Snow . . . and a bit of history

Images of Madison Square Park (and the Flatiron Building) after yesterday's snow. The statue is Chester A. Arthur, who rose to the presidency in 1881 after the assassination of James A. Garfield by a disaffected - and deranged - office seeker. It's ironic that Arthur would have to support and preside over passage of the resulting Pendleton Civil Service Reform Act. As the base of the statue points out, Arthur served in the most lucrative - and perhaps most corrupt - position available in the pre-Pendleton civil service system: collector of customs for the port of New York. Traditionally, collector of customs posts around the country were handed out to the most prominent of local party leaders as rewards for significant service. Although the federal government had established a schedule of regular fees to be paid at its customs houses, the collectors presided over a shadow system of bribes and kickbacks that offered the potential for great wealth in the larger port cities. Moreover, collectors usually controlled appointments for a small army of subordinate positions, from assistant collectors down to weighers and measurers who handled incoming goods. In performing this role, customs collectors thus reinforced party loyalty at the local level.

Always the pragmatic politician, Chester A. Arthur understood that the public outcry for civil service reform following Garfield's death could not be ignored. Sure, Garfield had enjoyed little time in office (two months) before being shot by Charles Guiteau in a Washington railroad station. Nevertheless, his death four months later sparked a national outcry, and, in all likelihood, reopened the emotional wounds inflicted by Abraham Lincoln's assassination just 16 years earlier. (Ironically, Lincoln's son, Robert Todd Lincoln, was with Garfield at the station when Guiteau shot the president.)

Mind you, this issue was hardly a new one and promised to be a key issue during the Garfield administration even without the assassination. Reform-minded politicians and critics of the highly politicized civil service system had advocated creation of a merit-based system for decades. Civil service appointments usually dominated presidents' first months in office, and often proved a vexing process. As an editor with the Papers of James K. Polk, I remember Polk's oft-stated complaints about the incessant parade of office seekers who appeared at the White House, hats in hands, letters of introduction at the ready, begging for consideration. Indeed, a majority of the correspondence to Polk during his fist several months in office was penned by desperate citizens soliciting positions at every level, from consulships to village postmasters.

Ok, this doesn't have much to do with snow in Madison Square Park, but the statue of Arthur reminded me of the Garfield assassination and the campaign for civil service reform!

Church of the Transfiguration - Snowy Day

It's a snowy day in the city, with flurries promising a dusting of just a couple of inches. It's just a prelude to the bitter cold weather that's just now sweeping across the Midwest with record low temperatures. This kind of Arctic cold becomes problematic because the accompanying winds always funnel through the street canyons, creating nasty wind chills and hazardous walking conditions. Still, we trudge along, accustomed to walking most of the time, while taking the subway and busses for longer journeys. Hopefully I'll get to Central Park for a few moments this afternoon, camera at the ready.

These photos were taken at the Church of the Transfiguration - better known as "the Little Church Around the Corner" - on 29th Street between 5th and Madison Avenues. I got this antique look by running the photos through a conversion program found on a Japanese website. It's an interesting look, an experiment, and I'm interested in feedback.

A Balmy December 10th

I've posted these photos before, but on a balmy 63-degree day in December I'm compelled to wish for a snowy day. But instead of snow we're having sticky, rainy, warm weather a mere two weeks before Christmas eve! Now I know how residents of the Gulf Coast feel in winter. This could be Jacksonville - a depressing thought - or Mobile, or even New Orleans. And while those cities have their charms, once again I'm glad I don't live in the deep South. Give me four distinct seasons, with ample snow and beautiful vistas like Central Park's "Mall" pictured here. I remember snapping these early in the morning several years ago, before the snow plows had cleared the streets and the grime of the city had settled into the shockingly filthy slush that makes the days after a snowfall particularly treacherous for pedestrians.

