Life and death in the city that never sleeps...

Central Park after the First Snow of 2012

When I was growing up, my mother always did her best to explain the concept of life and death, trying to make it digestible and less abstract, so that when we encountered the passing of a pet or a friend or a loved one, we could be as prepared as possible to deal with all of the feelings surrounding those losses. Being that my mother is a very social person, she probably had more friends and acquaintances than most. With such a large circle of friends and family, we seemed to encounter inevitable losses more frequently than many people we knew. I was one of the few children at school who had attended funerals quite regularly throughout my early childhood, or had seen a corpse. It never felt morbid to me to participate in services for loved ones, because my mother always presented it as a way to celebrate their life and give them a "good send off" to whatever comes next. Although the cold sting of losing someone wasn't any less real, I am grateful that I was taught to embrace the experience and taught not to fear it.

As time passes for me here in my life as a relatively new New Yorker, I continue to encounter a lot of "firsts." I've been fortunate to have met a number of dear people in this great city, and as always, when gaining something of value, like a friendship, one is more vulnerable to the loss of such a dear thing. I am experiencing a new "first" now; the first death of an important friend made in the city, here in my new life. In a city of eight million people, death is all around us in the news and on the lips of strangers overheard in fragmented conversations while passing by. It's another beat in the rhythm of "the city that never sleeps." With so much variety of life co-existing so close together in one tiny space, it shouldn't come as such a shock that not all of the lights twinkling in the beautiful city skyline can stay lit forever, but I still find myself taken aback at the absence of a warm glow that I had grown fond of.

I keep thinking of his little studio apartment on the Upper West Side that he had lived in for at least a decade. He had imbued so much of himself in the little environment he had created, that to separate him from it and have it emptied, painted over and all traces of his life erased from this space seems like such a cold and sterile conclusion of an existence that was vibrant and colorful. I always wondered how he could fit so much "stuff" into such a small space, but it suited him and he was happy there with his menagerie of colored lights, shiny nick-knacks and photos of old movie stars posted proudly next to the images of his mother who had passed away many years before. I wonder what will become of his guitar that he used to play while singing lovely songs in Portuguese, reminding him of Brazil and a home far away. Individually, they are all just  "things," but clustered together, they painted a picture of his little life, which seemed to be a happy one. As with the unexpected conclusion of anything, thinking of the "what-if's" always follows. There's nothing like regret to remind us that we're alive, and I now find myself haunted by a number of feelings of how I could have been a better friend.

The day he passed, was the first snow we'd had in the new year. Having not had any snow yet this winter, it created a great deal of excitement. Although I'm not fond of the cold, I do love how snow in the city causes everything to slow down a bit, and makes the noise seem to lessen and a beautiful glow to be cast on everything. In the quiet of that evening, there was a peace that I had not felt in quite some time. I was walking through Central Park, taking photographs and embracing the beauty of the sun setting, at the same time my friend was transitioning into the beginning of his next great adventure. I didn't know it at the time, but I found out later that the images I had captured during that quiet night in the park were very near the moments when my friend was leaving us. Somehow, they captured a peace and a softness in the snow that felt very tangible. He was a deeply spiritual man with a belief in a beautiful after-life waiting for us all. Whether there is a connection or not between his passing and the beauty of the twilight in the park, I would like to think that if there is a heaven waiting for him, it was reflected in the warmth I felt on such a cold night.

When Autumn Leaves Start to Fall...

The Bethesda Fountain in Central Park in Autumn

There is an air vent in the sidewalk just outside of the stairs on one of the subway exits of Penn Station at 34th Street which is situated in the shadow of Madison Square Garden. Droves of people pass over it every day while coming and going, most-likely not taking the time to look at the gray dirty ground with glistening sights like the Empire State Building, the New Yorker Hotel and the great cylindrical mass of "the Garden," standing tall overhead. Down in the cracks beneath the metal grate, there is a lovely little patch of green leaves growing under the surface, surrounded by a sea of concrete and footsteps. They have been sheared off to be precisely level with the surface of the ground by the loafers, sneakers, boots and stiletto heels of the 8th Avenue work force and all of the others who pass by. In this rather unlikely environment, a little patch of green plants decided to make their modest home, when they could have just as easily lived by the river or in a park where sunlight would have been easier to come by and there may have been more room to sprawl out and relax. It seems that this particular plant colony desired something unique out of its short existence. Perhaps these leafy little fellows had a desire to be in the middle of something bigger and greater, seeing life first hand, rather than hearing about it from a distance. I'm sure that many of their green counterparts looking at their cramped quarters and small rations of sunshine might think the very idea to be rather silly, indeed. Every morning on my way to work, I walk over this little community of brave weedlings and smile a bit, but then I continue on with my own little weedling day...

