Affordable Art!?!? That's Crazytalk!

I’ve always liked the idea behind the Affordable Art Fair. Simply by putting those two words together and into the public mind through their marketing, the fair’s organizers are doing us all a great service. The notion that art is the conceit of the wealthy (the dreaded "elite") is a difficult barrier for many would-be collectors. Obviously we need to grow the pool of collectors and I applaud any gallery, consultant, artist, or collector who encourages more people to take that plunge. This is an institutional mechanism to do just that.

One question though: are the organizers implying that the other fairs are full of art that’s not affordable and therefore a little repulsive? It’s too often true, but that’s a problem for the various fair organizers to address if it bothers them, and it should.

People are starting to ask if the whole art fair thing has gotten a little ridiculous. They can be a great marketplace and some galleries now depend on them for the majority of their business. They allow regional galleries to be players in the global marketplace. These two factors create the perception that it’s necessary for galleries to go if they wish to be relevant (or viable). This introduces an irrationality into the equation and as a result show organizers can model their business around attracting exhibitors and fees, and thriving regardless of whether anything actually sells.

After a day at the Affordable Fair I was talking at a Williamsburg opening with a well-known curator. He told me that Scope Hamptons had only a handful of sales in the whole show. The market their is obviously weak because they’re trying to compete with the beach or trying to entice a numerically miniscule number of uber-wealthy collectors. Despite these dim prospects and the ridiculous costs of doing business there, they continue to attract exhibitors, if not visitors.

So he’s not exactly bullish on the whole art fair system, even though that is an important avenue for him (he doesn’t have a dedicated white box). He asked me about the Affordable Fair and I had to tell him that business looked pretty brisk. The work was engaging and some of it was quite good and the exhibitor I spoke with were generally quite satisfied. I would say that galleries need to chose their fairs wisely—they’re not all on-ramps to the global art speedway, but they can be useful.

Caveat Exhibitor.

Big thanks to Laura and Rob from Migration for hooking me up with tickets. They are very selective about which fairs to attend and it looks like they did pretty well with this one.

Biennial Checklist

The Biennial was not a total waste. There were a few good pieces (like this one), but most of it was very predictable.
Julia Meltzer and David Thorne, Still from not a matter of if but when.....
[then the title gets so long it's silly] 2006. Video projection, color, sound; 32 min.

Better late than never, here is the much-anticipated Whitney Biennial checklist:

• Building Supplies/Low-Brow Materials
  Home Depot should have sponsored the show
• Clip Art
• Design as Art
• Pantone
• Chairman Mao
• Suburban Angst
• Size without Monumentality
• Obsessive Multiples
• Faux-naif/Infantile drawing style
  Nothing's sadder than an MFA who (a) managed to avoid learning how to draw
  or (b) can draw but feels the need to pretend not to.
• It’s not about the figure, it’s about the body/Bodily fluids/Cast body parts
• Ominous Buzzing sound. [Will installationist ever get tired of that? I
  did about 25 years ago]
• It’s not about the execution, it’s about the fabrication
• It’s about Language but it doesn’t say anything

I must say that I did not notice any deer antlers, robots, or creepy manequins and that left me rather disappointed. A few artists did stand out with work good enough to restore my faith:

Julia Meltzer and David Thorne made me question my assumptions.

Harry(ette) Dodge goes on a witty and touching journey.

Daniel Joseph Martinez delivers in every facet from idea to execution.

Mary Heilman's paintings are delicious and understated.

Charles Long. Didn't want to like it but I loved it. His work combines really
well with Heilman's.

Rahel Harrison does a great job of commenting on the mess that used to be the American Dream. It's the show's single mostt dominant thread.

JedediahCaeser's sculptures(?)/paintings(?) are just great.

Adam Putnam's Magic Lantern was so good I didn't want to leave.

Mika Rotttenberg might have the best piece in the show. Very immersive,very thought-provoking. I give her and Julia Meltzer co-prizes for best in show.

Worst in show: Certainly the hanging. Perhaps taking a cue from the crew at the New Museum, it's very, very difficult to tell who created which work. On a positive side, and positive being the key word, the show is hung in such a way that the over-and-over dreary subject matter does not make for a depressing experience. I felt fresh all the way through the visit, though annoyed to see so much derivative conceptualism (a deadly combination). still, it was worth the visit and there were a few yummy veggies hidden amidst the iceberg lettuce.

