Positively 4th Street...

Huh!!!  What the hell am I doing in Cleveland?

Strong armed by Jackie in one of those marital standoffs that you find your self in and know you can't win, I came here, kicking and screaming all the way to a Flynn family gathering at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame for three and a half days of rocking and drinking. Not to say that there are not some perks to being here, but my ass hurt after the 7 hour drive, and it took a few days and more than a few scotch on the rocks to appreciate my relatively good fortune in being here.

We are staying in the Arcade Hotel, a crystal palace built on 1890 above and around the most ornate, tastefully extravagant indoor shopping mall in an architectural style and elegance that is breathtaking and rivals anything that could have been imagined by Renaissance Europeans.

Across the street is 4th Street where Clevelanders go to drink and get wild.  We spent a lot of time there drinking and celebrating something.  Somewhere along 4th Street is an alley that leads into a dingy netherworld where unspeakable things happen after dark and one is advised to stay away.  From the street, it looks pretty benign, even inviting once we got by Maurice, the official greeter who took a buck to pose for this picture...

I was lured in by the pretty flowers, the bright twinkling lights and a glimpse of graffiti at what appeared to be the end of the alley, but was just the beginning of something evil.  I took this picture of the graffiti and way prepared to go further which I started to do when I was approached by two guys who looked like they had nothing to lose and could eat you alive.  I smiled, waved, and moved back carefully and quickly, no longer curious about what lay beyond.

Other than that, loved Cleveland a town that exceeded all expectations in terms of intact architecture and inner city vibrance.  It is the hometown of the two guys who created the Superman character and comic.  At the public library across the street from the hotel, they had an exhibit celebrating the Superman thing.

    Pablo                                                         

YES Books in Portland...

Here I am at the YES bookstore in Portland Maine troubling myself about buying a cheap stained and tattered first edition of  henry miller's book, an air conditioned nightmare, a travelogue about his amble across america in the 1940's after his return from europe which i have been meaning to read, but have been unable to track down off line until now.  surprised to find that it is nothing more than a 200 page rant, a spewing of venomous distain and unvarnished hatred about everything american, and i mean everything.  after 10 glorious years in europe screwing and sucking and writing his way across the continent, the inconvenience of WW2 forced his return to the object of distain he previously sought to escape.  guess the french resistance should have been more to his liking although i guess obviously not.

i often trouble myself about buying used stuff becauseyouneverknow when the object will be inhabited.  i am generally not a believer in the paranormal, but i have had some unsettling experiences with antiques, a certain "inhabited" hotel room in Epinal, France in which I awoke with a start to the feeling of an overpowering presence that drove me out in the middle of the night  and don't even get me started on "vintage" clothes.  "nightmare" is the kind of book i would have written if i could write (minus the venom), but i can't so i take pictures and am often capable of 20 or 30 lines of moderately pithy prose to annotate this pictures so i am thankful.  never had that problem with a used book, so i should probably go back in and buy it, which I did.  thought it would be a funny sexy romp through america in the 40's, but i got that wrong.

Coincidently, we were just in Portland Oregon a few months ago on the last leg of our quest to see all of the lower 48 states and other than Voodoo Donuts, going to  Powell's Bookstore (no pictures...too big and under renovation), had to be a highlight where I found the holy grail...my search for a 1940 edition of the book that has had the most influence on my career as a photographer had come to a happy end, "California and the American West" by Edward Weston and Charis Wilson, and published by Deuel Sloan was on the shelf with dust cover for $50 an unheard of price.  Interestingly, Jackie said she had the feeling I would find it there.

Two Portlands, two books, and two donut shops.  Voodoo in Oregon, and...here, which I failed to document because it was great but not visually compelling and I didn't know it would be this important.  Love Portland, so another great reason to return.

                                                                   Pablo   

The Sand Hills...

Ever since coming across an October 1978 edition of National Geographic in my dentist's office  many years ago that had an article about  "Nebraska's Sand Hills" in it, I knew that was someplace I needed to see.  Like so many articles in NG, most of the pictures were of the people in the area, but it was evocative, there was one good little map suggesting that state road 2, beginning in Grand Island and ending in Alliance,  pretty well bisected the 19,000 square mile sea of sand hills that dominated the western part of the state.

