Weekly World News. But increasingly vacuous Americans have become so enamored with the concept of "celebrity" that "real news" - a discussion of politics, the war in Iraq, a resurgent al Qaeda in Afghanistan, the nascent nuclear programs of Iran and Korea, or a plethora of significant issues - has been segregated to the back of the bus. When did the results of a "reality" TV show become newsworthy? Do we really care which aspiring model was booted from Tyra Banks' show? Is "celebutante" Paris Hilton - worth millions - even worth a second glance by news cameras?

On one level the Anna Nicole Smith episode is a sad story . . . and will doubtless prove ready fodder for a made-for-TV movie. She was obviously a small-town girl who had the misfortune of falling in with the worst elements of our celebrity-crazed society and the entertainment industry. It chewed her up and spit her out. She aspired to the celebrity of Marilyn Monroe and realized her dream, right down to the drug-related early death. But as sad as this story might be, particularly for the orphaned baby, it's not worthy of the exhaustive coverage given by major networks and cable "news" magazines. As for Britney Spears . . . to be brutally frank, she's little more than "white trash" who deserves to be swept into the dustbin of celebrity history. Consigning her to oblivion, we should only be subjected to further news about Britney when, several decades from now, authors are penning the newest installment in the "Hollywood Babylon" series. Perhaps a "where are they now" segment on VH-1.

In its Autumn 1993 issue, The Wilson Quarterly published an editorial on television's impact and the rising spectre of reality-based programming. Written at the genesis of the Oprah-era, the editorial worried - with justification, it appears - that a glut of Oprah-like talk shows and "reality" TV would produce a society in which mob opinion is hailed as collective wisdom. And here we are.

Homage to Ralph Goings

Having delved only slightly into the world of abstraction, I had to return quickly to realism . . . or more specifically, the genre of realism epitomized by Ralph Goings and the mid-20th century "photo realists." Working in watercolors it's a little harder to get the luminosity of glass surfaces typical of a Goings still-life, but I tried. So this is my "homage to Goings," who painted countless still-lifes of condiments and diners. Fans of traditional landscapes, Impressionist musings, or the historical tableaux of a Rembrandt may not appreciate two ketchup (catsup?) bottles and a salt shaker, but to me they're equally art-worthy. Consider them "urban landscapes," which I guess could encompass anything from an architectural landscape of tall buildings to a landscape of condiments in a diner. The bottom line: Goings knew what he was doing.

Abstraction vs. realism

When I paint, I usually strive for a high degree of realism and count among my influences Hopper, Sheeler, Demuth (the example at left), Goings, and the more recent Rackstraw Downes. (I'm also increasingly enamored with Lucian Freud, particularly the non-portrait work.) Although I've long appreciated abstract painting and enjoy it increasingly, it's not something to which I aspired as a painter. Indeed, as I felt moved by subject matter - predominantly urban landscapes, which I've discussed in this blog already - the thought of abstraction just wasn't there.

More recently, however, I've flirted with the idea, particularly after visiting a show at the Whitney on Picasso and his influence on American artists. So I made the leap and here's the example. It's fairly simple, as far as an abstraction goes: straightforward color scheme, slightly skewed perspective, amorphously defined face. But as one of my regular critics observed, she conveys emotion - either a measured reserve or, with the red dress and stronger skin tone (rather than pallid features suggesting weakness), a barely controlled aggression. Having elicited that reaction, I'm pleased with the ambiguity. Hmmm, I may have to revisit abstraction again, to see what I can pull out of it. (The distortions in the image are a product of my inability to get this one to lie completely flat, hence the buckling along the top. Grrrrrrrrrr.)

Propaganda and Painting

Recently I was looking at some examples of art used as propaganda. As a society experiencing a constant barrage of advertising, YouTube videos, "reality" television, and the opinionated musings of seemingly infinite websites - including blogs - we've perhaps become less sensitive to the overt employment of imagery to shape ideology. In a historical context, however, we know it when we see it, to paraphrase a federal judge's definition of pornography. Indeed, most Americans will recognize images of "Rosie the Riveter" and "Loose Lips Sink Ships" from the Second World War. Even more familiar is James Montgomery Flagg's iconic images of Uncle Sam. Less familiar are examples of the "yellow journalism" that nudged public opinion and U.S. diplomacy on the eve of the Spanish-American War, or Thomas Nast's editorial cartoons from the Gilded Age. Art as propaganda has a long history. Just look at some of the religious-themed art of the Middle Ages. One sees mass-produced art in the service of propagandists for the first time during the Reformation, which happened to coincide with development of the printing press.