Looking Good at 50

What an honor to get training tips from the legendary Bill Rodgers!
And he's so cool and humble!

Yesterday was the 50th Anniversary of a historic date: the founding of New York Road Runners, my employer for the last nine years. The good they have done and the countless lives they have changed are well-documented. For me personally they’ve been dream employers and have done more for me than I could ever recount.

Interesting, meaningful (and at times, exciting) work on a flexible, part-time basis; real interest in my family and my many diverse areas of passion; a real family environment; active encouragement to live a happy, balanced life. People ask me if I actually get paid for what I do and I have to pinch myself to remember it’s true. Like any family, we sometimes have to be patient with each other at NYRR—and Lord knows I’m not always a model employee. The atmosphere at Road Runners can sometimes feel manic and it’s irrepressibly maniacal in pursuit of its mission. But that’s why I love it there and I could imagine being anywhere else. That’s not some naive cliche—I’ve been other places and I know of what I speak.

When I moved to New York, I prepared myself to suspend my running campaign—concrete jungle, asthma-inducing air quality and all the other obstacles just seemed too much. I literally stumbled into NYRR (thanks to S-Doug) and they flat-out wouldn’t let me quit my running. They’ve helped me create this wonderfully balanced life that combines art, work, family, and healthy living (listed in arbitrary order). It’s a life full of wonderful and unusual yet consummately New York things. For example, my Wednesday began with a swim at the Met Pool, included stops at Tavern on the Green, some fast-paced work at my office across the street from the Guggenheim, canapés at NASDAQ, a track meet in the shadow of a prison, and it finished with a run in Central Park. Not a typical day but par for the course at NYRR.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Happy Birthday NYRR and THANK YOU!!!

R & R = zzzzzzz?

Is too much serenity possible?

Myrtle Beach was my fourth major trip in the past month and half, it was the only one that wasn’t about work, running a marathon, or family obligations. It was all about relaxation. And we went about it with gusto: pleasure reading (novel concept!), watching the sunrise/set, floating in the ocean, building sandcastles, watching basketball, eating yummy seafood, going for walks/runs/swims—it was all very peaceful. Very far away from New York and my many projects there.

Though I was never homesick, after a few days of serious chilling, I started to feel uncomfortably lethargic, as if Lilliputians were slowly binding me to the ground in a supine position. Don’t get me wrong: sleeping on the beach is one of life’s finest pleasures but after so much time enjoying and consuming (which I had also done on my other trips), I was ready to be back in the studio making something positive. There’s something about the beach that stifles creativity—as if life is so nice as it is, art is not really necessary.

By the time we got home, I felt something like a sugar-crash or a hangover. Too much sweetness can be bad.

About an hour after deplaning at Laguardia and catching up on all the latest playground gossip (much of it discouraging), Sebastian and I were waiting for pizza at Simple (cafe across the street from our apartment). We had the dubious privilege of witnessing a gang battle—complete with bottle-throwing, sticks, crashing cars and cops with guns—literally a few feet in front of us. Sebastian asked if the police would put the bad guys in jail and I had to tell them that I could not discern any good guys in the melee.

Did I just write that I needed more grit?

Benski+Emski

These two know how to have fun. Congrats Benjameister and Emski. We couldn't be happier for you.

Ben and Emily’s wedding was the full deal. Really four days of celebration. Huge tent like a circus or country auction set up behind the garden. Friends encamped on ridge opposite. Outrageously good barbeque. Plenty of excellent local creftbrew. Old friends from really far away. New friends. Missing relations and missed. New members of the family and they feel really close.

Torrential rains with cheery-sized hail that somehow replaced itself with perfect blue skies just at the right moment. Sunlight as if designed by an experienced theatre hand. May’s full bloom. No bugs(!) Four piece bluegrass band on a haywagon complete with hay.

Kids free to roam and do as they please with minimal supervision and tons of fun. Plenty of company for them and for us too. Wonderful people constantly figuring out how to help and just doing so with being asked or told. Two cozy fires, one with free neck massages.

