Divinity on the Avenue

While zigzagging around New York City last October, I walked to Central Park by way of the Avenue of the Americas when these two massive creatures, reminiscent of Venus de Milo, intrigued me with their stature at W52nd Street. I stood there looking up at them, their gnarled exterior both grotesque and stimulating, their postures fine examples of that sexy effeminate S-curve, their bronze forms rising out of a paper thin pool of water for all to see. I remember pulling out my faithful notebook and recording the intersection for this one, because I knew I'd want to look it up later! I could just gaze at these imposing ladies for hours... these two and their friend on the other side of the building.

Whenever I'm on a photographic adventure to an unfamiliar city, I ensure that I take a few shots of intersecting street signs along the way so that I can retrace my route on Google Maps upon my return. I vigorously maintain the order of pictures on my SD card for this reason as well, just because I take so many and I like to know what it is that I've captured.

This image initially posed somewhat of a challenge for me to identify. I knew which street they were on, but I couldn't seem to pull them out of any of my online searches. All my efforts seemed to be monopolised by another familiar Sixth Avenue creation, Robert Indiana's LOVE sculpture, with which I was familiar, but not as enthralled... evidenced by the amount of love it received from my lens:

Back to the Venus statues, I did find their exact location on the satellite view of Google Maps. I like being able to see the footprint of the statues, each one living inside of squares on either side of the building:

credit: Google Maps

However, I still didn't know what they were called. I was telling a girlfriend of mine (who happens to vivaciously share my love of Manhattan) about this image I wanted to post, and she reminded me of the option of searching using "Images" instead of "Web". Of course! I had forgotten about that option! So I am happy to report that I have since learned that the sculptures in my photo are entitled Looking Toward the Avenue by Jim Dine. Pleasure to meet you, ladies!

       

 

Fence between The Kirk and The Rooms

Harvey Road, St. John's, NL

Every morning upon awakening, Mr. Lister would shudder at the thought of the task awaiting his attention in the back yard. Burdened with undesireable responsibility, he sulked in his morning shower, rolled his eyes at his dilatory reflection in the mirrored medicine cabinet, and wrung his hands as he puttered down the hall towards the kitchen. He purposely left his faded yellow curtains drawn so that he was not immediately reminded. But his intentions were futile: the neglected task was all but screaming into his hairy ears because he could think of nothing else.

"Paint me! Paint me!! PAINT ME!!!"

When he had acquired his modest but cozy bungalow a few years back, he thought nothing of the abandoned steel fence that spanned the width of his property, tenaciously retaining its bordering function, as archaic and rusted as his own spirit. He decided that the interior of the house provided sufficient coverage from the ravaging Newfoundland climate... a place to watch television, a place to assemble a sandwich, a place to lay his head... it had everything he needed! He had no intentions of ever penetrating the backyard anyway.

But over time, its posture became more evident. He began to see those ruddy posts waving at him, taunting him like every other task he chose to ignore since he retired four years ago. He had become a crabby, lonely replica of the man he used to be, and with nobody in his life to keep him in check, he just accepted whatever mood befell him on any given day.

But then, his self-depreciating attention was kidnapped by the stunningly sweet lady who moved into the old Marsden place next door. He didn't think anyone would ever move in there, much less a witty, capable widow with a zest for life and a flare for landscaping. She introduced herself as Arianna as she deftly trimmed away the overgrown yews that divided her property with his. He would step out onto his porch for his newspaper and find himself lingering in anticipation of a wave or a greeting. His quick darts into the dewy mornings became longer and longer such that he would actually engage her in conversation. Over time, his eyebrows began to lift and the little crook that had been wedged between his eyes had all but disappeared.

He decided that he wanted to brighten up his home and brought in some of the daisies that were growing along his yard, persisting every summer in spite of his grumbling and ignorance. Finally, he wanted to enjoy their abundance and share in their cheerfulness. He was preparing to invite Arianna over for a coffee. He surveyed his humble kitchen and decided that it was acceptable, especially with the happy bunch of flowers perched in a vase in the middle of the table. 

And so it came that on one particularly sunny morning, he unwittingly threw open his kitchen curtains and he saw that which he had been avoiding so feverishly. But it didn't stir up disdain, it created a feeling that had been hibernating for so long that it almost jolted him with its intensity: he felt motivation! He no longer wanted to avoid the onerous task, he wanted to tackle the job and feel satisfaction. And he wanted to see a bold red fence waving at him from his backyard upon awakening every single morning, as quirky and charismatic as his new appreciation for his address... and for life. And so he knew just what he had to do: Paint it.