We left Lincoln a little too late in the day expecting to spend the night in Grand Island and then beginning the journey along Route 2 from there.   Once we got to Grand Isle, to the uneducated eye, there appeared to be no compelling reason to be there, a decision I now regret because it was the beginning of the journey, but at the time, how could I have known what the journey was,  so we decided to keep driving to Broken Bow, driven by an evocative name that offered hope that this would offer the "authentic" Nebraska experience we were in search of.  Because it was now even later in the day, it was more of a mad dash to Broken Bow and bypassing what I now know were many missed opportunities.  But how could I have known then.  The only town we did stop to see between Grand Island and Broken Bow was Hazard and it's little downtown that consisted of about 2 unoccupied storefronts.  So much was missed along the way, but  like so many of our journeys, it was a learning curve that only made itself known along the way and even then, there was so much to learn.  Only looking back do you see what there was to be seen, how much you missed and hope you will get the chance to return to get it right.  On the balance, there was a lot good, but as always, it is the regrets of what could have been that prevail.

Red Lodge Montana...

For a change, Jackie was right once again.  When we pulled into Red Lodge Montana, parched and hungry on our mad dash to make it from Billings to Cody before evening.  We vowed not to stop too many times along the way, but Red Lodge was such an appealing place that we happily overstayed our welcome.  The minute we hit town, Jackie saw Mas Taco, a converted old gas station that has been repurposed into a Mexican Restaurant and decided that's where we would stop for lunch.  But I saw a Mexican place that I thought I liked better till I walked inside.  The bright inviting exterior quickly gave way to a dreary dingy depressing interior that looked more like a cheap Chinese take out place, so once again Jackie got it right the first time and Mas Taco it was.  Anyway I almost always like the idea of repurposed old gas stations, so what was I thinking?

Photo of Jackie waiting for our tacos and beer.  The tacos were very good and tasted great and Jackie always like sitting outside, but the tacos just really weren't photogenic, much as I tried.  You'll just have to take our word for it if you should ever find yourself passing through Red Lodge.

This next photos are the best looking building in town and a ghost sign.

   Pablo

Shoshoni Wyoming

No, this is not the mean streets of the South Bronx during the bad old days of the 1970's when NYC was a cesspool on the verge of bankruptcy and implosion when you put your life in jeopardy by venturing into the streets after dark.  Mid afternoon was almost as bad.  Early morning, when the drug addled baddies were still stuporous was your best chance to sneak out to the grocery and drug store and make it home unscathed.  No it isn't Camden New Jersey  Detroit Michigan South Philly or some other corner of burnt out inner city hell!!!  This is/was Shoshoni Wyoming, a once thriving harmless little former farming/railroad town in the middle of nowhere, literally, there are nothing but cows, sheep, and the occasional human to be seen for 30 miles in any direction.  What happened here?

In our travels throughout the midwest, through town after town abandoned and imploding but we have never seen such desolation, destruction, and architectural decay as we saw in Shoshoni.   The only building in town that was intact, actually new, was the post office.

One last mystery occurred as we were driving toward the end of town, down by the tracks.  On the side of the last building on the block, an abandoned, white, nondescript building with no identifying markers was this sign, which seemed somewhat recently painted, but gives no ides about what might be picked up.

As we were leaving town with a sick feeling in our stomach, we were kind of thankful that the Tumble Inn steakhouse on Highway 20 at the edge of town was not open that day to tempt us with some of their mouth watering sizzling' steaks which we would have had to reluctantly pass on anyway.

                                                                              Pablo

Monument to the American Spirit, Cowley Wyoming...

On route 14A about 1/2 mile or so before entering Cowley, Wyoming, a town of about 650, 20 miles or so south of the Montana border, which we passed through on our way to Billings, we came across the most exceptional sight, this structure, constructed at the edge of a farm/ranch facing the highway.

It was kind of late in the day, the sun was getting low in the sky, and we were on a mad dash to make it to Billings before sundown.  Cowley was another unremarkable rural town with not much else in town to take a photo of, but the above average welcome sign and this monument to the American spirit.  It is strong, impressive and a heart felt amalgam of everything that the western spirit stands for.