An Aussie, an Alaskan dogsledrunner, lake-country Minnesotans, people from the hills of Carolina. New Yorkers, a photojournalist from DC. She had to leave early to shoot another wedding—the president’s daughter. Vollyball on the east lawn. Croquet to the north. Ping pong on the south slope. I watched them play from the outdoor shower. Of course a good friend just happened to be working on the catering staff. This is Charlottesville and all people of taste were mobilized.

Grass so green and air so sweet. Tiki torches. Fond stories of the one who could not make it. Wish she were here but our thoughts about her are celebrations. Washing dishes in buckets on the porch. Mark your cup with a sharpie or a white ribbon. You’ll want to hang onto it.

It was a wonderful, affirming experience. This pair was destined to marry but they worked hard to get to the altar. Not always an easy road for them but the right one.

Farewell Margery

Margery Edson-Gould (pictured here on her wedding day) departed just a few days shy of her grandson Ben's own much-anticipated nuptuals.

Margery Swan Huff Edson-Gould (6/20/15-5/6/08) passed away last week, and we’ll all miss her terribly. Everyone who met her they always walked away thinking, "So this is what a human can be." She was quite simply magnificent and her quality shines brightly in her daughters and through to her granddaughter Meredith, my lovely wife. I have been fortunate to know Margery for the past eighteen years and I am better for it.

The first thing most people noticed about Margery was her fierce, burning passion for life. I say this not as a cliché about someone who is physically battered yet with a great lust for life, though by the end such a description would fit. She was physically precocious and her prime years extended well into what others would consider old age. She used to whip her grandchildren in tennis and was notorious for receiving speeding tickets in her VW Scirocco. She lived life as one on fire yet she was always calm.

She would have made a great coach, and she was, in fact, very interested in [and opinionated about] sports. I'll never forget the night I got us prime seats at the U.S. Track & Field Championships. I told a few people there that her grandfather had been an early Olympian but the luminaries of the running world treated her as a star that night for reasons not even they understood. There was something about her that commanded respect. Maybe it was her eyes, which were perhaps Meredith's greatest inheritance.

Margery inspired those around her not only by setting a great example, but by taking a very real and thoughtful interest in everyone she met. She was extraordinarily generous with her thoughts, praise, and many small gifts. She never met anyone she considered a hopeless case and saw great potential for good in everyone. She told them so and they wanted to go out and make good on the promise she found in them. Perhaps that explains her rapid ascent from the gym teacher to high school principal and beyond. She would have been a great politician and perhaps president in a different sort of world.

But she changed many lives nevertheless. Her influence was meted out in small conversations, cards and bouquets, winks and many, many hugs. She lived a very full and rich life and hers is an example I would gladly follow.

Barfight Averted

The other night I headed over to Clem’s for a post-studio pint, as is my habit. Clem’s is close to the perfect bar, but it has one flaw—and it is the type of problem that cannot be overcome. They have one bartender who possesses the planet’s absolute worst taste in music. It’s really bad and a bar with loud, bad music is just unbearable.

You might have encountered the guy—he likes to keep a cocktail straw in his mouth. On the way down the block, I vowed to myself that if Straw Guy was working I would go someplace else—like home.

I arrived to find the hotplaygroundmom we’ll call Goldilox hanging outside smoking with some equally hot female friends. I said to myself, “That’s it: I’m stayin’.” So I went inside and ordered a beer. In my distracted state I didn’t notice who was serving my drink until it was too late. It was him!

Then a perverse but admittedly magical thing happened. As he put my beer down, his straw somehow flipped out of his mouth, twisted end-over-end a few times in mid-air before striking me right in the forehead.

Why didn’t I pick up my stool right then and there and smash it to bits over his head? Was I afraid of starting a barroom brawl, being slid down the bar like a bowling ball or thrown through a plate glass window? No more so than usual.

What stayed my hand that night was a voice from the other end of the bar telling one of the other customers some unimaginably good news,

“We both forgot our iPods,” the waitress was saying. “So tonight it’s customers’ choice.” The words fell on me like manna from Heaven and my rage instantly dissolved. Then Goldilox came back in and her friends turned out to be a charming mix of artists and hotplaygroundmoms too.

Yup: definitely stayin’.

