Torn and Forlorn

Alas, this unfortunate young cub was found lying on the mean streets of Brooklyn, his face mauled by wolves. By the time I reached his side it was already too late for anything but last rites.

Dada at the MOMA

I swung by the Museum of Modern Art this morning to catch up on the latest exhibitions, notably Abstract Expressionist New York and Weimar Cinema, 1919–1933: Daydreams and Nightmares. Here are a few snapshots of what I encountered.


The Abstract Expressionism exhibit, thataway.


"Gothic," a lesser-known Jackson Pollock.


One really must experience "One: Number 31, 1950" in person to understand the visceral assault of Pollock's atomic-powered technique. Replication does not do it justice.


Sorry, I just don't get you, Mark Rothko. I faintly recall painting a blurry television set just like this one in grade school.


Matthew Barney's attention-getting "Cremaster 3: Gary Gilmore."


Rousseau's "The Sleeping Gypsy" has always been a favorite. Placid and haunting.


Alexander Caulder and his patrons.


Daydreams & Nightmares of the Weimar Republic, kicking things off with Peter Lorre's disembodied hand.


Nosferatu emerges.


No Man's Land. Haven't seen this one, but looks like a predecessor to The Grand Illusion or All Quiet on the Western Front.


The Cabinet of Dr Caligari, a film I never tire of.


Das Alte Gesetz (The Ancient Law).


Mother Krause's Journey to Happiness and Faust.


Curtain call.

Toast

Sometimes when you're strolling to work one fine morning and you happen upon the charred remains of a firebombed minivan parked with almost nonchalance alongside the road, you gain a hint of insight as to what living in New York during the punk years may have been like.

Sheepshead Bay

Located northeast of Coney Island, Sheepshead Bay was named not after the leftovers at a local butcher shop, but rather a type of edible fish once found in its waters. Pollution soon put an end to that. Its golden age was the late 1800s, when opulent hotels were plenty and prosperous fishermen frequented the area. Later the bay became a haven for horseracing before finally settling into the modest residential and seafaring community it is today.


The blue wooden Ocean Avenue footbridge which connects Sheepshead Bay to Manhattan Beach. It actually lies slightly west of Ocean Avenue but who's to quibble?


Plenty of wildlife, but you'll notice no sheep.


One of the many piers that prod the north side of the bay.


A wintry Manhattan Beach.


Brighton Beach lies in the Russian sector, where English is decidedly not the dominant language overheard in the streets. Certain areas like these seem designed to make the Cold War refugee feel at home.


A park near Manhattan Beach.


This ornery swan tried to nab my wallet but I was too fast for him. I distracted him with a cookie and made my getaway.


The food at Roll-n-Roaster has nothing on Arbys, but few can compete with their snappy commercial jingles from the eighties.




Typical Brooklyn signage on this bait and tackle shop.


Many of the boats can be chartered, but taking their photo is free.


The bay, looking east from the Holocaust Memorial Park.


Interested in an unnecessary root canal? Give S&M Dental a call.


The Brighton Beach boardwalk, with the neglected amusements of Coney Island looming in the distance.

Hell Frozen Over

It had been snowing relentlessly for days and the cars parked along the streets of Hell's Kitchen were buried up to their side mirrors. Coming down the brownstone stoops, owners gripped their shovels with gloved hands and growled at the work that lie ahead. Scarfed and hatted pedestrians kept their heads low against the wind and tried to circumnavigate the pools of slush which formed at every intersection without getting a bootful of chilled water. Newscasters on the radio were having fun coming up with names for the storm that referenced the end of the world, then chuckling at their own wit.

Two children, exiled from a shuttered schoolhouse, busied themselves by building the snowfort to end all snowforts. It had taken them the better half of the day to burrow in from the bottom using an old coffee can, and out the top, forming a combination turret and observation post. Their little blue knit caps peeked conspicuously out from the mounds of white as they prepared to do battle with an invisible adversary. Their armory of snowballs was well-stocked. An ambitious photography student slipped on a patch of ice and broke her camera. She sat with her legs splayed, gazing mournfully at the wreckage.

As the clouded sun quietly toddled off to bed, the blankets of snow took up the task of reflecting the city lights with enough intensity that the sun was hardly missed. The evening sidewalks were lit by a moonglow, as though they had somehow become gently radioactive. A stooped woman in a green parka took her dachshund for a walk. The dachshund sniffed the frozen ground at the base of a tree, uncertain. It lifted a hindleg without much enthusiasm, but conditions didn't seem right. The dog abandoned this attempt and continued along in hopes of finding a more suitable spot to conduct its business farther ahead. The stooped woman just wanted to get it over with so she could go inside and bathe her feet in scalding water.

An Irish youth came bursting out the entrance of the corner pub. Without hesitation he bounded across the icy sidewalk and dove headfirst into the snowbank with a muffled crunch. His short legs flailed in the air, like a vaudeville clown wedged in a barrel. His companions who followed him out of the pub doubled with laughter at his sudden lunacy. He pulled himself out, shook the snow from his wet hair and grinned.

"What if there'd been a hydrant there?" a laughing girl exclaimed.

He shrugged. "There wasn't."