St. Marks is Dead

Whenever I would come to visit New York as a teenager or college student, a visit to St. Marks Place was always on my list. I had no good reason why, usually; no specific place I wanted to go or thing I wanted to see, but I knew the street was important. I've written before about my longstanding love affair with punk, and I knew St. Marks was one of the streets the punks frequented--I think part of me just always wanted to tread the same ground as they did, to feel the pulse of creative dissonance running under my feet as they had felt it.

To the uninitiated, St. Marks Place is in the East Village, between 3rd Avenue and Avenue A, in Manhattan; it is technically "8th Street" but nobody in their right mind calls it that (unless you are my friend Dan who is visiting from Boston and when he said it I think I visibly winced in pain). It has, as author Ada Calhoun points out in her new book St. Marks is Dead which comes out November 2 from W. W. Norton, often been a cultural hub of the neighborhood if not also lower Manhattan and even Manhattan in general. In this cultural history, Calhoun shows us the constantly changing lives of the street, the births and deaths of each experience of living there even before the street itself existed. St. Marks, one sees after reading her book, is always dying because it is always being born again.

People who lived on the street know the magic of it, too. In fact, one time I was reading the book on the train a woman peered over my shoulder. She had a grey pixie cut, gold glasses, a brown trench coat, skinny jeans and ballet flats and said to me in a German accent, "St. Marks! You know I used to live there! I should read that book." Calhoun writes in the book that for some people St. Marks is a place you live at a certain time in your life, either your best or your worst, and once you leave you don't return for fear of either not living up to those memories or having to relive them. This woman's experience seemed to be positive, though, and I of course recommended the book to her.

The book is one close to Calhoun's heart, one imagines, because she herself is from the street. She was raised there in the 1970s, often considered one of the most dangerous times to be living in the city in the last 50 years. While she shares some of her experiences of these moments in the book, she is still an appreciative narrator, one who inspires further adoration of St. Marks and its history in the reader, especially this reader, who is a raging postmodern history nerd at her core.

Calhoun narrates the history of the street through vignette-like stories she's uncovered, almost like buried treasure or precious jewels, from what is undoubtedly years of intense (and probably fascinating to conduct! I was jealous of all of the documents she was likely able to read and people she was able to talk to to tell each story) research. Through the tales she shares of everything from German boating tragedies to anarchist crust-punks, she reveals the ever-evolving lives of the street she calls America's Hippest. She writes in such an engaging manner that every era of history she covers, from the disrupted lives of the Native American Lenape tribe who populated the area in the 1600s to the bustling "Little Tokyo" as the street is now known, is equally enchanting. While I don't consider myself a revolutionary history buff, I was on the edge of my seat, nose buried in the middle of the book on the 6 train downtown, as Calhoun narrated to me the growth and decline of Peter Stuyvesant's empire.

What's also wonderful about St. Marks is Dead is that the snippets of history Calhoun chooses to share connect to a person's general knowledge of American culture or history, almost filling in the gaps and allowing one to experience "a-ha!" or "lightbulb" moments while one is on public transit, smiling and nodding to oneself, "I see what you did there! Look at you!" One moment in particular for me was when she writes about the Beastie Boys hanging out on St. Marks at Tish and Snooky's Manic Panic, one of the original punk stores on the street. Like, oh, casual, this group of kids idolizing these punk chicks on the street before they became a legendary punk/rap crew. The book is full of moments like these, of the famous and infamous casually spending their time on St. Marks simply because that's where the cool people were and that's why they wanted to be there.

Something else I loved was seeing some of the places or figures from the latter end of the century are still around, like "Mosaic Man" Jim Power whose mosaics still line the streets in the East Village and have for decades, or Gem Spa, the ages-old bodega/egg creamery which Calhoun notes was actually the background of photo on a New York Dolls album (I'm ashamed I didn't know that myself!). And then there are those I got to see before they closed/were removed/became something else, like the black cube sculpture Alamo at the corner of 4th Avenue, Kim's Video, Yaffa Cafe.