Beantown Beatdown

Don't let the happy face fool you. After waving to my entourage, I started looking for a wheelchair or something soft to land on. (photo: cole)

So I didn’t exactly "rock" Boston. In fact, it fairly kicked my @$$. I arrived at the starting line extremely fit (and still am) and my 3:06:43 finish, though substantially off my sub-3 goal, was a very respectable debut. So I’m proud but sore. Motivated to do better.

I ran a very solid 35K, right on target. But the marathon is 42K and those last four miles were extremely painful. I was blacking out on my feet and swaying toward the sidelines and about a half mile short of the finish line, the infamous Boston leg cramps set in, a consequence of Boston’s famous down hills in which quads and hamstrings seize up extremely painfully. I managed to walk them off and rally for a proud jog to the finish line.

I made some costly tactical errors that can be corrected so I’m fully confident that I will get under that 3-hour mark at a future race. I’m actually excited about the prospect. I never experienced that "never again" moment and I wanted another shot at the distance right after finishing, despite the suffering—and I’m still sore nearly a week later. The most important lesson I learned was humility. The marathon is serious business and no amount of toughness trumps preparation and smart execution.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves though. My body needs to heal, then we’ll think about the next attempt. I ran best when I focused on one step at a time and that’s how I’ll go forward: methodically, patiently, and for now, VERY slowly.

Primavera

Passerby: "You might ask yourself what happened to the kid wearing those shoes..."

Spring is in the air and Love is with it. Along with shoes and plastic bags, the trees are full of bloom. Before stirring my tea (three blossom green tea served by a goddess debuting her new leopard print skirt) I sneak myself a little extra demitasse spoonful of honey. Mainline pollen and I’m not the only one imbibing. Those who are not sneezing and wheezing are sneaking corner-of-the-eye glances at each other behind their cool shades. The sky is perfectly blue, the colors bright, and possibilities are everywhere.

Please! Don't Buy Our Art!

If the sterile art, unfriendly staff, industrial surroundings, long walks,

opaque business practices, instituional spaces, and general unpleasantness

of the neighborhood don't scare you away from this Chelsea gallery, perhaps a

mad dog will do the trick!

Following on our revelatory visit to the Lower East Side galleries, we were wondering how we would find the Chelsea Scene. Let’s just say that it did nothing to change our Bowery Bullishness into 10th Avenue Ballyhoo.

It’s not just that the spaces are cold, the art uber-commercial, the walks interminably long, the staff often quite frosty, and the neighborhood about as welcoming as the surface of the moon. All of that is beyond dispute. The new thing that I noticed, and I suppose that it’s always been there, is that many of the galleries actively don’t want most people to buy their art. Which seems kinda strange.

It just got to be a bit much as we were bombing through the galleries in the Chelsea Terminal Building and almost none of the galleries listed prices on the "price list." My companion had to ask for the version of the price list that actually includes prices. When she jokingly probed the reasons for this double-list phenomenon (which made me wonder if there was more than one set of price lists behind that white window-wall) the attendant (who was really quite friendly) said that the gallery didn’t want to offend anyone by being too out-front with the prices.

Offend who? The one naive in the universe who mistakes the gallery for a museum? The artist who thinks the work should cost more? The jealous artist who thinks it’s worth less? The collector who spent five times more for lesser work in Miami?

The coyness actually offended me alot more for two reasons. First, as an art collector, I want the process to be easy, invigorating, and I want to know that I’m not being $crewed. Secondly as an artist, I want to know that the galleries are out there trying to sell work. We [artists] cannot survive if they do not. So if a gallery’s mission is to get art out there and into people’s lives, making the act of collecting more difficult seems...counterintuitive.

Well, it turns out that my sense offense was correct. What those galleries were doing was more than annoying; it was illegal. As retail establishments, galleries are required to post "in plain sight" the prices of all works for sale. Not "on request" and not behind the desk. In plain sight.

Remember back in the 80’s, when galleries had to be sued into posting their prices? This is the same old $hit and presumably for the same reasons. After reading about the experiences people had back then, it wouldn’t surprise me if there were, in fact, multiple price lists for various "types" of customer. It used to happen all the time and probably still does.

I don’t wish to make sweeping judgements: many of the galleries in Chelsea do everything exactly right. Many have been pushing art into public life for longer than I have been drawing breath and we can be thankful for all of them. And, let’s be honest, I would be thrilled to be represented by many (though certainly not all of them). But speaking in general terms, the district has a cold, unfriendly, and even outwardly hostile feeling that is not helpful to the cultivation of growing class of art collectors.

