New York Series 4: Memory Fraught And The Queens Of The Village

A month has passed and my memory is finally fragmented by the distance separating me, cusp inductor, not yet readily in control of the changes operating in the me, present now, failing to recreate the fluid motion that tantalized the reconnection of my body particles at the time, and the words hurl themselves at the page, sporadically, I can’t get back into the self that could talk, communicate what my experience was, how it felt, what even this experience was.

I know I should have tried harder a few weeks ago. Then, typing the story of my time in New York came naturally - in this state of Nature that doesn’t think but lives, contracts and grows. It followed the cycles of birth and death and new beginnings in an altered state. But my memory is now ambiguous and can only be painstakingly collected by searching through photos, the internet, what exhibition or park did we see. The me that was there has definitely died and been absorbed by this me who is trying to write its epitaph.

He was in New York on the 5th of April, saw an exhibition at the Met about Blues and its aesthetic, walked in Central Park and dined on oysters in the Village, watched Blues rattle away in a club on Stonewall Place, came back happy to Brooklyn, a merry man Crisp beer in hand, and disappeared.

This isn’t enough. I went to the Marian Goodman Gallery on...W 57th St. I saw an exhibition by...Danh Vo. “Mother Tongue”, I remember. There was an old bag, not the artwork but a lady that didn’t like me helping myself to a flyer in front of her, I said sorry. She wore round glasses and her grey hair was parted in the middle. Maybe a black turtleneck? And in the exhibition there was a letter signed by John Kennedy. Bits of furniture. Mother Tongue, I didn’t make the link and now I can’t remember what it was about but Chloe had the genius to understand and explain it to me very briefly. We had taken the lift - the elevator - and couldn’t find the exit, escaped at the back in a different avenue.

We caught the train and swooped down towards 6th avenue, Spring St, where Chloe wanted to find Anthropologie. I pulled upwards past Bedford St and Downing St, towards Winston Churchill square, up on Bleeker St to meet Benjamin in Fish but he wasn’t there so got a beer in the Blind Tiger. With Ben. The barman wore leather trousers and had long blond hair. The beer had a strange name, its style I mean, something starting with an S, even the internet won’t help me, not listed in the draught beers anymore. It was fruity. Ben made a joke about my liking of the fruity kind.

We sat by the window. Chloe joined us but it was time to leave. Better beat the queue at Fish, the line I remember; that’s what they call it. We drank two beers in the waiting area on a bench outside, a terrace covered by a blue awning. A man stroke a conversation when I ordered the second round, told me he had lived in London. He had curly hair, his mother was Jewish.
We had to wait for a while because a table of three is a large party.
But finally we’re in, first round of oysters, six each, served on ice on a silver platter. We drank Pabst Blue Ribbon but the man at the bar earlier insisted I call it PBR. $8, half a dozen oysters and a pint! The waitress came back, we had finished but at $8 we couldn’t refuse another round, PBR, oyster croutons, three extra molluscs on the platter.

Satiated, we looked for desert. Not far we found a place where we could purchase sorbets in unusual flavours and combinations, on a stick, dipped in chocolate, hundred and thousands - I was plain and had pineapple.

Then we searched for the 55 Bar on Christopher St, but really Stonewall Place, and then I realised: the Stonewall riots, flashes of fists in the darkness, this is where it happened. I told the story, no one cared that much.

The 55 bar was fairly quiet, Michael Packer not yet on stage. We had more beer, waitress on the ball, knowing her business, a nod and a wink would get us a glass once the crowd had gathered and the blues was too loud. I am facing the wall and just there, between Chloe and Benjamin is Ornette Coleman, amongst jazz players, a black and white photograph.

I had come to see jazz but jazz clubs are blues bars, so I went to smoke a cigarette outside. Not the reason, just the nicotine. I like Michael Packer, he was born in New York City. While I was smoking outside, a bus pulled over in front of the Stonewall Inn. A lady in stilettos handsomely hit the pavement. And another one. And another one. A busfull of dames walking peacefully through the door, without fuss, with their fake eyelashes and boa feathers and glamour.