But enough of the sleepy historical background. My point is . . . as I was looking through some of this propagandistic art - especially in the context of the 20th century totalitarian state - I found some of the painting quite compelling. Most of it was from the 1920s and 1930s and fits easily within the realm of "Socialist Realism," through which art and artists were harnessed to the promotion of the Marxist-Leninist ideology.

The United States had its equivalent, usually produced within the framework of New Deal programs such as the WPA and the Federal Art Project. Indeed, WPA artists, particularly muralists, left behind a legacy of great public art which still graces many post offices and governmental buildings. And although perhaps not as aggressively ideological as examples of Socialist Realism, much of it did have a message. Some Depression-era artists, deciding to depict the privations of that era in a starkly realistic fashion, have even been labeled "Social Realists." My favorites are the "Regionalists" of the 30s, particularly Grant Wood and Thomas Hart Benton. The Regionalists often celebrated the virtues of agrarian life - ironic at a time punctuated by agricultural ruin in the Dust Bowl disaster. And other artists portrayed the stylized "worker" in homage to America's craftsmen and laborers. Obviously the government continued to sponsor and encourage artistic expression after the country's entry into the war in 1941. (The image to the left is by Gordon K. Grant and is located at the U.S. Post Office in Ventura, CA.)

Looking through some obscure paintings that were turned into posters, I ran across an interesting watercolor by illustrator/painter Fred Chance, who also did some covers for Vogue, Harper's and similar magazines during this period. In fact, I liked it so much - and found its linkage of agriculture and industrial production so ironic and innocent,given our country's current disastrous war - that I just had to copy it. I realize that painters copying other painters has gone on for centuries. It's considered part of the learning process for painters: By copying the "masters" an artist refines his or her technique. Yet it's something I had not done to this point. So I tried it . . . and here are the results. My apologies to Fred Chance.

More on my photography habit

As I've noted before, my photo habit reflects an already eccentric background. Most of my cameras are meterless rangefinders or folders from the 40's, 50's and 60's. If I had my way, I'd shoot everything on either a Leica III or early Leica M. The Contax II's are pretty awesome as well. Recently, however, I've done some reading on a few of the postwar Japanese rangefinders, and there are some pretty impressive cameras out there. Indeed, Canon put out some rangefinders that certainly rival Leica for mechanical quality and lens quality. And for those who know anything about camera collecting, the Nikon S-series rangefinders were phenomenal and continue to attract scores of bidders with deep pockets on ebay.

Alas, they're out of my league in terms of expense. Still, with practice, decent film and an accurate meter (I use a vintage Weston) you can get some excellent photos that will easily surpass the images produced by 90% of the digital cameras out there. Why? Optics. Even with as many megapixels as they cram into some of these plastic digital cameras, they're only as good as the optics up front. And frankly, the optics on your average digital camera just don't measure up to, say, the glass in a 40-year old Canon, Leica, Zeiss, or Contax shooter. Sure, if you're looking for convenience, cost savings, and ease of use, a digital camera is great for snapshots. So were the 110 format (think Kodak Instamatic) cameras of the 1970's. But if you want something that's going to give you a sharp, high-contrast image, either pick up a vintage camera, or drop around $1000 on a Canon or Nikon digital SLR that will allow you to manipulate image from their RAW format. (And by the way, for stellar examples of what a good digital - plus an excellent artistic eye - can do, check out the Chromasia site listed in my links. Shooting in Blackpool, UK, the creator of Chromasia produces some of the best digital images I've ever seen.)

Oh, and the image of my older son (top), was captured with a 60-year old Russian rangefinder. The depth of field was pretty narrow so he would stand out sharply from the busy background of the playground. And as usual, I really wanted to heighten the contrast between light and dark, so it's slightly underexposed. To the right, I snapped my younger son with a Czech-made TLR yielding the standard 6x6 negative. For portrait work, I love the square format. Both are viewable in a larger format if you click on each image.

"Father Knows Best" - Part 1

Over the last year I've had a chance to talk with several dads, usually at our favorite playground here in Greenwich Village, and between the typical "dad-speak" about our spouses, sports, the weather, schools, and our kids, we began to chat about the difficult job of being a father in a place like 21st-century New York City. Moreover, we realized that our role - from the more general expectations to day-to-day responsibilities - deviated markedly from that played by our own fathers.