It’s like the inexplicably angry stare of a supermodel on the runway. Don’t worry: I won’t offend by asking how much that skirt costs. I’ll visit someone who actually wants to do some business.

Sweet Virginia

Few spots are sweeter than the rolling hills of Central Virginia

I’m very excited to announce that I’ve been selected for a residency at the Virginia Center for Creative Arts (VCCA) for the month of August, 2008. Located in Amherst, VA, VCCA is just 40 miles from Springtree, the commune where Meredith grew up. It’s a double bonus: VCCA is a prestigious fellowship, and Meredith and Sebastian will be able to spend August nearby at Springtree, a place all three of us love—particularly in the summer. Meredith will be able to write in bucolic peace, Sebastian will run in fields and splash in creeks, and I will be able to look at many, many trees and have an amazing experience close to my family. Looks like you’ll be hearing a lot more from Countrymouse this summer!

Save THIS!

The leader of the faction fighting to keep the high-rises out of Domino Sugar site added a few extra stories to her own historic building when she renovated, to the detriment of the adjoining playground. She understandably would like to protect her view but is that our problem? Is her cause even helpful for the rest of us?

Now I see signs all over the place calling for us all to rise up and "save Grand Street" from a huge condo building slated for the NE corner of Driggs. But what real harm does that project portend? Even the flyer itself only argues for "context." The real concern for the group that is posting the flyers, based in the co-op building across the street is that it will block their view. It will not even really diminish their light because the zoning requires considerable upper-story setbacks, there is a wide avenue in between, and the complainants’ windows face north anyway so a glass tower of the type so in vogue might actually increase their natural light.

So why the fuss? Because that view is a magnificent selling point and its loss will diminish their units’ resale value without reducing their [likely undervaluated] property taxes. I’m sure the view is nice itself as well.

Of course they can and should fight to protect their interests but I don’t have a dog in that fight. I sometimes wonder if those NIMBY-driven battle cries are actually even contrary to my interests. It breaks my heart that we cannot buy a home in New York and will soon probably leave as a consequence. After all, once this apartment leaves the rent stabilization regime (about 5 years), we will not be able to continue renting in the neighborhood. Buying is the only way we can stay long-term.

Loads of new housing stock coming on line can only make spaces more affordable for purchase, even accounting for the strange dynamics of real estate in New York. I am well aware of the downsides, but we must at least consider the benefits. It could well be that my interests are opposite of this particular group of crusaders.

But the disingenuous and prejudicial tone is what really bothers me. It’s like the Boogyman is coming and I’ve been on the other side of that. The talk of "context" is the key.

All of the "Save such-and-such edifice" signs I’ve been seeing around lately remind me of the "Save our school" signs the PS 84 PTA used to block the new neighborhood charter school. They talked about the school’s "context" and "character" but that was code for race. They didn’t have any idea what they were talking about—after all the Board of Education had not finalized any plan. That did not stop them from rallying, holding a press conference, and raising a very passionate ruckus. End result: one fewer option for their (and my) children.

So I’ve been the imagined boogyman and the eventual loser in a NIMBY spat. I’m not sure that blocking the construction of more housing is a winning strategy for my family in this case either. Something to at least consider.

LES: YES!

"It’s official: I’m never going back to Chelsea." ] That’s what J-Dalt said after we finished touring the Lower East Side galleries. Of course, that very night she went to a performance in Chelsea, but never mind. I’ve decided to skip the Armory Show and related fairs this year because I’m bummed out about the hyper-inflated yet completely vacuous state of the blue chip art world but I’ve really been wanting/needing to see some great art. Figuring the local places would bring out their best for be well-washed masses in town for the various festivals, J-Dalt suggested that we check out the LES scene.

Boy, were we impressed!

Everything that has been written about how visitor- and art-friendly the neighborhood is exactly right. The galleries are easy to reach and it is interesting to walk from one to the next. In fact, there’s probably more inspiration outside the galleries as there is within. It is, after all, one of the most interesting neighborhoods in the world. The same can hardly be said of Chelsea.