New York Series 3 2/2: Casual Torment And The Love Of Beer

The place is empty. So far this is what you might expect from a rented accommodation. But we know she must be here somewhere. She above our head, she our hostess. On the ground floor there are two double bedrooms plus two beds in the main room. And there is the mysterious door leading upstairs. Now we hear her moving, sporadically, her steps mapping out the ceiling. It gives me the creeps. I have seen those films, soon a yellow ribbon will encircle the house, a neat line that Lt. Crass will cross crouching underneath, already stopped by a rookie, flashing his badge - What’s the story here? Don’t tell me they’ve been stiffened by a bloated badger. Mind, wouldn't be the first time a Brit got stuck in one of 'em.

Half of our party decide to have a rest, alone in their bedroom. Very Brave. Us sensitive men cautiously familiarise ourselves with the surroundings. We have a look outside, lean on the deck, walk the few steps towards the swimming pool. The large pool has been covered for the winter. There is a cocktail bar waiting to host an undergraduates’ spank fest. Every shed, tent, store room, is thoroughly inspected. We’re not leaving anything to chance.

The back of the house is the worst route for exit: a forest of silver birch matted with gold leaves, trails concealed. We return to the house. If only we had beers. Unbeknown to us, entertainment is on its way. Standing on the deck, Joseph is talking to someone, someone feminine. I join him. Lt. Crass would describe her as a fine lady. And he is right. I shake her hand but pull out too early. I feel the offense, the first of many. I shouldn’t be too worried though, we are on a learning curve, off to become experts in casualness.

Our hostess insists on giving us a little tour. Tour of the house, of all the places we pretend to not have already thoroughly searched; tour of several maps, interspersed with anecdotes and recollections, where to visit, dine or keep away from. It turns out our lady has different recommendations from the internauts’ community. So, words you shouldn’t speak: the Yacht Club, the Monster. Just a piece of advice here.

It was time for her to let us get on with the rest of the evening. But before she left she treated us to one last thing. Worried we might get cold on the beach our hostess - let’s call her L - brought us back a box of hats. A range. If you think this is good hosting you haven’t heard it all. We were treated to two boxes of hats, the second shortly following the first after she realised we had made great use of her prop-supply. How we posed and rallied “ironically” to the hipster cause, sunglasses/fur/a strong sense of self sparked electronically to the world.

But this is fun times. I wouldn’t be writing about all this if it weren’t also for thoughtful times. During the tour of the property, L made a mention of 9/11. Don’t sigh yet, this was in passing, the reason why she had moved from her Manhattan apartment to this home in the Hamptons. It was short and without emphasis but certainly not a throwaway comment. I perceived it as an allusion to a separate life from the past, a date at which she had had to engineer a new future for her to live in. She was alone in this house. This is all we knew, the rest we fabricated.

So this is when my feelings become entangled. Most people are nurtured to hate Americans. To a certain extent I was. I don’t think it as anything personal, and the reason why we do it eludes its point. Because this is what we do, us outsiders. But again I am wrong. I am not you so this us doesn’t stand. What I mean to say is I resent the way I felt when it happened. I am not talking about three months after the attack, but right as and when I heard it on the radio. I was on a bus and I thought the US deserved to be beaten up. Because of Bush, because of many other reasons I didn’t understand.
But with her first-hand tale, not even a tale but an allusion to it, L spoke deeper to my inner human than any documentary, debate or explanation of the why, the how, the who and the what next.

Anyway, I would like to talk more about Montauk and what we did but I somewhat feel I spent too long reminiscing about hats. Two things my memory will keep. One is the ocean, even if I couldn’t tell the difference between this side and the other of the Atlantic (it’s in the mind, the world will die with me); Two is Brooklyn Summer Ale in a can. I am crying inside I can’t find it in this country. Pale blue and red. Look at it. Just look at it!! Why am I denied such beauty?

Next time the damn Village and a bus full of trannies. With everything in the right place.



*photo stolen from Benjamin

New York Series 3 1/2: On The Road We Grow

- So why Montauk?
- Why not Montauk?
- Is that a reason tho...
- Well... you know what it’s like to say you’re going to the Hamptons.
- Yeah, I suppose. But just to you and me, we’re going to the Hamptons, right?
- East Hamptons. The place is massive, it’s got a giant swimming pool and a hot tub.
- Ok.

I’m off with Benjamin to pick the car up in Gowanus. I want to get a massive car too, a dream-carrier straight out of a film nominated at the Sundance film festival in the 90s. No one else does, we’ll get what we’re given. But first we ponder on the name Gowanus. Interesting way to call a place surrounding a dirty canal. In terms of punt I doubt we’ll be pioneers. Still, we are on good form.