Even in the short time I've lived here in New York I've seen St. Marks change. I've seen noodle houses exchanged for new, trendy bars and my favorite, independently-owned frozen yogurt shop go the way of the wind; I signed the petition for St. Marks Bookshop to keep its lease, though it eventually moved instead of just closing; I've eaten at Korean dessert shops that just opened new locations and drunk half-price cocktails at a Thai restaurant that has since closed due to health violations. Like every New Yorker, I have a vision of the street in my head as I walk down it; I can picture where so many of the places Calhoun mentions are or once were. It's difficult to feel like you're a part of New York's history--the city is so big, filled with so many people who are doing amazing and interesting things--but then you see in histories like Ada Calhoun's St. Marks is Dead things that you too have experienced along with so many others, and it makes you feel like you matter, like you're not just another notch on New York's proverbial bedpost.

If you want to learn more about New York and about American culture, then this book is definitely for you. But then, of course, so is a walk down St. Marks.

You can also come see Ada Calhoun read at the December Miss Manhattan Non-Fiction Reading on Monday, December 7! Stay tuned for more information.

The View from Zabar's

My day off began at 2pm on Columbus Day--while of course as a freelancer I don't necessarily observe holidays and tend to work right through them (though I have been trying to be better about that)--it was merely a Monday that I had taken off after working the whole weekend.

After a brisk walk through Central Park seeing the leaves just begin to turn, I made my way to the New York Historical Society to catch the last day of their exhibition on caricaturist Al Hirschfeld, one of my favorite artists of all time. For the uninitiated, Al Hirschfeld illustrated Broadway and entertainment throughout his life, often for The New York Times, using pen and ink, gouache, and occasionally collage. His career spanned nearly 100 years, as noted by the title of the Historical Society's exhibition, The Hirschfeld Century. Any time I get to see a Hirschfeld I'm utterly thrilled, but to see his real live drawings in front of my eyes, watching where his pen whipped back and forth and scribbled those ever-elusive NINAs into place, was a true treat. I availed myself of the gift shop as well, leaving with more than a few Hirschfeld-drawn goodies.

Being on the Upper West Side, mere blocks away from Zabar's, I made a plan to go there post-Historical Society. There was no way I would miss one of my favorite locations in all of New York, especially when it was so close by. To 80th and Broadway I walked, stopping into their cafe for my usual: a nova and cream cheese sandwich on a plain bagel and an English Breakfast tea with milk and one Splenda.

I sat down at the long communal table next to an older gentleman chatting across the table from a female friend of his. His hair was buzzed and whitish-grey under his black beret, a smattering of white scruff around his mouth and cheeks. A black scarf hid his neck and a black coat his torso. He gossiped unabashedly about other people I gathered were also in his friend group, people who gathered at this very same cafe but for whatever reason that day were not present. The woman across from him, younger but not too much younger in a dark green sweater and shoulder-length brown hair, nodded at his every word, as if she were the Gretchen Wieners to his Regina George. I nibbled at my sandwich as he went on about this woman whose son was suing Zabar's after she fell off a stool there though she apparently knew it was her own fault. Oh my, I thought to myself, irony likely registering in my face with an all-too-unsubtle eyebrow raise. I did my best not to make eye contact with them as they continued their tales.

A woman in magenta came in and saw Black Beret.
"HELLO, JACK," she said loudly in my ear, thrusting her face and upper torso toward him as if aiming for his ear. He nodded noncommitally in her general direction but other than that said nothing. Realizing she'd been snubbed, she got in line and ordered a slice of chocolate babka. Ice burn, I thought to myself. Regina George turned out to be a great metaphor after all and this was some top-quality lunchtime entertainment.

Another gentleman from their crew strode in, balding with thick frame glasses, a Hawaiian print shirt and shorts on this 50 degree day. He spoke in a thick New York accent then went up to the counter to place his order in a perfect Spanish one. He talked about the lawsuit woman, too. "Her son's a real sonofabitch," he said to Jack, who nodded. "That's what I heard." Apparently the son lives in the family apartment on the Lower East Side and doesn't have a job. "A real shmuck," one of them offered. The woman in green was still nodding. 