The galleries themselves were terrific too. I found the art extremely interesting and relevant for the times we live in. It’s generally very sincere, conceptually interesting, and well executed. We visited nearly a dozen galleries and none disappointed. You’re not going to love everything, but I appreciated everything I saw. The galleries themselves were professionally managed with good facilities and professional and friendly(!) staff. The scale of both the galleries (cause) and the work (effect) were intimate. We both found the scene to be like Williamsburg back in the day—only with slightly better art and universally professional.

Standouts included Jen Bekman, Thierry Goldberg, Salon 94, Eleven Rivington, Fruit & Flower Deli, Sunday, Fusion Arts Museum and, of course, 31Grand. We also stopped by the New-squared Museum. Not so bolly-ho about that, but that’s subject for another post/rant.

Two of a Kind

Later that night I ran into Schmertzy and the Ankinator at the NurtureArt opening. They took me back to the LES for a Norwegian party. We walked in to a very civilized room with about a dozen statuesque blondes sitting around a coffee table full of cupcakes, cookies, and brownies. One of them apologized for there being so many Scandanavians. I tried to find a way to cope with the situation.

It was very fun. We ate chocolate, danced, and the hours went by very quickly. The oddest thing was this. The only person not of Northern-European extraction (including citymouse) was a pair of African American twins who dressed exactly alike. They were dating the two Norwegian women who lived in the apartment. One of the ladies started dating one of the brothers and found out that her friend was coming from Norway. She told her friend on the phone, "Don’t worry, I have everything lined up for you: a job, an apartment, even a boyfriend!"

The two guys together comprised one single being and they did everything together—like the party version of synchronized swimming. They went to get a beer in unison, the sulked on the couch side-by-side, they looked through the music together, and they simultaneously bust out their video handhelds for some mid-party gaming. Not sure if they took a leak together...

Love Knots

All untitled ink on paper 9"x12" 2008

Connections--often highly sensual--between trees and rocks. Much of my work is an interface between trees and the sky. Here it's trees and Earth.

Infinity's Crossing Point

The signs of Spring are everywhere!

The other night I attended a celebration in the East Village to welcome the Vernal Equinox and the amazing full moon that arrived on the same evening. That was not the first pagan ritual I have joined over there—I love the spirituality that is resident in that neighborhood. It feels plugged in to something really, really old. Lots to think about: seasonal renewal, new beginnings, and the interweaving of opposing forces, the male and female, the Hieros-gamos.

Of course the trip home was a nightmare due to construction on the L train. Took me over an hour, which is considerably longer than it would have taken had I walked home. About two miles as the crow flies. It was one of those things that make me hate the city. Those periodic (and frequent) indignities are a key part of the Williamsburg experience. Yet we cannot relocate within the city, leaving a stark choice between regular humiliation or departure.

The historical trend in the neighborhood (going back at least a hundred years) is for the ambitious to leave and for the broken to default to systematic degradation. I don’t feel like I can take that $h!t much longer. Couple that with the predictable longing one feels for green and growing things following a springtime rite and it is easy to ask oneself, "Why exactly am I doing this?"

I had lifted weights that day and it tends to make me ornery, so that explains the mood a little bit. The next day I took a train to Sleepy Hollow and went for a three hour run through the woods and fields and that certainly mellowed me out. Still, I feel like there is a clock ticking within me and the point is approaching when the alarm will ring and I will say, "I’ve had it."

BCI: Bloke Confidence Index

I heard about a guy who has a profile on match.com and it has a space where he specifies the age of his desired soul-mate. Apparently he changes it all the time; sometimes older, sometimes younger. With wild swings.

That number must be some kind of indicator, like the Dow, the price of gas, or the dollar versus the Euro. But wait: those indices only seem to go in one direction. A better comparison would be the Consumer Confidence Index (CCI).

We’ll call this new measure the BCI—Bloke Confidence Index. If the guy’s feeling really desperate, he raises the number, say to 85, allowing essentially any woman with a pulse to match his profile. If on the other hand he looks in the mirror and sees a randy stud-muffin looking back at him he may lower it enough to exclude anything but a recently graduated Tri-Delt. We'll keep an eye on that number and keep you posted.