Dreaming big in the big city

Esquire magazine recently held a call for submissions for original works of short short fiction. The criteria? Stories had to have a count of exactly 78 words in honour of Esquire's 78th birthday. Ten winners would be chosen to win a trip to New York City to attend a fiction workshop, and then one of those writers would receive a writing scholarship for next summer. I decided that this contest contained too many good good things for me to pass up, so I accepted the challenge. It was intriguing and fun working on stories that short that would make sense being that short and I came up with a few possibilities before settling on a favourite.

Well I just found out that my submission was not one of the ten finalists in the contest so I thought it should at least get published here:

New York TenaCity

Otis stepped trepidatiously out onto Madison Avenue, He scanned the crowd, removed his tattered fedora, and tipped it onto the sidewalk. A leather strap secured his saxophone against his body as he wrapped his fingers around its neck, raised the mouthpiece towards his lip, and took a deep breath. Suddenly, he was jostled by a dapper executive. Determined, he regrouped and proficiently weaved Ellington, releasing a smile when he heard the clinking of coins collecting in his hat.

...thanks for reading!



From South Tower to South Pool

World Trade Center Memorial, NYC

My first thought as I absorbed the tidy, minimalist setting of the reborn World Trade Center site was how glad New Yorkers must be to have had this tribute built for them. But as I looked around, I realised that it wasn't just built for New Yorkers, it was built BY New Yorkers. Everyone who shares these zip codes has shared in the loss and rehabilitation whether they lost loved ones in the attacks or not. Having only visited the city a few times and never having had the bittersweet pleasure of seeing the twin towers standing proudly over this tightly woven metropolitan forest, I can't even imagine the journey that these residents have taken to achieve this level of calm. It was eerily quiet but sublimely serene as I walked around... as if visitors were saddened to see what their towering glories have been reduced to, but realising some level of closure and content that they can now visit the site and see peace.

My young nephew who was travelling with me asked me if I thought that something like 9/11 would happen again. I was surprised at how quickly I came up with my response: I told him that the people who did this have already done their damage and probably don't feel the need to do anything else. I wasn't just providing a reassuring answer to an eleven year old.. that's actually my own opinion about it. Reassuring myself as well perhaps? And although the security process to attain entry to the memorial was elaborate and there were police officers and security guards everywhere - patrolling or remembering or both -  there was nothing foreboding about standing there. In fact, I felt fortunate to have secured the opportunity to stand there. It made me further realise that the damage was not only done to New York, but to everyone who believes in goodness... in humanity... in life...

I observed those who had suffered personal loss as they garnered what they needed from their visit: some were photographing the blue directional and identification signs, some were sitting quietly absorbing their experience, others had secured tiny flowers or rosary beads into a recessed letter that was important to them. A young lady next to me was working on making imprints into sheets of paper by colouring over the letters in the name of a loved one. These names were not simply engraved into the metal skirt that bordered each memorial pool - one pool for each tower's footprint - every letter was cut all the way through the sheet, creating a substantial reminder of those who lost their lives in those events ten years ago. I also thought it poignant that the names were not organised alphabetically, but grouped with family, colleagues, precincts, brigades, and other socially relevant assemblies. Close in life, close in memory.

Mather Arch - Fort Erie, ON

On a bright Sunday afternoon in November, I stood in an audience not to applaud a marvellous musical or theatrical performance, but rather to participate in a mass acknowledgement of feats much more revered. I must admit that I hadn't taken part in a Remembrance Day ceremony in several years, but I was just glad to be doing it in 2011, and even more proud that I brought my two young boys along with me. They stood beside me, at times with arms wrapped calmly around my legs, for a long enough period that I supposed they must have absorbed at least some of the emotion and solemn gratitude that was shared by the attending community.

As a mother who frequently runs around, both with and after, these two terrific, busy boys, I held a great appreciation for the young man in my photo who displayed great discipline and patience and maturity in his service that day. Of course this was my perception. As I'm writing this, I am thinking that perhaps he wouldn't consider it that way at all. Perhaps he would tell me that it didn't take a shred of effort on his part and that he is extremely proud to have been given the opportunity to stand there at all.

Either way, he played a poignant part in the ceremony and unwittingly provided me with one of my favourite images from the afternoon that I spent appreciating my freedom.... I mean, even the simple act of being able to drive to Fort Erie and walk across the grass and stand there in witness of this celebration of honour and remembrance is an example of why we need to attend such events, and being there made me feel incredibly proud to be Canadian.