I loved this idea of this crew of old people gathering every day at the Zabar's cafe and shooting the shit. Zabar's itself is a New York institution (it opened in 1934), occasionally inhabited by people who are themselves old enough to be institutions. Perhaps they'd been coming there since they were kids and just never left. Perhaps after all this time they are the people they each have left to talk to. Or maybe they just like good gossip and know where to find it.

I am finishing up my sandwich, almost sad I have to leave in the midst of their discussion. What happened to the woman with the son and the lawsuit? Am I just as bad as the gossipers? And are they going to talk about me when I leave?

A Tale of Two Betties

HanOre and I were trying to think of something to do.

"We could get really dressed up, go to B&H, then go someplace really fabulous with cocktails we can't afford," I offered in half-irony, half-excitement. And HanOre approved! A Monday evening can be really boring if you don't play your cards right, but it looked as though we would be doing just fine.

B&H, our beloved kosher dairy lunch counter (though neither of us are kosher or vegetarian) in the East Village had reopened in August after the sad 2nd Avenue gas explosion a few months ago. All was as it was before, and fortunately the restaurant had barely suffered any damages.

That day, I asked:

"What is our vibe tonight? Bettie Page? Beyoncé?"

The best evenings out, after all, require the best possible costuming. HanOre chose Bettie, so into my closet I dove for something that would pair well with red lipstick and red peep-toe pumps a la the famed 1950s pinup. After a whirligig of flying clothing, a bold, black and white striped dress with a sweetheart neckline caught my eye. Perfect! I zipped myself in and proceeded out into the night, lipsticked and heeled into a neo-Bettie reverie. Though I would have to be careful about gusts of wind so I did not also Marilyn myself that evening.

I arrived at B&H to find HanOre in her own take on Bettie regalia. Next to the restaurant's pale green walls, she was a vision in an indigo blue wiggle dress with cap sleeves, her signature magenta suede pumps, and red lips. Men in flannel and t-shirts sat hunched over the lunch counter while a crew of NYU students huddled together in the back. We were a sight for sore eyes, throwbacks to an era the East Village hadn't known for 60 years. We said our order to the man behind the counter and stood up to take the platter of blintzes (she) and kasha varnishkas (me) from him when they were ready. Diving into our Jewish soul food, we discussed all manner of magazine gossip and news of potential suitors, careful not to smudge our lipstick. Glamour is as glamour does.

Our cocktail adventures brought us to Angel's Share, suggested by HanOre. Up a set of unmarked stairs on 9th Street, there's Village Yokocho, a Japanese restaurant where patrons sit and munch on sushi or udon or what have you, and you walk right next to them as you open an also unmarked wooden door and enter the bar, a speakeasy of sorts. Over the bar there's a mural of cherubic figures and the space itself is a neat little box with small tables and chairs overlooking the street. There's no standing room in this bar, either--that is, it is not an option to stand and that's strictly enforced. Their cocktail menu changes seasonally and includes named cocktails for every major kind of liquor: this is not a place you go for a vodka soda. Well, you could probably have one if you wanted, but you'd be missing the point.

Bartenders in white dress shirts, black vests and bow ties shook and stirred gorgeous constructions. HanOre chose what ended up being a green concoction topped with fluffed egg whites, a sprig of rosemary and freshly shaven nutmeg. It was a sensory experience, tasting the bubbly beverage and inhaling its woody, sweet scent. Mine was a drink called Cheek to Cheek, which included vodka, a wildberry puree, and a mascarpone espuma. The latter was thick, so the cocktail was served with a petite silver spoon. Imagine, a drink and dessert in the same glass! We sat and savored our beverages, crossing our legs and leaning our elbows off the backs of the bar chairs like the 1950s goddess we sought to emulate for the evening. Sounds of 3rd Avenue buzzed past us, as lights from Stuyvesant Square crept in through the window and we continued our gossip. It was a Monday evening done right.