Like my father, born in 1930, most of our dads had been born around the onset of the Great Depression and experienced fatherhood - at least in the context of shepherding their children from birth to high school graduation - during the height of the postwar "baby boom." They had been very typical as "boomer" fathers in the sense that they attended college, worked regular "9 to 5" jobs as professionals, and, in realizing the "American Dream" of that heady period, enjoyed unprecedented job security, affordable health care, the widely advertised amenities of middle class life, and the promise of comfortable retirement.

The principal role of the postwar father was as breadwinner. They also maintained the cars - since we were two-car families now - the house, and the yard. They rarely cooked, unless called upon to man the grill at backyard cookouts, never ferried us to doctors, dentists, or after-school activities, and only occasionally accepted the responsibility of "babysitter," particularly if very small children were variables in the family equation. When necessary, they resolved sibling disputes, were consulted as disciplinarians, and offered sage advice and admonitions on myriad topics, including the triumvirate of education, dating, and sports.

Beginning in the 1950s, television gave viewers a steady parade of father figures who fit neatly in this mold: Ward Cleaver in "Leave It to Beaver," Jim Anderson in "Father Knows Best," and a bevy of bumbling dads that included Danny Thomas, Ozzie Nelson, Dick Van Dyke, and Desi Arnez. Even the single fathers - Bill Bixby, Andy Griffith, Fred McMurray and Brian Keith being the most obvious - had female help from housekeepers or wise "aunts" who assumed the mantle of motherhood.

Conservative pundits and trumpeters of "family values" borne of the Reagan-era would have us believe that these family sitcoms mirrored the reality of that "golden age." Moreover, the apotheosis of the American family of the 1950s continues with a deluge of reruns. (One could also argue conversely that these shows constituted a significant portion of FCC Chairman Newton Minow's "vast wasteland" assessment of TV programming.) Yet in her groundbreaking study on families, The Way We Never Were, Stephanie Koontz declares that "Leave It to Beaver" was "not a documentary." And of course the reality of family life in the 1950s and 60s was rarely as simple as depicted in the world of sitcoms. Still, the boundaries within which television fathers operated reflected the general expectations for fathers at that time. Hence my father, and the dads of my playground peers, acted within fairly obviously defined parameters. What many of them likely did not realize at the time - unless their spouse worked full time outside the home - was that those parameters were changing and that succeeding generations of fathers in the U.S. would play a far more active role in the daily routines of parenting.

To be continued . . .

Watercolors

When I started this blog I stated an intention to post some of my watercolors. However, efforts to scan these paintings proved frustrating. In particular, color reproduction proved impossible; I simply couldn't duplicate accurately the colors of the original. In the end, I took my digital camera and photographed them. The results were better - albeit not optimal. With a little exposure correction in photoshop the results weren't too bad. So here are the first examples:

Much of my work is architectural, with occasional landscapes tossed in. Living in New York City, I'm surrounded by architectural gems that are too often overlooked by the hordes marching "Metropolis"-like from office to home. My neighborhood, the West Village, is particularly rich in architectural stock, from 18th century houses and Victorian row houses to post-modern atrocities of mirrored glass. Luckily the Greenwich Village Historic District has been spared most of the building nightmares that plague other neighborhoods. This first painting (9x12 original) is of a window and fire escape on Perry Street. It's not a uniquely significant building. However, I liked the lighting and the geometry, two factors which influence heavily my decisions on subject matter.

As mentioned in a post from a few days ago, the Flatiron Building continues to inspire artists and photographers. Stand at the "X" formed by Fifth Avenue and Broadway crossing and one will always see photographers/tourists stopping to snap photos of the Flatiron. Naturally I had to paint it. This was just an initial attempt, a quick 5x7 sketch of the Flatiron at sunset. I really wanted to present the building as the prow of a large ship. Also, I tried to capture the colorful play of light and shadow on a building that's normally plain grey marble. At sunset the marble of the upper floors grabs the sunlight and takes on a completely different character. I think I'll be returning to the Flatiron as a subject very soon.

Finally, I've included this image of the cupola of St. John's Lutheran Church, a historic, early 19th century church on Christopher Street. (It's just up the street from Sheridan Square and the site of the "Stonewall Riots," considered a turning-point in the battle for gay/lesbian rights. Since its repainting last summer it is again a beautiful spot in a part of the neighborhood that can be a bit seedy. (For these pictures, you can click on each of the small images to see a larger version.)