The car is fine and we get a free upgrade. Of course we do. We drive round a few blocks for a warm-up. I turn on the radio, Madonna is suggesting us to dance for inspiration. I want to lower the window and show-off my moves but Benjamin points out that the builders in their wife-beaters at the crossroad won’t be impressed. Whatever.
We stop at the flat to load luggage and friends. I have made a playlist for the journey. Won’t share it with you except for the first track. Cantaloop by Us3. The window comes down.

Yes Montauk is a good choice and somewhat not such a random one. There is the monster, which is a plus, and it was also a holiday retreat for Warhol and his freaks in the 70s*. I am glad I hadn't heard the anecdote before we left, only discovered it on our return. I still don’t know how to feel about Warhol. The closest thing I can compare it to is putting my faith in a car salesman. He’ll convince me that I am the king of the world, to buy the car and enjoy the frill, and then I will realise too late that I was acting the life of somebody else, a character at a zenith of hipster mythology. But again this is another cliche about car salesmen, ours was very professional.

We drove on for a few hours, the traffic becoming rapidly fluid. Laughs all round, we are all very excited. Lookin’ Out My Back Door comes on the stereo, I slap the dashboard as hard as I can. Benjamin swerves and I hit a lamppost of reproval. Fine. I turn the volume down.

The landscape whizzes by at 55mph, a criminal speed for obliging prisoners on the run. It is flat essentially. I’m just happy to be driven in America, finally on the road. Hunger is creeping up once again. We are in the West Hamptons and want to find a diner. All we see are antiques shops and swimming pool retailers.

But not for long, we catch a glimpse of a tank on the other side of the road, american flag planted in its turret. I think of Lemmy in a Nazi uniform. This is the place where we must eat. We take a few photos and eat a healthy burger served by an Irish waiter obsessed with avocados.

Back on the road, entering a naked forest sprouting each side of the yellow line. We are driving carefully, we are nearing monster country. Red Dirt road is the name. This is what we always wanted. We get off the car and go round the back of the house. We let ourselves in, complying with the host's instructions. Inside it’s bathrobes and towels galore, cosiness and good hosting aplenty. Already searching for the hot tub. Wine is in the fridge. We’re on.


Montauk, 1975 — Mick Jagger, Catherine Deneuve, and Andy Warhol – Image by © Peter Beard



*Read the Selvedge Yard's article about the Stones in Montauk, 1975 

New York Series 02: The City Baker And The Village Painter

Jet-lag.There is no jet-lag to be had. We were awake for 24 hours the previous day and this morning I got up at 8.30am, a lot earlier than I’d set my alarm for. Again, a crisp sunlight and blue sky pervade through the room with the piano. Benjamin has left for work so there is no one to serenade us.

I put my kaftan on and try to think like a New York animal. The difficulty when visiting a new city is to find a satisfying order in which to link my meanderings through parks, squares, galleries, museums, restaurants, bars and the cheap and glory of watering holes. I also usually need to curb my willingness to quench the thirst in the early hours of the afternoon.

This won’t be a problem. We have plans. Coffee and the rest out of the way and we are reaching Manhattan from down below. I am setting myself ready for a stack of skyscrapers but we are getting off at the wrong stop and end up in the Village. Except that I didn’t realise we were in the Village until we had walked a long way north on 6th avenue. Which means by that time we were not in the Village anymore. Damn Village, I keep it quiet for now.

We are headed towards Bryant Park when we’re suddenly caught by starvation. It is an ambush and there is no escape. There is also no clear remedy in view. We had just left Benjamin’s flat in Carroll Gardens, a part of Brooklyn where every shop serves either organic food or nail treatments. First mis-judgement. The second mis-judgement came when we finally found a place, a chain with a french name that I can’t remember, and I ordered a whole baker’s basket to myself. I don’t know what I was thinking, I had imagined a baguette and a bit of jam on the side. What I got was an actual basket full of a dozen different kinds of breads, the ones you usually see in boulangeries’ shop window. I finished it, left me feeling porous. Now I am not sure why I am spending all this time relating a bread story.

We went to the Photography and the American Civil War exhibition at the Met. The walls of the exhibition space are covered by what I imagine to be burlap although it could be linen. The place is supposed to look like a Civil War army tent but it doesn’t really. Of course it doesn’t and that’s not the point but is the gimmick successful? Aren’t black and white photographs enough to take us back in time? I am not looking for an answer.