Antacid Punks

At about 9:30pm this past Tuesday, I was heading home from a photography gig downtown. At that hour, the subway is really perfect for people-watching because it's a lot easier to get a seat and observe.

They get on the 5 train at 14th Street, big bags from punk emporiums Trash & Vaudeville and Search & Destroy under her arm, and a giant, 24-pack of toilet paper in a plastic bag under his. They sit down on the train, metal buckles clanging against black leather boots, silver chains jangling from wrists and black leather vests. His black hair is smooth and shiny, separated in the middle and flowing long straight over his shoulders, just barely revealing a runic tattoo on his right shoulder. There's a scrawling in fiery, red letters across the black t-shirt on chest of some metal band I've never heard of, black jeans on his legs. Though he is short for a man, he has no trouble nestling the the toilet paper package between his legs. His nose is pierced on the side, and his lip is pierced in the center, both marked with a silver hoop.

She is tall, much taller than him, even moreso in her platform combat boots. Her hair is jet black, but dyed that way, crunchy with a hair product that forms it into oddly perfect waves down her shoulders and back. Her skin is powdery white because it has been caked with makeup. Black eyeliner lines curve up the sides of her face, and blood red matte lipstick beams off her mouth, in high contrast to her dark eyes. Her septum piercing, a black half-ring, forms an arc shape through her nose. She's also wearing a black metal band t-shirt and a black leather vest. Long feathers hang from her ears. They chat loudly to each other in Spanish.

She opens a bottle of antacid, spills some on her leather boot, and takes a swig. It's cherry flavored. He rips open the toilet paper package and offers her some to clean it up, but she shakes her head, she doesn't need it. Do I have any on my lipstick? she asks in Spanish, pointing to her mouth. No, he shakes his head. She squeezes some antibacterial from a keychain on her black skull purse into her hand and rubs it in. She takes out a granola bar from her purse and offers him some. He shakes his head no, he doesn't want any, and she proceeds to rip pieces of the pink frosted snack into her mouth. She gets some crumbs on the skull purse and brushes them off. He changes his mind and they share.

A person sits down next to her and stares down at the massive tree tattoo running down the length of her upper arm, not looking away for a solid 15 seconds. I notice I'm staring at this person staring at this tattoo, trying to figure out how much time is passing.

Her fingers hold on long black acrylic nails and a bejeweled skull ring. I notice them when she wraps her hand around his knee. There is still antacid on her shoe when I get off at my stop, leaving them to their antacid and granola punk life.

Backstage Beauty at NYFW, Spring/Summer 2016

Another Fashion Week has passed. The blisters on my feet are healing, my eyes are less bloodshot and I'm drinking less caffeine than I normally would. Now it's back to a real life, with significantly fewer open bars, free hairspray, and celebrity sightings. Until Februrary, that is...

Here are some of my favorite shots from behind the scenes at the New York Fashion Week Spring/Summer 2016 collections.

A Summer Saturday

BK and I meet for brunch. We are both flighty birds about town so the occasion for just the two of us to hang out is rare. We meet at The Wayland, a rad spot in Alphabet City that's decorated with exposed brick, books about blues music and portraits of someone's great-great-grandfather nobody ever knew. The tables are thick and wooden and we sit on stools staring at each other, talking about writing, dating, and wherever those twains might meet. It's cooler for a summer day, and the open windows don't make me feel like I'm going to die. BK is halfway through his iced coffee and already he's talking faster, but my pace is much slower. It's one of the few days off I've had since I started working weekends, and I feel myself breathing. I order what the restaurant calls Sausage Bread and Eggs, and really this is the best name for it because that's what it is--thick, crusty bread filled in the middle with ground sausage bits that melt into you mouth and into the yolk of the poached eggs when you break them open. I dip the bread and egg combo into the ricotta/olive oil mixture it's served with and I taste Saturday. I will be back.

After brunch, we walk over to a mural, an alphabet assemblage of street art BK has been wanting to see. As we walk there, a man shouts to me, "Look at this beautiful Jewish girl!" and BK and I both become palpably uncomfortable but don't say anything for a few seconds.