There was no indication who created it, but its pride in America and the western spirit speaks volumes.  Glad we choose this out of the way route to Billings the other day.

                                                                Pablo

Postcards from the road from Nebraska...

Here we are in Chadron Nebraska, resting up after what can only be described as a heroic (I use that term quite loosely in as much as just about everyone in America seems to qualify as a hero of one sort or other for dubiously unusual acts that diminish the word to viral blather) 5 or 6 hour  heavily  photo op interrupted drive from Broken Bow to here along State Route 2  arriving in Chadron,  parched, exhausted and heat stroked to the point of delusion, which did seem to clear nicely after 2 beers.  But here are some shots taken along the way.

If Donald had only stuck to something he did well, like making burgers, instead of trying to manage our unmanageable country, we will have all been better off, but people wanted a change from the status quo and they got it.  But will they live through it?  Another story.

Anselmo, Nebraska

I know that the above photo doesn't look like much, but for me it is like hitting the jackpot.  Over the years I have been taking pictures of interesting post offices where ever I find them and at this point I have quite a collection.  Another project has been finding old banks in Nebraska that have either been abandoned or repurposed.  The reason I hit the jackpot here is that this is an old bank (in Mason City Nebraska) that has been repurposed into a post office.  Wow!!!

I always like to say that we jump on any excuse to come to Nebraska, like the proverbial dog on a bone, and Jackie's cousin Christopher's wedding in Nebraska City was the why this time.  Wedding, 2 days in Lincoln, and a day in Red Cloud for our annual pilgrimage to Willa Cather's home town now that we are regulars and long standing members of the Cather society.  Being major donors, we are accorded special privilege which we bask in.  There are very few places in which they roll out the red carpet for me anymore, or even notice I exist, so I like Red Cloud.

Red Cloud was just another midwestern town on the verge of implosion and irrelevance, but for Mrs. Bennett, founder of the Willa Cather Society celebrating Willa's formative years, something she would have found ironic and a bit of a hoot, all things considered, but latch on to her coattails they did, and have done an amazing job of turning the town around on the strength of the work the've done to create a world class archive and study center.  Kudos, and glad to have been a significant part of the tail end of the effort.

                                                                      Pablo

Billions for a Basquiat!!!

Closer to home, where I seem to be staying more and more lately, the big news in the NYC art world last week was that a Basquiat painting, this Basquiat painting, sold at auction for $110,000,000.  That's right, one hundred and ten zillion dollars, to a 41 year old Japanese fashion billionaire who just had to have it, paying almost twice the pre-auction estimated price.

                                                           Yikes!!!!!

The painting, described as "virtually unknown" prior to the auction, being in a "private collection since 1982" raises big provenance questions for me, anyway.  Considering the frequency with which people are coming across "new and previously undiscovered" Basquiats, I sometimes wonder how many are real and how many are found by dumpster divers hanging around the side doors of local elementary schools.  Even if the above one was the real McCoy, which I'm sure it may be, I couldn't imagine where I would hang it without being mortified by my judgement, and how I would justify this expense to friends, family, or myself.  

Working within my price range, and following the long standing principle that you should only buy what you like (which would have left me out of the bidding on the Basquiat), I recently bought this lovely little painting of a motor scooter,

by Chester DeWitt Rose, for $400, and I get great pleasure out of looking at it every time I pass by it,  and have no buyer's remorse, but I do like to wonder what would be hanging on my walls if I did have a billion or two.  Hopefully I would remain the sensible person I like to think I am, but probably not.

                                                              Pablo

My morning at the Morgan Library with Emily Dickinson...

I no longer find roaming around NYC of much interest.  The city I grew up in no longer exists and I am old.  It is now someone else's city now.  I now find myself lost and disoriented when I am there.  But since we are still there often enough, I have begun to spend more time in Brooklyn, and making surgical strikes to visit places I never had time for in the past.  One such place is the Morgan Library.   I can only attribute my prior avoidance to the place to the jumble of conflicting feelings surrounding my distain for the blind grasping power of vast wealth that Morgan represented, my love of books and my ignorance of what was there, or maybe just not being able to fit it in.  My loss!!!