Recurring Dreams

Most people have recurring dreams, which isn't surprising given the whirlwind activity of the subconscious in processing our experiences and thoughts. Although I'm sure psychologists/psychiatrists explain recurring dreams in myriad ways, I'm guessing from my inexpert vantage point that many of these episodes are a product of stress. For example, when I'm under pressure at work and have deadlines looming I'll often have a dream in which I'm back at VMI. Typically in these dreams I'm late to a parade, inspection, or class and can't locate all of the pieces of my uniform. Ironically, I've talked to other graduates of VMI, including a friend from the Class of '69, and they've reported having the same dream. Obviously the intensity of the VMI experience rewired circuits in our subconscious and - decades later - still exerts an influence over the way we deal with stress.

Last night I had one of my recurring dreams . . . one that I've had for many years, although this was the first episode in quite some time. In this dream, I'm in a multi-story house and at the start I'm on the first floor. I recall that when I was younger, the house was rather small, just a narrow two-story. In recent years the house in the dream has expanded and often resembles a giant, rambling English country house or castle. On some occasions it seems vast, a rabbit warren of rooms, grand halls and numerous staircases. I've even had multiple episodes of this dream in which there's a vast room with cases full of the antiques I've either collected or lusted for over the years. There have been pools. Elevators (including last night). In short, the house has varied considerably over the history of this dream. But one thing never varies - and here's the critical point of this dream. In this dream house, regardless of its size and orientation, there's always a top floor or attic that is dark, forbidding, and always seems to harbor some awful, malevolent presence. I never actually make it to that top floor. I'll stand at the foot of the stairs, looking up at the hazy darkness, which sometimes appears fog-like. It's at that point, encountering the stairway to the darkness, that I wake up.

My last shrink concluded that the house represents my "world" . . . and just as my world has expanded since childhood, the house has expanded from narrow row-house to expansive mansion. And the darkness? The darkness represents my inability or unwillingness to deal with the darker aspects of my existence, whatever those might be. My wife, who is always quick to jump on the Freudian dream bandwagon, concurs with this evaluation. Any thoughts?

S.A.D.

It took every ounce of resolve in me to crawl out of bed today. Between the icebox temperatures, general melancholy, and lack of sleep, I could barely move. But move I did, and dragged my carcass to the office and now sit answering emails and phone messages. February is always my toughest month. Christmas is now long gone and it's post-birthday, so there's nothing significant to spark one's anticipation until the Spring. This is definitely the period during which I experience the so-called "Seasonal Affective Disorder" or "SAD." Spring seems as distant as the end of this "tunnel" created by the elms of Central Park's "Mall.

In my previous job the office was only one block from the park, so I would often wander over at lunch. Alas, I'm now too far from the Park for quick walks . . . so I rather miss that chance to recharge. Madison Square Park is close, and although it's a far cry from Central Park, it does offer its own set of pleasures, particular views of the Flatiron Building (originally known as the Fuller Building) which inspired some of the masters of photography, including Alfred Stieglitz (from 1903, see left), and Edward Steichen (1905, see below).


The Flatiron, which gives its name to the surrounding neighborhood, is still a remarkable architectural gem, so it's not surprising that it inspired artists when it rose above the surrounding buildings as the first "skyscraper" in New York City.

Do you know how hard it is to take a decent photo with a cellphone? Yes, I wear bow ties to work every day, have for years, even when I'm wearing jeans, combat boots and a tweed or navy blazer. As for the hair, I went crazy a few weeks ago and had most of my hair buzzed off. Don't think I'll do that again for a while. Not really enjoying that "Zippy the Pinhead" look. But here I am, a day into age 43. At least it's starting with more promise than the start of 42, when I was still unemployed.

What are my goals for 43? Here's a short list, in no particular order:

1. Maintain this blog!
2. Continue to work on the depression issue (which means finding a new doc).
3. Look into selling some of my paintings.
4. Make the jump to some large format photography.
5. Be more patient with my family (who would doubtless appreciate that from their eccentric dad).
6. Plan and execute at least one cool family trip. With friends living there for a year, Costa Rica is a very real possibility.
7. Read more fiction.
8. Have more sex. (Ok, who doesn't want this as a goal?)
9. Take greater advantage of NYC's cultural outlets (museums, concerts, etc.).
10. Remodel/repaint our apartment, which is typically small like most spaces in Manhattan.