"How did that make you feel? I'm sorry that happened." he says after those seconds pass. "Should I have said something?"

"Uh, no," I said. "I wouldn't have known what to tell you to say." And really, I still don't. It bothers me more to be called out for my ethnicity than my visual appeal and I don't know how to voice that. Why can't I just be beautiful?

We arrive at the mural, which is bright blue painted on brick and shutters and wraps around a streetcorner. From what we can gather, several different artists have collaborated to do different letters of the alphabet in their various styles. We consider each letter carefully as if we've just wandered into a gallery. I like the letter "L" the best, which is formed from a pink leg leading into a pink ankle leading into a red sneaker.

Heading up Avenue B, we stop into a new vintage spot BK has found, the East Village Clothing Collective. It's two floors and independently owned by three ladies, each of whom has a distinct style and a distinct area of the store. The vintage sunglasses are inexpensive ($5-8 each) but the silken Twisted Sister jacket is less so ($100). There are funny polyester cowboy shirts and paisley dresses abound, and The Stray Cats play on the sound system. There's a room with vintage Gucci heels in it that has portholes for no reason and a room in the back where they set up air mattresses and do movie nights for free.

Time has ticked by, and shortly I must be on my way. I am heading out to New Jersey for the afternoon to visit SJT's family home.

I arrive at Penn Station with plenty of time to get the black tea with milk and Splenda I want so badly, but I am nervous, without reason, that I will miss the train. I don't take NJ Transit often and I know trains always (for the most part) leave on time. I get on the train and transfer at Newark Penn Station which, I must say, is the most disgusting place I have been since moving to New York. The length of the stairways smell entirely of piss, and the waiting areas smell like body odor. I moved through each of these with great speed and fear of vomiting and was rewarded with my train to a place called Netherwood waiting for me on the other end.

SJT picked me up in his car, which did not look too much like it belonged to him save for a Renata Tebaldi box set in the backseat. SJT, a self-described "opera queen" named his car Monserrat Caballé, hoping that it, like her, would have a long, illustrious career (he made the mistake previously of naming another car after the singer Leyla Gencer who had a tragically short career; he crashed this car into a tree). On the way to his home in South Plainfield, which he describes as "rather gay," he points out to me that the area was once known as a location for country homes for those living in the city. We pass gorgeous tudor-style mansions that support this. We pass a cemetery on our left where SJT tells me Dudley Moore is buried. "When I was in middle school, I didn't know who Dudley Moore was, but I did know who Liza Minnelli was and I knew they were friends," he said. He was delighted that, upon Moore's death in 2002, the divine Ms. Minnelli would likely be in his very hometown to attend her friend's funeral. Though SJT could not crash the funeral to see her, he did go visit Moore's grave the next day to stand where Liza had possibly stood and take in her "Liza-ness," as it were.

We turn down one street and then another and then SJT drolly quips, "And this is the Burger King," before turning into his driveway.

A crowd of people has already gathered, and we sit in the grass and on lawn chairs in his backyard. It's not too hot, and the grass is cool on my feet.
"Would you like to sit in a chair like a real person, Elyssa?" SJT says to me.
"Oh, no thank you," I say, smiling, because how often in New York do I really get to sit in the grass and look up at the sky?

For an appetizer, we eat chicken and tomato salad made with items fresh from the garden/orchard we are staring at as we eat. During this time, we are invited to remove any books we like (for the most part) from SJT's room: soon he is leaving for Eastern Europe, a months-long tour of his own design. From a hot room decorated with kelly green spongepaint, I remove We Were The Mulvaneys by Joyce Carol Oates, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon, Ada, or Ardor by Vladimir Nabokov and The Rest is Noise by Alex Ross. Other people choose Pushkin or Thomas Hardy or a variety of choral selections SJT had amassed over the years that no longer held interest for him. I return with my haul and sink deeper into the sangria AnSha has made, a peach and rosemary elixir she serves from a Mason jar. She has just moved to Williamsburg--I joke how well she seems to be assimilating and we laugh.