But now, I finally got to the J.P. Morgan Library and Museum on Lexington Avenue and 36th Street in Manhattan.  It is indeed a monument to the insatiable, grasping power of vast wealth that allowed for pillage, plunder and the capacity to buy antiquities by the boat load, but in Morgan's case it is so much more.  In his minds eye, he had vision of how it would be, and like everything else he did, he succeeded.   He created a transcendent work of art in its own right, having the very good sense to know what he wanted and admired and hiring buying agents with the taste and intelligence to intuit their employers intent and to collect well.  The result, shown in part below was the creation of a Renaissance palazzo dedicated to the accumulatation  of knowledge, art and history housed in the most spectacular surroundings and bequeathed to the people of New York.  The man was a glutinous omnivore, but you've got to love him.  He loved books and with them, built something transcendent.  He created an object of art worthy of Michaelangelo and shared it with the world; money well spent.  

,

                               Images borrowed from Morgan Library website

                             
J.P.Morgan was not a scholar or a reader of books to any degree, but distinct from other robber barons of the era who just bought lots of stuff, he amassed a vast collection of books and manuscripts which speak to his deep UCS longing for the scholarship and the academic life that eluded him in lieu of his worldly pursuits, but which he was able to acquire in the only way he knew how, to buy it.  It's a fact that you can't do it all, but he loved books and loved what they represented.   Somewhere in his soul he longed to be a scholar, and he created a spiritual experience, a temple to knowledge housed in an inspiring setting that he obviously worshipped in and then left it to the world.  The library has three Gutenberg Bibles, this is the one on display and the only worthwhile picture I took that morning.

An interesting counterpoint to this breathtakingly grand display of wealth and power, was the special exhibit on display during my visit there on the life and works of Emily Dickinson, whose physical existence was as small, understated and unadorned as a cloistered nun, whose needs appear to have been minimal, and whose mark on the world were little more than a few scrawled poems on scraps of paper that filled the draws of her room.  Barely enough physical evidence of her existence to fill the small room housing the exhibit.  Unlike the Morgan Library which overwhelms and engulfs, forcing itself on you and commanding your attention and indeed reverence, Dickinson's presence is barely felt at all, forcing you to squint to seek her out and struggle to connect the dots of the shards of evidence testifying that this small, introspectively rich inner life even occurred.   Interestingly the exhibit is named for the first line of a poem that displays a sense of self that is the anthisis of the ego of Mr. J.P. Morgan:

                                             I'm Nobody!  Who are You?
                                         
                                            Are you - Nobody - Too?
                                            Then there's a pair of us!
                                            Don't tell! they'd advertise - you know!

                                            How dreary - to be - Somebody!
                                            How public - like a Frog-
                                            To tell one's name - the livelong June-
                                            To an admiring Bog!

Was Emily's reference to the Frog, a veiled jab at the puffed up Mr. Morgan?  It is very interesting that the curators chose this poem and the dichotomy of egos it implies as the focal point of the Dickinson exhibit in the house of Morgan.  We'll never know.

                                                              Pablo

Sag Harbor Theater...RIP

April 25, 2017

Jackie and I have been staying in Riverhead for the past week for family visits, a wedding and to take pictures if only it would stop raining long enough to plant my tripod.  To boost our soggy morale, a lunch at the Dockside in the old American Legion Hall in Sag Harbor seemed like just the thing.  Sag Harbor is fortunate to have been just far enough off the beaten path and not particularly well publicized so that they have avoided any of the crass commercialization that is so often inflicted on quaint old fishing villages in the USA.  The streets are quiet and evocative, with a sense of authenticity that provides a glimpse into the past, where on a cool, damp morning, the smell of the sea pervades the air with its nautical presence.