Under a fresh blanket of snow, New York City is magical, like George Bailey's Bedford Falls in It's a Wonderful Life. Give the city a day or two, however, to trudge through the curbside snow drifts and flooded crosswalks, and one is reminded that our reality is closer to Pottersville, with plenty of Lionel Barrymores to sour the mood. In the end, I guess there are many of us who put up with the inconveniences of this city just to experience those occasional moments when New York City actually resembles the Hollywood fairytale version. At those moments it all seems worth it.

P.S. I love these old photo borders!

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow . . .

We finally have some measurable snow in the City, with perhaps three to four inches having fallen by Noon. It's always interesting to watch how New Yorkers react to snowy days. Manhattan, of course, barely slows down unless the snowfall surpasses a foot in depth. Schools remain open. Everyone goes to work. Cabs, buses, and subways shuttle the herds about, and perhaps the only inconvenience are the slush-filled crosswalks that can reduce one's feet to wet, freezing lumps of flesh - even in boots. Central Park, my favorite destination in the snow, becomes a wonderland, with sledders and cross-country skiers needing only a couple of inches to hit the Park's trails and excellent hills. Indeed, with public schools on mid-Winter break this week, I'm sure Central Park is full at this very moment with snow-starved revelers.

Not everyone loves the snow, however. Walking around town one quickly spots those people for whom the snow is just a nuisance. They usually walk hunched over, almost tip-toeing through the white powder, scowls on their faces, all but shouting out their disdain for those of us who enjoy the white stuff. My boss and I, having grown up in the South and witnessed no more than a few inches of snow each year, delight in these moments. This morning we both heard that quiet voice of our childhood calling out to play in the snow. We obliged by going out and building a little snowman/angel on our front step. Some people may have thought we're crazy, but many passers-by stopped to chat and take pictures.

Finding plenty to be grumpy about, I think it's easier to accept the snow and its slippery reminder of winters long past. Rather than scowl at the weather and curse the slush, take a moment to make a snowball or stomp through the little drifts made by the snow blowers and shovelers clearing off the sidewalks. Put on your boots and march through Central Park. Enjoy the snow!

Epiphanies

My friend Nina over at Ornamental commented yesterday on how some of her best inspirations materialize while standing under a hot shower. I couldn't agree more. I've always found that some of my best ideas are delivered as I stand in the shower . . . as if the falling water is a conduit for wet epiphanies. Maybe the water pouring over us is akin to a baptismal experience, through which we're ideally washing away our sins and anxieties, while achieving some sense of heightened clarity about ourselves and our souls.

Whether or not one believes in the idea of spiritual baptism in the Christian sense - a practice with roots in pre-Christian, pagan ritual - there's something to be said for the power of that cleansing water. Years ago, when I still wrote poetry, I would have poems pop into my head, nearly fully formed, without that arduous period of gestation and self-editing that could define some moments of literary creation. Under those circumstances, I'd dash from the shower and grab paper and pen to record the words before other thoughts crowded out this latest revelation. Even now I find that my mind clears in the shower and the synapses seem to fire a bit more smoothly.

For the liturgically minded, this is the season of epiphanies, by the way. And this Sunday, churches around the world will celebrate the Feast of the Epiphany, ostensibly the symbolic moment of Christ's divinity being revealed to Gentiles, represented by the Magi. Parishes will parade likenesses of the Magi, "Three Kings" or "Wise Men" through their sanctuaries or the streets of small towns, or children will dress up in beards and plastic crowns to process into their church bearing their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. But like so many of these "feasts" in the liturgical calendar, its 4th century origins are convoluted and represent one of those focal points of disagreement between churches in the east and west. For example, in the Eastern Orthodox Church, January 6th marks the day of Christ's baptism in the river Jordan. And at one time, even Christ's birth was celebrated on this day as well, before December 25th and the feast of Christmas became a separate celebration.