Hedge Fund Traders and Nightmares, Revisited

"Good Greed" coming to our fair nabe?
Photo Stolen from 20th Century Fox via NY Times
PapaCole and MamaCole were in town this past weekend so that meant a [woohoo!] date night for Citymouse and Mrs. Mouse. We decided to try a new place in the neighborhood that we had heard about. One of our playground friends had told us that the food was really good and the prices exceptionally low, either because they were trying to grow the business or they simply didn’t know better. Either way, we were all over it.

It was true: excellent food, very reasonable prices, and outstanding service. A very nice experience and of course Citymouse is far too savvy to say where the place is, lest the hungry masses from Manhattan overwhelm the place. It’s a sad refrain of the City-savvy: when you find a good thing, keep your mouth shut.

Sadly, that ship already seems to have sailed. Notice that I didn't say anything about the atmosphere. As dinner progressed—the mouse family has an early bed time—the place filled up and we started to look around and be surprised and then horrified by what we saw. The place was full of suits and starched shirts—you know the blue ones with the white collars. I would not have been surprised to see Michael Douglas walk in to reprise his role in Wall Street.

And this on a Saturday!

Even more frightening were the trophy wives/girlfriends/escorts. All bleached out, made up, scarey thin and dressed to the nines. Yikes!

I should have known better. After all, the woman who recommended the place to me is married to a Wall Street type, though she’s a very down to earth. They’re both perfectly nice actually. But man, has this neighborhood really changed!

Let’s be honest though: every wave of immigrants tries to keep the next group out. My ranting is really not any more excusable than the ignorant mutters of "diablo blanco" I occasionally hear on the Southside. Still we’re getting it from both sides: Sebastian’s school wants desperately to stay frozen in a romantic Latinized past yet milk is pushing $10 a gallon at the local grocery stores. It’s an unpleasant way to be squeezed.

That’s the reality of the City though. Better to get past the prejudice and ignorant assumptions and treat each individual and every experience with a fresh mind and an openness to the good in each. That restaurant was excellent and we’ll go back. My friend is sweet and I would be glad to see her husband more if he didn’t work so much. And no one is asking me to leave my home. The rest is just stuff I have to get over. The world is too small to live any other way.

Eastward Ho?

Something's going to fill the block between Bedford, Berry, N3, and N4—but what?

There’s lots of speculation about what’s being built on the super-lot that fills the entire block between Bedford and Driggs and North 3rd and North 4th. From what I hear, the reality is going to be much more sane than the original 40-story plan—last I heard was 5 stories. There is a new wrench in the mix, one that poses an existential crisis that is uniquely Williamsburg.

Trader Joe’s.

That’s the rumor around the Met Pool locker room. It must be said that the building is a loooooooong way from complete—I would estimate at least a year—so all bets are off. Still, the notion does cause a quandary for Williamsburgers. It is a national chain—no two ways about that—and this neighborhood does not like and has almost entirely blocked national chain stores (with one minor exception).

Traitor Ho’s (as I call them) may be one that neighborhood long-timers may be inclined to accept. See, in a district with a zillion restaurants, there are shockingly few grocery stores. The two that exist—CTown on South 1st and Tops on North 6th—are ghetto (rotten produce) and corrupt (prices ring differently than what's marked on shelves), respectively. And like the many fancy or fancified bodegas that flourish on both the North and South Side, both retailers are radically over-priced. For example, milk (albeit organic) approaches $10/gallon.

So most Williamsburgers I know ride the subway that oft-quoted "five minutes to Manhattan," stopping at the first available grocery store: Traitor Ho’s. There we find consistent quality and reasonable prices. Plus their offerings are hip and exotic and well suited to the creative type’s idiosyncratic tastes. A neighborhood Joe may be a go.

We need to look at this thing in the larger context of what is happening in the neighborhood. National/International chains are certainly coming. The huge new buildings along the waterfront are slated to include retail footage measuring in the millions of square feet. Few mom-and-pops or boutiques will move into those spaces. Only chains. And the people who actually live in those buildings will most certainly want their starbucks and other suburban trappings. That had better include grocery stores or the the massive influx of people will lead to a food shortage on a scale not seen since the Great Hunger.

The most sensible plan (and the most likely) envisions the shops along the charming blocks around Bedford Avenue remaining low scale and local. The small size of the available spaces makes that outcome likely anyway. Meantime, big stores along Kent Avenue in the big buildings. It’s a delightful compromise for an urban planner and a winning sale for a politician, but I’m not sure I like even this idea.