The main street still slopes gently down to the wharf, harbor and the sea and the streets are still a hub of local commercial activity with not a tee shirt shop in sight.  For me, two important lynch pins to the charm of Sag Harbor have always been the American Hotel dating back to the 1800's, still elegant and exuding old world charm, and the 100 year old Sag Harbor Theater which was there in the middle of town last time we were there in the fall of 2016 and is now an empty lot, having burned to the ground in December of 2016.  Its smiling face no longer greets visitors, brightly reminding them where they are and how lucky they are to be there.  Much has been lost.

                                                              Pablo

Miami Beach B-Day...

Well, it is 12:01 am, February 14, 2017 and Jackie and I are here in Miami acknowledging with gratitude, the acts of kindness and good fortune that made it possible for me to have made it to my 70th birthday, a goal made all the more poignant as so many others seem to be falling by the wayside lately.  I had a close call this year, and can take no personal credit for this dubious birthday accomplishment, particularly in view of my careless, even cavalier attitude toward my well being.  Were it not for the miracles of modern medicine and Jackie's care, my last posting ever may have been in August of this year.  I do not take this good fortune lightly, and am certain divine intervention was at play.  In this regard, it is best not to think or question to much about that which is not yours to know,  and just be mindful and grateful.

As planned the party for two began at 4:30 with pina coladas at the News Cafe fortified with floaters from a bottle I had in my pocket, followed by dinner at Spiga, a very appealing looking Italian restaurant on Collins and 12th that I had admired from afar for many years.  But alas, it was just ok.  My Caesar salad was weak and a bit wilty with not a hint of anchovy flavor and the pear/ricotta/ ravioli/pasta thing I got sounded great on the menu, but was short on flavor.  Just a bland creamy unexciting concoction that looked lifeless in the bowl.  Jackie was much more impressed by her tagliatelle and I had to agree that it was pretty good.  No need to go back, however.

Readers of this blog know that I always like to say that there is something uniquely American about America.  There is an exuberance about our architecture that expresses the unbridled hopes and aspirations, the ambition and imagination, unleashed by the unlimited possibilities of the new world that is no better exemplified that by the Art Deco District of Miami Beach.

While there is no shortage of examples of Miami Deco architecture, the Leslie Hotel built in 1937 is one of my favorites, probably because of its bright cheeriness, and because I have a niece named Leslie whose bright, outgoing ways match the hotel's warm welcoming demeanor.

Still working on the lifeguard station series, but only one new one this time.  All the others are about the same as last time we were here and already recorded, and while the weather was great for the whole week, the sky was frequently flat and uncooperative, photographically, much of time, although not always, obviously.  

Stayed for the week at the Winter Haven Hotel on Ocean Drive, a classic deco hotel built in 1939.  The room was small but nice, although a bit damp feeling and uncomfortable at times.  We didn't have a car which turned out to be a good thing, necessitating our not spending too much time in the room, and making us walk 3 or 4 miles just about every day.  Every time we are in Miami we talk about spending a month or two in the winter.  Maybe next year.

When you are on foot or riding a bike, you get to see a lot more.

An architectural detail on the wall of the old 1930 synagogue we passed on lower Washington Ave. which is now a Jewish museum.  It was a Sunday afternoon a little after 3:00 and we were on our way to Smith and Wolensky on the canal at the bottom of Miami where we love to have a two martini late lunch and watch the cruise ships leaving Miami Harbor headed for the Caribbean.  Saw 4 ships that day and were not disappointed.  That's it for now.

Pablo                                                                          

Addendum:

More on the Winter Haven...

In spite of our kind of small and mildly muggy room, one saving grace for Jackie at the Winter Haven was the french toast which was some of the best she'd ever had, which is saying a lot.  It was as good, maybe better than mine.  Thick sliced, well soaked, and well cooked to produce a sweet, custardy consistency inside, and a crispy exterior.  

 

And the mojitos were also strong and good, in fact when the bartender was pouring the rum, I was beginning to wonder if he was ever going to stop.  So while I'm not sure I'd stay there again, I can recommend a long, lazy late afternoons happy hours on their veranda...

Pablo

Oh, and one more photo I took in a Miami cafe one morning that I liked a lot but realized there will be no place to put it, so before it becomes an orphan photo, I will append it here...There is something Gandhi-ish about it.  You can see my head in one of the central mirrors.

                                                                          Pablo