The Jazz Musician

I was on the subway this afternoon when a man, dressed in black came in through the door. Opening his case, he presented a flute and his case.

He was a jazz musician. He apologized for his lack of cowboy hat and his lack of story. His eyes hardened as he said something along the lines of:

You can all look at me and say hell, I could play that. Everyone knows you don't need any talent to play an instrument. What's real talent is telling stories. Well I don't have any stories.

I froze and peered at him from beneath the cozy confines of my Blick hat, won after a professor had tossed me it during a product endorsement at school. As he began to play, I dug through my bag for my wallet. It was true, I thought.

A conversation that's run through my circle of artists...The importance over story, presentation of the artist as much as the work...To be viewed, admired, sensationalized and hated.

His playing was beautiful, melodic and sad. I wanted to talk to him, tell him of my own fears and frustrations. The feeling of being marginalized or used...Idealized or mocked.

I thought of a conversation earlier that month during an opening with myself, my boyfriend and another artist. Three artists discussing their own frustration. One who was thinking of leaving art entirely, one at a crossroads and one...Myself, still wanting what I had wanted and still believed in from six years ago.

The music was ending, he walked up and down the aisle of the car before finally exiting. A few dollars, some change. Mine was nestled in his case. The Decemberists came back on my iPod...A Cautionary Tale was playing.

The doors opened at Times Square.

His voice hardened again and as he weaved out he said something along the lines of:

"That's right, don't support the arts, support the stories".

I leaned my head against my hand, against the pole, within the car at a standstill.

It was a rude thing to say. It was something I knew we all thought at one point or another.

Looking down briefly, I saw my expression had peaked the interest of a seated passenger.

I looked the other way. I looked down at someone whose face urged me to draw them.

And then the train started to move again.

E.B. White's New York Part Two

“There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born there, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size, its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter--the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something. Of these trembling cities the greatest is the last--the city of final destination, the city that is a goal. It is this third city that accounts for New York’s high strung disposition, its poetical deportment, its dedication to the arts, and its incomparable achievements. Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness, natives give it solidity and continuity, but the settlers give it passion. And whether it is a farmer arriving from a small town in Mississippi to escape the indignity of being observed by her neighbors, or a boy arriving from the Corn Belt with a manuscript in his suitcase and a pain in his heart, it makes no difference: each embraces New York with the intense excitement of first love, each absorbs New York with the fresh yes of an adventurer, each generates heat and light to dwarf the Consolidated Edison Company. . . .” – E.B. White

Would you consider yourself a native or someone who came here on a quest?

Norma Friedland: Well I’m not a native, I’m a New Englander but I did come on a quest. And every dream I ever had was more than fulfilled. New York was magical. We were free on the streets, we were not afraid. When I was little and we would come on vacation to visit my family, my little sister and I could walk by ourselves in our shorts and go to the playground and play all day and never worry about anybody behaving in a way that was inappropriate. It was paradise. It was exciting. One of the major excitements, when my aunt and uncle would go out in the evening, we weren’t allowed to open the door…Except when the newspapers were delivered at ten o’clock at night. The Daily News and The Mirror were delivered, a thrill beyond explanation. I came from a very small town, everything closed down at six p.m. which was fine because our days were full but nothing ever closed down in New York. You could not ask for a more thrilling, exciting, beautiful, generous, intellectually…It excited a curiosity and an understanding that I grew into.

We Called Him Tortoise Because He Taught Us

Sometimes, I can't sleep. Throughout my twenties, I have used this as ammunition to paint, watch odd films from the sixties (I'm looking at you "The Touchables") and during these late night ruminations....Research.

There was one spring break that I spent eagerly looking up all of the abandoned subway stations in New York. Their history, their architecture.

There is always room for The Beats in my researching travels.

And then there was last winter...Just a week or so before turning twenty five, I was home and the old question struck. What had happened to my beloved deceased professor's mural, hinted at in resumes and recollections? I looked for the bank it apparently belonged in, I found none. I researched his name, I only found former students like myself, proudly displaying his name and talking occasionally of their time with him. I was strangely dismayed. Here was an artist, a great artist whose time on earth had ended but whose work remained...Yet where was his work?

I should explain. I'm from the Art Student's League and I studied under Eric Alberts and Anthony Palumbo. Two very different teachers, two very different artists, whom I miss terribly. So, I do what anyone does when they miss someone. Google their name. Anthony Palumbo happens to the one whose mural may or may not still be somewhere in this giant city. The thought of this regularly aggravates and pleases me.

...As does the thought of all of those murals hidden in abandoned subway stations.

So, back to winter. I looked at google, the pages of artists who were grateful for their time with this man....As a teacher. Well, that's all well and good. So who was his teacher?

His teacher was Reginald Marsh. The infamous social realist.

Suddenly, I had a thought. How far back could I go with the teachers of my teacher's teachers?

"We called him tortoise because he taught us"

Three hours later, I had a very rough tree detailing my professors "lineages". Starting as they both had, the students of social realism:

Then the Social Realists...

The Ashcan School...