Growing up in a Southern Baptist church I never heard of Epiphany - or Advent and Lent, for that matter. It was as disconnected from liturgy and western christian ritual as one could possibly be. Anything remotely liturgical or ritualistic was deemed "Catholic" in nature and thus suspect. I believe some of that has changed now, however, with more Baptist churches embracing the concepts of Lent and Advent as means of organizing and structuring the worship and educational experiences. It also allows these churches to employ the familiar idiom of Catholicism and its adjuncts as a way to appeal to potential converts with experience in those liturgically oriented traditions. As an Episcopalian - and occasional congregant in a Lutheran parish - I always found these moments in the liturgical calendar a way to connect with Christian traditions that, in some cases, stretch back over the millenia. They also remind one of the fluid nature of Christian belief over the centuries - a quicksand-like reality to be avoided by the more dogmatic denominations that prefer ignorance over an informed faith.

I tend to avoid making New Year's resolutions, realizing that they'll most likely be cast aside in a short time. (Authoring this blog was actually borne of a resolution last January, and is thus one of the few New Year's promises I've ever kept.) Yet instead of dwelling on promises and resolutions - or things "done and left undone" in the language of the prayer book, here's hoping that 2008 is a year of epiphanies, whether divined in the shower, while walking down the street, or engaged in prayer.

The Dark Ages

"Happy New Year." I say that without exclamation, because the start of a new year is rarely a happy experience for most of us. We're feeling fat and bloated, sleep deprived and cranky, and, after spending little time in the office over the last two weeks, doubtless unhappy to be back at work. Riding the bus and subway to work this morning, I couldn't help but notice the somber faces of the crowds trudging Park Avenue, bent against the cold wind like beggars under their sacks. It's certainly easy to understand why so many animals hibernate through this season. But we humans, ostensibly masters of our environment, able to combat extremes of heat and cold, labor on through the seasons, bundled against winter's cold.

But apparently this flurry of activity during winter's coldest months is a modern development. I was recently reading a new historical geography of France - The Discovery of France - and learned that in the coldest areas of western Europe many communities essentially hibernated until the spring thaw. There would be little or no commercial activity, no travel, and only meager time spent outside. Families would huddle together with their animals - including sheep, cows, goats, etc. - and spend much of their time sleeping. While this might seem surprising, realize that winters were generally colder and of longer duration until the early 20th century. (Chalk that difference up to the climate change wrought by global warming.) Also understand that for many Europeans, fuel supplies were quite limited and expensive when available. But enough science and history.

When I was a cadet at the Virginia Military Institute (VMI) in the early 80s, we called this time between the Christmas holiday and Spring break the "Dark Ages." Tucked under red comforters in our folding beds, we'd awake each morning to the clang of the warming steam radiators and a lone bugler blowing reveille in the darkened barracks. We would line up outside barracks in our company formations and march off to breakfast in the dark. And, after a day of classes we'd change into our grey wool blouses and march off to supper - again, in the dark.

For Rats (VMI's term for freshmen) this was a time of fear and depression. Having enjoyed the liberation of home and family for the holidays, we would spend the ensuing winter months praying for the arrival of Spring and the end of the period of torture and humiliation known as the "Ratline." Laboring under a heavy course load, we struggled through months of physical and emotional torment. When friends ask what it was like, I compare it to the first half of the movie Full Metal Jacket - plus 18 credit hours. (This was the period during which so many Rats reached the breaking point and quit, abandoning VMI for the relative ease of regular college life.)

On a warm spring day, with flags fluttering and the parade ground covered by cadets on parade, VMI could seem a magical place . . . proud parents taking pictures of their sons (and now daughters) arrayed in coatees and shakos, with freshly polished brass and steel sabers glinting in the mountain sunlight. Under those conditions, with the statues of Stonewall Jackson and George C. Marshall surveying the field of neat formations, it was easy to get caught up in the romance and history of a place like VMI, the "West Point of the South," as it is nicknamed. But in cold January and February, under grey clouds that matched our grey uniforms, the place seemed a prison. (Indeed, while visiting VMI as a senior in high school, my father remarked during a tour of the campus, surrounded by other parents and prospective cadets, "It reminds me of Alcatraz.")

By the winter of my senior year, the romance of VMI had faded, the naivete of an 18-year-old freshman having been replaced by the realization that the quaint 19th century uniforms and flashing sabers were just window dressing to cover up the harsh reality of military life. Rather than marvel at the history and pageantry, I was more apt to contemplate the final line of Wilfred Owens' great poem from the trenches of the First World War: "Dulce et decorum est/ pro patria mori."