SJT's mother has prepared a feast for us this evening, and shortly I stuff my face with what's easily the best lasagna I've ever had. I'm not a regular pasta eater generally and I don't come from an Italian household, so I don't often have the pleasure of having the dish, much less homemade. It melts in my mouth, as do the Penne Vodka and Sausage and Peppers. I eat enough of everything so when I go home to my empty refrigerator I won't even notice for the entire week. Everyone drinks more, sits more, laughs more. We eat sliced peaches from the garden with Friendly's vanilla ice cream for dessert as the sky turns first to a peachy pink, then lavender, then powder blue, then black.

It is time to leave, and SJT and his mother take AnSha and I to the train. NJ Transit is brimming with people heading into the city for a big night out: they wear tight dresses or jeans and some even wear Hawaiian leis, spangled tops and button-down shirts. And AnSha and I can barely stay awake. We lean our heads against the window as we leave first the Metropark station, then the airport, then Newark Penn, and finally arrive back in Manhattan. I find my way home dreamily by 11pm and fall asleep. Who needs to go out when you've had a day like this?

PEARL

This week, I had the pleasure of photographing the new dance play PEARL at Lincoln Center for Time Out New York. This was special to me not only because I was one of three photographers there or because it was the world premiere of the show, but because for the first time, my dance photography work had collided with the work of one of my dear friends who is a dancer.

Raymond Ejiofor was cast in PEARL in one of its earlier choreography stages and had the opportunity to be a part of its development process along with only a few other dancers. The full cast at Lincoln Center would be responsible for telling the story of the life of Pearl S. Buck, the Pulitzer and Nobel Prize-winning author of The Good Earth, among other novels. One of the shows goals is "highlighting the closing of the cultural divide….'East meets West' and features a very talented cast of 30 Chinese and American dancers, Raymond being of the latter.

I met Ray in college, where I discovered what a pleasure it was to watch him dance, finding myself perpetually in utter awe of his skill and grace. All of our friends have always been pulling for him, knowing how talented he is and hoping the rest of the world could one day see it, despite the harsh difficulties of making a life as a dancer. And now, after earning his Master's degree in Public Health, Ray is a full-time dancer, and has been employed by various companies and freelance projects in Los Angeles and other places around the world (he is going to Shanghai in September for work, as well). For example, he appears in Pharrell's music video for "Happy," Fitz and the Tantrums' music video for "The Walker," and many others, especially, most recently, as the star of Little Boots's music video "No Pressure" (video below).

Now, though, I would get to see him in PEARL, which he had been working on for the last few months. It is, he would tell me, his debut show in New York. As I sat in the theatre holding my camera during dress rehearsal, snapping away at the various, very beautiful scenes in PEARL, I was so happy Ray and I had both gotten to a literal and metaphorical place in our lives where this interaction was possible. It's always been a dream of mine to be able to shout from the rooftops how wonderful my friends are and how beautiful the work they create is, and I'm honored and exploding with delight to have been able to do that in any way for Ray, who so very much deserves it, in such a good show.

A screenshot of my PEARL slideshow on Time Out New York!
You can view the rest of the images on the site here.

Choreographed and directed by Daniel Ezralow, a talented veteran of the dance world (credits include the film Across the Universe and the Broadway show of Spider-Man, among many others), PEARL is an abstract telling of Pearl S. Buck's life. The show is told in five portions, Spring, Flower, River, Moon, Night, each representing a time in Buck's life. The narrative is clean and clear but not prosaic or overbearing--in other words, I got it, but they didn't beat me over the head with it, which I appreciated--and it's so interesting to see a story told in a different way. As I said to Ray, I photograph dance all the time, and it's nice to see something new, a story told in contemporary dance. PEARL is holding only four performances at Lincoln Center, and is in talks to travel to China in 2016. Between now and then, this may be your only chance to catch the show, and I highly recommend that you do (link here for tickets).

And after the show, if you don't mind, go up to Ray and give him a big hug for me. A head's up, he might be a little sweaty.