New York City On A Sunday Morning...

I grew up in New York City, which is like growing up on Mytikas, the highest peak of Mt.Olympus, looking down on the rest of the nation. The only important "other" places were (almost) similar such cities, maybe Paris or London. Maybe Hong Kong or San Francisco or Chicago.

I traveled into high school in Manhattan from Queens, taking the E or F train, or the7 line if I was feeling bored and wanted a glimpse of Shea Stadium and the tennis center. I imagined that if someone was trying to kill me, I was shifty and unorthodox, never taking the same route. Hard to pin down.

Sometimes it all depended on what I wanted to eat. When the High School of Music and Art (now LaGuardia Arts) was still uptown on the hill, I had choices of glazed donuts, Jamaican beef patties, sandwiches or candy, depending on whether I took a number or a letter train.

I didn't appreciate New York when I was there. I did and didn't. I felt a contentment, but bristled at the rude and the dirty. I dreamed of small towns, and quaint markets, and going to a high school with a football program. Music and Art was short on athletics, as were many city schools.

Eventually the school moved from Harlem downtown, joining with the School of Performing Arts in a new structure across from Lincoln Center. Many students detested the move, not wanting to leave what they called "the castle on the hill" which overlooked the black part of Harlem down below. I was delighted. A new building, with new studios and being in the center of the city. In the mornings I used to stop at a magazine shop to pick up various photography and music magazines. I flipped through whatever I bought as I crossed the street toward Lincoln Center, happy to be where I was.

At that time I wanted to be a folk singer, but was too afraid to sing in front of people. I also couldn't sing. There was something delightful about a someone who could write an engaging tune with just a voice and guitar. I listened to the music thinking, "I could do that." The pop on the radio was electronic and blippy and the best qualities of that music could not be replicated even by the artists themselves, let alone the listener. I wanted music I could sing to, strum my own guitar to. I listened to people like Shawn Colvin, John Gorka, and this duo called Buskin and Batteau.

There were a couple of folk music shows that came on the radio, one by a guy named Vin Scelsa called "Idiot's Delight" and I listened eagerly, the music becoming a soundtrack to my version of New York City. Pete Fornatale was another dj who imposed his own taste and creativity into my life.

I had my favorite spots. As art students we were required to go to the museums and draw what we saw. I was too much the introvert. I didn't want tourists looking over my shoulder and thinking what a lousy artist I was. I didn't want to mess up in front of people. I took surreptitious photographs and then recreated what I saw back home in the comfort of Queens. I disliked the Museum of Modern Art before I had ever entered, and disliked it after I exited. I loved the Met, but liked the quiet solitude of the Frick the best. "That's real art!" I said to myself, thinking that if I could paint, that's how I would paint. Oil painting was my focus at school, but I had long concluded that my skills were far below those of my more dedicated classmates.

They spent their time dreaming of a future career in the arts, and I spent my time contemplating whether to have beef patties or donuts for breakfast that morning, and whether taking the route that lead to the best food would deprive me of the route that led to whatever girl I liked at the time.

Sometimes I wandered down to 34th street near Macys, my favorite landmark. There were a lot of camera stores with all sorts of electronic gear stacked up in the windows at prices that seemed to good to be true. I planned what camera I would get, lusting after some indestructible looking Nikon, and assuring myself that the Leica right there would be my alternate when I wanted to give the Nikon a rest. Usually the only thing I ever purchased was Kodak Tri-X or Plus X black and white film. I was way into black and white pictures, feeling that color looked fake, and removed all the mystery. I took a free photography class at the School of Visual Arts to expand my skills.

The teacher sent us out onto the streets to photograph stuff. Again, I was too timid to point my camera if people might end up in the frame. I shot a lot of streets and buildings. Somewhere downtown, and at night, I photographed a man with crutches leaning against a shop window. The light from the window flooded past his dark body onto the sidewalk. Later I showed the picture to my dad, "Hey, see, I got this homeless guy sleeping." My dad told me the man was not in fact sleeping. He was on heroin and out on his feet. "Oh, well the light looks neat doesn't it?" He, my father, was not as enthusiastic at my photo with an actual person in it.

Other times I made my way to Chinatown for fireworks or knives. Near Thanksgiving I wanted to feel Dickens, and to buy a freshly killed bird and wander through the streets holding it by the neck, while beaming merchants yelled "Good day to ya" (in Chinese?) from their street stalls. I wanted to be like Scrooge, but happy, and go into a shop and say, "I will take that bird right there, and some figgy pudding" Chinatown was the best way to replicate that, and I bought a whole duck. On my subway ride home I was excited, and presented the duck to my parents. At Thanksgiving, and once cooked, the duck shrunk down to nothing, fat leaching out, and I thought, "Next time, I will get the pheasant, or a goose!"

I loved Buskin and Batteau, and every time I traveled downtown to this big music shop, they never had any of their albums in stock. Other times I would make the trip and be distracted by something else, instead of what I came for. By the time I was really determined to get their music, they broke up. They were always on independent labels and never easy to find anyway. The two men were, among other things, jingle writers, and I remember listening to a concert where they ran through a bunch of the jingles they had created. My favorite song of theirs was "Guinevere," and while other folk singers had done the tune some justice, nobody could do it better than them.

On this Sunday morning, they crossed my mind and I was glad to find that not only have Buskin and Batteau gotten back together, but they are touring, and with videos on Youtube and albums for sale. Thank you technology! Of course I must let you have a listen, those few who come here to see what I am lately ranting and raving about.