Like VMI, New York City can exhibit that polar contrast between its mythic, beautiful face and the grey reality of urban squalor. And today that reality seems just a bit harsher as used Christmas trees are tossed to the curb throughout the City and the Christmas decorations come down, only to be replaced by the garish displays of Valentine's Day wares. Here's hoping the "Dark Ages" are mercifully short and Spring arrives a little early this year.

A Dickens Christmas

(Only a week until Christmas Eve. Alas, so much yet to do, just to realize what most of us consider the "basics" of the holiday: put up the tree, buy some more presents so Santa will visit the kids, make a gingerbread house with the boys, and perhaps walk around to check out some of the city's decorations.)

On Saturday night our family attended a Dickens-themed Christmas party, appropriate given our efforts to read through A Christmas Carol for the first time this year. (As I've already noted here, it's a bit of heavy lifting for the kids in terms of vocabulary, but I think their exposure to Dickens' narrative and richly portrayed characters will prove an invaluable experience. At least they will be able to say they've been exposed to Dickens!) The party featured authentic foods from Victorian England, with parallel passages from Dickens' novels accompanying each item. Obviously the menu was heavy on little meat pies and pastries, shortbreads and ham. But the hit of the night was the flaming Christmas pudding - ceremoniously paraded into the room as everyone sang "We Wish You a Merry Christmas."

The whole affair prompted me to reflect on the simplicity of the Christmas experience as described in Dickens. Sure, there was feasting and celebration, and even dancing in Mr. Fezziwig's warehouse. But it was still a decidedly simple occasion, in which familial ties and the bonds of friendship constituted the glue holding the celebrations together. And while there's an emphasis on the characters maintaining a "Christmas spirit" in their lives, Dickens' tale isn't overtly religious. Indeed, even the non-religious among us can buy into those Christmas ideas of "giving" and "fellowship" without troubling oneself over the more miraculous episodes associated with the occasion. Moreover, it's nice to know that early Christian leaders failed to eradicate entirely the more pagan, pre-Christian rituals now associated with the Christmas holiday. As in so many other areas, they realized that co-opting existing practices proved a more successful route to conversion than more heavy-handed tactics. Frankly, I think the pagan enhances the Christian, and both belief systems - at least in the context of Christmastide - enunciate some similar concepts. This is certainly clear for Dickens, in which a world incorporating the supernatural exists comfortably in an avowedly Christian society. One should realize, too, that by the middle of the 19th century, much of English society was only nominally Christian in belief and practice, despite the existing state-controlled church infrastructure. Enclosure, concomitant destruction of traditional village life, the Industrial Revolution, and construction of England's "dark, satanic mills" only hastened the decline of popular faith - ironic in a society that had once spent so much energy and spilled so much blood over matters of Christian dogma.

Standing there on Saturday night, listening to the traditional carols of the season, I realized that Christmas should instill in us a lightness of heart - in the way Ebenezer Scrooge's epiphany transformed his spirit. On the surface, it might seem an easy charge: Go forth and spread Christmas cheer throughout the whole year, not just in Advent or in the days immediately following December 25th. Nevertheless, we get bogged down in the extraneous details of the season. We lose sight of the simple joy in giving, because we're too often engaged in games of "oneupsmanship" in the gifting process. We become too concerned about the price tag or the tax write-off. And I have been guilty of these failings too many times to recall. This year, however, as I've struggled to find the spirit of Christmas within the barrage of commercials and appeals to buy, spend, and save, I think I've recognized more of that simplicity in the season, and thus haven't been driven to "shop 'til I drop." (For a guy who loves to shop - yes, something of a rarity - this can be a difficult urge to suppress.)

No doubt I'll join the family on Christmas Eve for a service at the little Lutheran church around the corner from our apartment. The church will be decorated beautifully, as always, and the familiar carols will remind me of Christmastides past. But will I be able to muster my usual Christmas spirit?