The Impressionists...

The Academy always weaving it's stodgy way in and out...

And finally landing somewhere in France in the 1700's with Rococo.

...What?

I was elated, here was something I had not expected. It wasn't the mural that I wanted...It was the history, the comfort of knowing what a long lineage we all come out of that I needed.

So perhaps one day, I will find that mural. Or maybe someone looking for Eric Alberts or Anthony Palumbo's work will stumble upon this post and be both strangely dismayed and relieved.


Or maybe even happy?

E.B. White's New York Part One

“There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born there, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size, its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter--the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something. Of these trembling cities the greatest is the last--the city of final destination, the city that is a goal. It is this third city that accounts for New York’s high strung disposition, its poetical deportment, its dedication to the arts, and its incomparable achievements. Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness, natives give it solidity and continuity, but the settlers give it passion. And whether it is a farmer arriving from a small town in Mississippi to escape the indignity of being observed by her neighbors, or a boy arriving from the Corn Belt with a manuscript in his suitcase and a pain in his heart, it makes no difference: each embraces New York with the intense excitement of first love, each absorbs New York with the fresh yes of an adventurer, each generates heat and light to dwarf the Consolidated Edison Company. . . .” – E.B. White

The Native: What was it like to grow up in New York?

Robert Friedland: It was interesting from certain viewpoints. You had friendships; they were not like friendships that you make in the country. In many cases you had to create your own playgrounds – like going to Riverside Drive and going to a place where there’s a lot of grass or going to central park where they had outdoor basketball courts and playing in the cold weather with heavy jackets.

It was an interesting world and I was very fortunate that my public school was only a block and a quarter away from my house…

And in those days going to the movies was big, we had four movie theatres within very close walking distance and the price was I think if I remember the best, I think 75 cents.

And of course when you got into the social life when you were older, the dating was very interesting because you had to walk a few blocks and take the elevator up and then take the elevator down. The only problem you had was that it was very dangerous to date two girls from the same building because you might catch the other one on the way up or the way down. That happened to me once…

Please fill out your library card

I recently had a conversation (one that I've had pretty often) about what it is exactly that I do. You see, once you graduate college...And you're unemployed, people will ask you what you studied while at college. I will smile readily and say with simple, expectant resolve:

"Fine arts".

"Oh" is often the answer. Or a smirk or perhaps a sigh over such an irresponsible, badly planned major and life. Perhaps I will go back to school and find something better. Perhaps I will learn to work with computers. Perhaps...I can be an art teacher!

And I begin to think, as I often tend to, what exactly their thoughts would be if they knew of the rest of my life?

So who am I? Well, at the moment I am a 25 year old native Manhattanite, hailing from Yorkville, busy being unemployed, a recent college graduate and an artist attempting to figure out if I have been phased out of the art world...And did I ever want to be phased in? 

 I am also currently moving my grandfather's collection of books from midtown to my own collection (uptown) peppered by my father's even larger collection which graces my bedroom and studio...My grandmother (New England/Manhattan Grandmother as she will henceforth be known) tells me that my need to collect and harbor these belongings and loves of my family and their own history will lead to my needing to be unearthed from my apartment at the ripe old age of 98. This does not sound like a bad plan to me as long as there are dogs. 

My grandfather's book collection has led to my realization of his being the nearest explanation of the obsessive, passionate researching gene that runs through my uncle, my father and finally me. Perhaps it is in large part why now, I would agree and pursue a blog. I was once offended that my middle school yearbook listed me as "Most Likely to write a book about her childhood" But I have to admit, I am unfortunately probably a decent candidate for it.

So what are my qualifications in writing a blog about New York...Or anything for that matter? I am often told I am a minority, being born and raised here. To be honest, I fear being phased out of the one place I want to live. This could be a bad thing, I'm sure I identify more as a New Yorker than I should. It runs through much of my lineage. My parents met here (a writer and a visual artist) in the eighties. Three of my grandparents grew up here. My maternal great grandparents met (she, a leggy brunette and he, a leggy blonde from Poland) one day and ran off to Coney Island for their first date. Her poor frightened mother was later waiting at the door in a panic with a frying pan according to family folklore. And even later, she was married in a flapper dress. Or the old Suzy Perette sign that still stands on 37th, my paternal grandfather's (Upper West Side Grandfather) uncle was part owner of (sharing it with his father). 

I grew up here, surrounded by artists, surrounded by city. I grew up here, was schooled here, left school here. Stayed when my friends went away for college and was eager for the real fun to begin. Knew that my sense of unconditional love came from three sources: My beloved Dutch Shepherd, art and of course, New York.

There are so many essays and books on leaving New York. Leaving for suburbia, leaving for cheaper homes, leaving because it is no longer the New York it once was. Nothing is though and nothing ever really was. 

So what is this blog? Is it a memoriam to a city that once was? Am I writing about my family for posterity? 

Or is it an art blog? Will there be ramblings?

Of course there will be ramblings. 

For everything else, time will tell.

At the very least, there's a lot of books in The Library of Boojum.