Doesn’t that just create a microcosm of what killed American Cities? You know the story: Charming downtown; huge stores open on periphery; local stores cannot compete; local stores go out of business; national (but faux- or retro-boutique) chains also move into downtown; sponge away all local color and replace with a Disnified and neutered verion of one's own home town and life experience.

Not at all sure I like it.

But I would love to have a shorter trip to Traitor Ho’s.

Like so many things about this city, I love the idea and hate it. Passionately and simultaneously.

Monsters and Metaphors

The paths inward are alot scarier than those that lead outward.

In my dreams of ancestors, I imagine patrolling the remote pathways of some dark untamed forest, making them safe for travelers and abandoned orphans who lose themselves there.

As the years have passed, I’ve learned that it’s more complicated because the lost souls actually carry the wolves and witches and dragons within themselves. We’re both villains and victims. And we pose a greater danger to the forest than it does to us. The real danger then is not the darkness around us, but the darkness within.

When I was a kid, I used to like to chase the deer I sometimes encountered while playing in the woods. One time I actually caught one; cornered it in a thicket. I was completely unprepared for what happened next. Instead of fighting, she surrendered. I could have killed with a knife or, I suppose, my teeth. But the hopeless and terrified look in her eyes sent me staggering backward. All sport was gone and I realized how terrifyingly powerful I am. Suffering results when we underestimate our potency.

That was also when I realized that I’m a pretty decent runner.

---

I just saw the new Beowulf movie. It's horrid but fun. I think we can all agree that the visual effects are just ridiculous—the ultimate expression (so far) of what the motion-capture technique can do. It is however a thoroughly contemporary take on the seed tale of English literature and it doesn't let historical reverence interfere with straightforward story-telling. In spite of myself. I could not help but nod when the old king verbalized exactly what I had been thinking, "The age of heroes and monsters is ended. Now we are the monsters."

Hollywood truism? No doubt, but one that bears repeating over and over, lest we lose the world as we dream complacency and imagine that we are somehow victims.

Costa Rican Beer, White Wine, or Punch?

Those were the beverage choices at the LaGrange Biennial. And red wine. That was my choice. (I admit that I did try the punch too.)


General Lafeyette welcomes travellers to his empty square.

Here are some impressions from my trip to Georgia, in no particular order:

• A dog running in mad circles at the extreme frontier of his invisible paddock as I run by along a country road.
  
• Completely empty town square.
  
• I enter an army surplus/sporting goods store looking for Gu for tomorrow’s long run:
  
  Old timer, comes rushing over as soon as I enter the store. "May I help you?"
  Me: "I’m looking for Gu."
  Old Timer: [Quizzical look]
  Me: "You know, energy gel, like PowerGel...a liquid version of power bars."
  Old Timer: "What’s that?"
  Me: "It’s a high-calorie energy source for endurance sports..."
  Old Timer: "Like for diabetics?"
  Younger guy in store: [shakes head]
  Me: Thank you!
  Old Timer: My wife’s diabetic...
  
• Sierra Nevada listed as an import in the local art/cafe.
  
• College campus without a soul. Granted, it’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon (70 degrees) but wow!
  
• I’m coughing up (and spitting out) the last remnants of that flu bug everyone had.
  
• Evidence of the draught everywhere. Not a green blade of anything. Granted, it is winter, but again...wow!
  
• Daffodils (the one exception)
  
• Many, many lakes, all with boat launches.
  
• Cloudless cobalt sky drops in to a Peter Max gradient to yellow at the horizon made of bare trees like a comb.
  
• Sitting by the lake in a relaxed (or is it expectant?) quiet. The New Yorker in me keeps waiting for something to happen. The reality is more likely to be a sigh, then sleep, followed by more of the same.
  
• For some reason, the town on the hill reminds me of Noto, Sicily.
  
• Everyone I meet has been to New York at least once.
  
• The Bible is on a quarter of the radio stations.
  
• The more beautiful the woman, the sooner church seems to arise in the conversation.
  
• Every bite of food had been delicious. Even at the airport.
  
• At one point, when I parked for lunch, I actually rolled all the windows down to air out my stuff while I took a walk. In New York, that would be the source of a thousand jokes...