Christmas Spirit?

So here I am at age two, happy and carefree, posing in my little winter suit, doubtless anticipating - eagerly, despite the dubious look on my face - Santa's Christmas visit. (Yes, little boys were dressed up like this in 1966.) I remember being so excited about Christmas that falling asleep on Christmas eve always proved nearly impossible. By December 24th I had watched the litany of Christmas specials - from Charlie Brown to the Grinch - with rapt attention. Santa had been visited and my wishes revealed. All I had to do was wait - albeit impatiently - for the 25th.

Now my kids, at ages seven and eight, are at that stage of Christmas excitement. Every day they ask, "When's the tree going up?" and "When are we visiting Santa?" I enjoy their excitement and naturally see myself as a child mirrored in their behavior. But this year I'm having a hard time feeling that Christmas spirit. Mind you, I'm no Scrooge, awaiting the visit of Marley's ghost. But I'm likewise not "keeping Christmas" in my heart in the manner of Scrooge after the three hauntings. I simply haven't felt "Christmasy" yet, which is an odd feeling for someone who has always enjoyed thoroughly the trappings and rituals of the season. (I also enjoy the realization that many of our Christmas practices tap into that pre-Christian culture of Europe as a source of inspiration.)

Perhaps it's my frustration with the whole commercialization issue, which I've discussed here ad nauseum. There's also the religious hemming and hawing attendant with the season. And the painful fact of sensory overload, from overdone decorations to the never-ending loop of Christmas music blaring at my corner market, likely plays a role as well. The only bit of Advent or Christmas expression that has elicited the joy characteristic of the season has been a piece of music by Paul Manz: "E'en So Lord Jesus, Quickly Come," a modern piece that sounds ancient, like one of the lovely Medieval Christmas hymns many of us invariably sing at Christmas eve services. I know, I know. Isn't that an awfully religious work for someone whose doubts about the "miracles" of Christmas run quite deep?

For me, however, the tune means much more. Ten years ago I spent the week after Thanksgiving lying in a New York hospital, recovering from a bit of gastrointestinal trauma. That first Sunday after Thanksgiving happened to be the first Sunday of Advent. My wife - my fiancee at the time - sang in the choir of an Episcopal church and left my bedside for rehearsal and a church service. Knowing I loved this song, she used her cell phone to call my room during the service, at the moment the choir was singing the Manz piece. So I lay in my hospital bed and listened as she and the choir sang, the phone resting on the bench next to her. It was one of the most amazing things I've ever experienced. I lay there and sobbed through the whole piece. Now, ten years later, this song still grabs me, regardless of the season. More than anything else perhaps - Santas, trees, decorations, or TV specials - this song instills a meager measure of the Advent and Christmas spirit amidst my doubt and uncertainty.

It Snowed!

Ok, so it didn't snow three or four inches as I had hoped. And the rain washed it all away by this morning. Still, it snowed, perhaps a little more than an inch in the city. It was just enough to cover the sidewalks and the parks, while making the trees and fire escapes beautiful for a few hours. There was enough on the ground to have the kids run around the playground, throw a few snowballs, and slip and slide through a bit of tossing the football. Not bad for December 2nd.

If we don't have a white Christmas (always doubtful), it was at least nice to see the Christmas decorations on neighborhood businesses sporting a dusting of the white stuff. Unfortunately all I had was my phone and its craptacular little camera, so the photo quality here leaves much to be desired. You'll notice the tree holding on to much of its fall color - testimony to how warm our fall has been. Here we are in the first week of December and there are many trees in the City just now reaching a point they would usually hit in late October. Global warming anyone?

Let It Snow . . .

I know I'll regret these words come January and February, but I really wish it would snow several inches - not enough to snarl traffic, but just a few inches to cover the grime and give Manhattan that otherworldly, romantic look one usually associates with glossy postcards or Woody Allen's celluloid paean's to the City. Perhaps I'm also longing for that pall of silence a snowfall can bring - even to New York City - in an effort to recapture the stillness of Vermont last weekend.