Now that I think of it I realise that most photographs seemed dated. By that I mean distant, like the classic painting of a king. Which makes me wonder if that sense of distance is created by a formal pause, a setting too controlled. For a long time I couldn’t apprehend painting for the same reason. But that feeling was changed by Christen Købke‘s paintings - back to the bread theme -, by their unusual subjects (Roof Ridge of Frederiksborg Castle, c.1834-5) and composition (View from the Loft of the Grain Store at the Bakery in the Citadel, 1831).

I would say that the Civil War photographs I appreciated the most were the ones that had been colorized (this is not from the exhibition by the way) but this is not entirely true. There are some powerful photographs to be seen.

After that, still in the Met, we passed on the Impressionism exhibition but went to see After Photoshop: Manipulated Photography in the Digital Age. Highly recommended. And also Street by James Nares (soundtrack by Thurston Moore). And of course William Eggleston. I almost cried.

By then we had spent enough time in the museum and needed a change. Part of me wished I’d known that the $25 per person charge is a contribution, not a requirement; but there you are, American culture you have my support.

The rest of the day was less cultural. A bit of shopping for denim and a stint visit to Apotheke in Chinatown. An ex- opium den serving elaborate cocktails, we should have known. The place looked great but with no tables to spare and a $100 to pay for a jug of their exquisite juice we made our excuses before ordering. Instead we ended up in Joe’s ginger. Chinese restaurant you might have guessed. The choice was in the name. And the "mock duck" was a real treat. No Employees Must Wash Hands sign in the restroom.

A few beers later we just went home. Save some fun for next day. We’ll be picking up the car in Gowanus and head for Montauk. Just don’t mention the monster.

New York series 01: The Offlinepeople Fly West Side Of The Atlantic

 And today is a fine day. New York’s light, in summer tones, has finally time-travelled to this other side of the Atlantic with its crisp cool air, Crisp beer, and oysters, houdini dollars, and reminiscence of love and friendship and more.

 Three weeks ago was the penultimate day before we flew to New York City, half of us for the first time, to reunite with old companion Benjamin, elusive offlinepeople, elusive perhaps for sticking to the offline title of the people. No, no, we do love him, we’re only kidding. Where’s your next post Benjamin?

 Anyway, back to New York, or pre west Altantic holidays - second mention of the ocean, more to follow - under grey skies, the clock almost set for summer time, ESTA approved, suitcases open and rapidly filling up.

 I’d had dreams about New York, about America in general. I remember an airport in Miami welcoming us under a rainbow; of the feeling of a land profuse in amusement, wild expectation and severity. In A Voyage Long and Strange, Tony Horwitz mentions the harsh conditions the first (and second and third) settlers experienced while trying to occupy this land and its people - now there is irony - and it is an exact point you can still obverse.
 In terms of immigration, the chance for you to work long hours with only the skeleton of state welfare for reward is extremely hard to be granted. The climate varies from high temperatures to very low without much notice. Hurricanes and other nature’s whims are familiar enough to bear friends’ names... But let’s stop here. We’re not a travel guide. We report from experience.

 We are on flight BA0115 to JFK. We have crossed over and have landed. The plane is to park a few yards away to the left but another plane occupying our space has broken down. We have to be patient. We have to wait.

 Just over an hour later and the few yards of tarmac have finally been covered. We’re getting scanned and stamped. Excitement can begin. But excitement isn’t there. It has been made latent by the dull neon light of Immigration, beige walls, and an overwhelming sense of normality. The word Alien is written everywhere but this is not an alien setting. Somehow I was expecting a different world but we are rolling our suitcases on the same planet. I sound disappointed but I am not. The vertigo has gone for good. I am experiencing reassurance, I can not only say that I am a citizen of this world but acknowledge it, in my body and my brain, the axes of my self.

 We rode on a yellow cab to the Lower East Side, drifting sideways from one lane to the next without much indicating. Suburban airport landscape slowly transforming until the skyline explodes in what we had come to expect; the competing skyscrapers, the worry of not tipping appropriately. The mistake was done, no love from our taxi driver.

 But we are there at last, walking down the street to the bar. Outdoor terrace, heated, not tired. And the orders come flowing. Budweiser for a start, sticking to what we know. I am turning my back to the entrance. My friends’ eyes widen: he has arrived, joined us, the transient worker in full capacity, will stay a while longer. Here is Benjamin.