I worked on the Upper East Side for several years, close to the 72nd Street entrance to Central Park, and thus a quick walk to the Park's Mall and the Sheep Meadow. I would drop my kids off at their preschool near Lincoln Center and walk east across the Park. On snowy mornings I would be among the earliest walkers, joined by a few eager cross country skiers and dog owners (who were out early every day, regardless of the weather). Walking through the snowy Park at that hour was always an amazing experience. One felt isolated from the City, and at the same time, more visibly aware of Olmsted's vision for Central Park. Given his genius, I have little doubt that Olmsted imagined what the Park would look like in snow. The Mall, in particular, becomes cathedral-like with the stark trees forming an architectural framework for the ceiling, the snow producing a church-like silence.

So yes, I'm longing for snow, even with the reality of the aftermath: coal-colored, foot-soaking slush at cross walks, salt-stained sidewalks, muddy paths in the Park, and grimy cabs piloted by drivers who have no idea how to drive in these conditions. Forecasters are calling for flurries over the weekend, but with no accumulation. I hope they're wrong by three or four inches.

Spring

Will Spring ever arrive? (Of course it will. But on a drizzly, overcast Monday in April, it's easy to wonder.) I walked across Central Park yesterday and spent some time at the zoo with family and friends. (It's always fun to watch Gus the polar bear lolling on a rock.) The Park only had the tiniest bits of green showing at the tips of branches. A few forlorn crocus and daffodils peered out, but likely worried that they'd get burned again as they had in the falsely warm days of December and January. How depressing, particularly when family in Virginia inform me that the redbud and camellia are blooming, while the dogwood are just starting to open. I love Central Park, even in winter, but it was so disheartening yesterday to see it still slumbering - in April! No doubt this is the southerner in me, crying out in revolt against the longer winters. "You're wishing your life away," my mom would say to me - as she has for years. But I do long for May and warmer days. If the Purgatory of Catholicism is true, I'm sure there's a place in which it's perpetually late winter. One can sense Spring's approach . . . but it never arrives. (Of course, I don't believe in this bit of Catholic doctrine. Yet references to Purgatory always remind me of a bit of Reformation-era doggerel attached to the Church's practice of selling papal indulgences to secure forgiveness of sins for oneself or departed loved ones: "When the coin in the coffer rings, the soul from Purgatory springs." Frankly, I think we do a fine job creating our own Hell and Purgatory right here!)

Not having access to any Spring photos at my office, I've included a couple of twilight photos from the neighborhood. I love the light at this time of day and have taken some of my best photos (and these are not among the best) as that low sunlight sweeps across the Hudson and lights the west-facing buildings of Manhattan. They rather reflect my "sunset" mood right now.

"Toy" Cameras

To camera enthusiasts there's a subgroup that enjoys a considerable following on the web: so-called "toy" or "junk" cameras. These are usually poorly made, mass produced cameras, sometimes intended for children, but typically either sold to unsuspecting consumers lured by pretty plastic or given away as cheap carnival prizes. The most obvious example of this group is the "Diana" and its numerous manifestations. Some enthusiasts will also toss in the Holga as a signature model. (For a more thorough and humorous discussion of these cameras and their artistic utility, check out www.toycamera.com/ or www.merrillphoto.com/JunkStoreCameras.htm.) Regardless of origin, most can be classified according to several common variables, including, but not limited to: crappy (usually plastic) optics, light leaks, lens flare, and cheap price (usually less than $20). And while most people have no use for these cameras - particularly as the tide of digital photography advances - there is a devoted following that sees the toy camera as a tool for artistic expression. As toycamera.com notes: "Toy camera photographers are rebels who want to prove that you can make a silk purse out of a sow's ear."

Sure, I love a beautifully rendered photograph that's a product of a keen eye and excellent glass. Perusing a compendium of Edward Steichen photos the other night (I've posted one of his classic Flatiron Building shots.) I marveled at the velvety texture of his black and white images. And I'd love to drop several thousand dollars on a new Leica. But there's also considerable beauty in the fuzzy image rendered by a Holga. Toss in some lens flare and contracted depth of field, and your photo could resemble the efforts of the earliest photography pioneers - without the caustic chemicals and protracted exposure times. Daguerre and Fox Talbot would laud your efforts.

Until now, the "toy" camera genre has focused on film-based images. Yet it should come as no surprise that the same mindset which inspired film-based "toy" cameras has brought us "toy" digital cameras. Go to any Wal-Mart or "dollar store" and you'll see them: cheap digital cameras, some with recognizable names like Vivitar, promising fantastic results and a whopping 1 to 2 megapixels . . . joined to the same craptacular optics that anchor the original "toy" camera group. Snap away! Drop the images onto your hard drive, crop your image into a square format, and voila! . . . an image to make a Holga enthusiast proud.

Well, obviously this is leading to something . . . I finally broke down and used a "toy" digital camera that we had lying about at home . . . a tiny Vivitar that takes beautifully hazy images complete with flare. Sadly, there are no light leaks since it's digital. The two images I've posted here represent the best of about a dozen. While snapping these I was also trying out some b&w film in a 1950s Argus C3 "Brick" - one of the ubiquitous cameras of that period, more recently featured in a Harry Potter film in which a C3 is used by a reporter for the school paper. (No doubt Argus enthusiasts, legion in the eccentric world of cheap camera collecting, uttered gasps of rhapsodic recognition at a moment in the film which must have puzzled their fellow moviegoers.) When I have those photos developed, I'll post a couple of the better ones for comparison. These were taken at a playground in the West Village which abuts a large warehouse-like building on Horatio Street. The trees form line at the back of the playground and without their leaves sit starkly against the large expanse of concrete and brick. I'll be curious to see how this looks when the trees leaf out in April. Hmmmm, perhaps some color "toy" camera photos? I'm actually happy with these images, like the contrast and the trees' shadows on the wall. (And as always, one can click on each image for a larger version . . . if one feels compelled to enlarge the imperfections and blur.

Who knows, I may actually have to go out and get that Holga after all. I shoot a lots of 120 film on vintage cameras with good optics, so it would be fun to see first hand how that medium format translates. Again, check out the links I provided; they're informative and entertaining, particularly the Junk Store camera page.

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.

Wishful thinking . . .

Still hoping for snow, but alas, it looks as if we'll just get rain and flurries with no accumulation tonight. Realize, I don't want a foot of snow and snarled traffic and - god forbid - cancelled school . . . but a good 6 inches can really make the city beautiful, particularly Central Park. Olmsted and Vaux certainly hit a homerun on that project. No doubt it's my favorite place in the city . . . certainly when there aren't many people in the Park, as on a snowy weekday morning when I took this photo a couple of years ago. The Park, the trees already muffling some of the city's noise, becomes eerily quiet on snowy days, the noise of the surrounding metropolis reduced to a hiss, a pleasant "white noise" inviting pauses on the Mall or looking across the Sheep Meadow. Bow Bridge becomes an image drawn from a fairy tale and the Boat Pond (the Conversatory Water, if you're looking at a map of Central Park) begs for visitors to clear the snow from a bench and sit.

Now, if I just had the snow and the friend with whom to sit, I'd be in a happy place indeed.

Is winter finally here?

Hailing from the South, I came to New York City expecting harsher winters than I had experienced growing up in coastal Virginia. Thus far I've been disappointed. We've had a little more snow than I had seen, but overall temperatures weren't really worse. Obviously the close proximity to water makes a difference; it certainly did for those of us living in the Norfolk/Virginia Beach area. The primary difference I've experienced here is that it gets cold earlier, and hangs on a little longer in March/April.



At this point, I'm wishing for a bit of snow . . . and we've usually had some by now! Alas, I'll post a photo I took a couple of years ago, and remember the beauty of Central Park in early morning snow, before the pedestrians and cleaning crews, and dogs have turned it into a mess.

The Weather Channel is predicting colder temperatures - finally - for New York City over the next couple of weeks! Perhaps it will snow.