Once again, Autumn has taken over the city, and everyone is surprised that the days are getting progressively shorter and colder (as though nothing like this has ever happened before). As a child, my parents would load us all up in our little Subaru wagon for long drives in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado to go "see the colors" every year in the Fall. Although containing three children in one back seat of a rather small station wagon for a drive that would often last all day long was no simple task for my parents, they would diligently suffer through endless streams of words that would spew from us, especially as my sister Ginny would always become motion sick after the first five minutes, every single time. Once we finally reached the highway out of town, and the mountains came into full view, slowly the streams of consciousness flowing from our open mouths would diminish as our eyes took in the sights before us. Driving up high into steep and rocky back roads, we passed abandoned little mining settlements from Colorado's days of legend, and found ourselves in places where the world seemed to be frozen in time, or perhaps outside of it completely. We would get out and take little hikes into meadows and along streams, my father pointing out which plants were edible and my mother collecting herbs and flowers to be dried and placed in jars for purposes never revealed. I remember walking through cascades of yellow and orange aspen leaves, illuminated by the sun above like a heavenly canopy with jeweled specks of the deepest blue skies peeking through the cracks. When the breeze would pick up, the leaves would float gently to the ground in a lovely dance, as if orchestrated by God himself. Of course time has probably amplified these images in my memory and inevitably aggrandized them, but I remember waiting for Fall every year just for those drives high up into the Rocky Mountains to see the world so briefly transformed.

Just as Autumn would transform the mountains of my childhood, it transforms the city into something even more beautiful than usual. The Autumn light seems to bend and hug the concrete and steel surfaces of the buildings and streets in such a soft and gentle way, while the trees put on great shows for passersby, much like the ladies walking along 5th Avenue in their in their tweeds and colorful woolen sweaters. The whole town seems to be making one last triumphant dash into the light, taking one final step out onto the stage before the ice and the blackness of winter shut everything away in blues and grays as the final curtain closes until Spring. Walking through Central Park in these last weeks of comfortable beauty is quite an experience. The Park, in general, is always an experience, but the colorful trees and the romantic feeling of the season make it even more of an attraction for tourists, families and ferrel children from the Bronx and New Jersey who seem to run about shrieking with the leavings of cheap hot dogs all over their sticky little hands, just waiting to run into a stranger's dry-clean-only wool coat with atomic force. Cameras seem to flash upon every leaf and every tree branch, trying to document the ephemeral majesty of a state of being that seems to ache with its own urgency to express and then expire. Everything in the park seems transformed by this deluge of vibrant color and light that signifies the end of one thing and the start of another. Like the sap that I am, I always think of the old jazz song "Autumn Leaves" (originally "Les Feuilles Mortes"), and hum it to myself as I walk the streets of New York during this time of year:

"...Since you went away,
The days grow long,
And soon I'll hear,
Ol' Winter's song,
But I miss you most of all, my darling,
When Autumn leaves start to fall..."

 Though the Autumn has been lovely, it has brought about the demise of my little weed colony outside of Penn Station. Each morning as I walk on the sidewalk and look down the grate below, there are fewer and fewer little patches of green. Once the last of the leaves has withered away into the darkness of the cavernous hole below, I will know that winter has come and will stay for longer than we ever feel should be possible, much less legal. I can only hope that the spring will revive them like Lazarus in the Biblical tale. Until then, I shall enjoy the last days of color and beauty that will be afforded to me before my balance is spent and my winter debt will inevitably be owed until paid in full.

Summer in the city...

Seventh Avenue in Midtown on a hot July afternoon...

There is a strange sense of joy that is produced by the smells of ripening garbage baking in the sun mixed with taxi exhaust and the aromatic smoke dancing about in the air from food carts along the streets of Manhattan. When the air is heavy with moisture and you can actually see the heat waves bouncing up from the sidewalk, the thought diving headfirst into the pollution of the Hudson River seems like the happiest of retreats from the sun overhead. It begins in late May and lasts through September. Generally by the second week of June all of the stores are sold out of window air conditioner units and herds of dejected looking sweaty wanderers can be seen staring at their empty spaces on the shelves in disbelief and utter devastation. Now that summer in New York City is drawing to a close, I feel my heart sink ever so slightly when thinking about all things I will miss as three seasons must come and go before she returns again. New York is a town that embraces all seasons, but summer above all...

My last summer in the city, or rather I should say my very first, was so frantic that I hardly had time to stop and enjoy it.  Being that I had just moved to New York with no job or prospects, my main goal was survival. Between finding three different bizarre jobs and inventing my "I'm too poor to pay rent AND eat multiple meals a day" diet, the hot summer months quickly melted by as a very strange and colorful blur. When I think back, although it was chaotic and difficult, I can't imagine who I would be now without all of the craziness of that initial adjustment period. This summer, now settled in and a bit more well-nourished, living my glamourous Manhattan lifestyle from paycheck to paycheck, I found myself much more aware of my surroundings and all of the lovely summertime experiences the city has to offer.

One evening in June, I was visiting with a friend in Central Park. He's a very lovely and very peculiar sort of fellow. Partially French and partially Californian, he devotes a great deal of his time to the study of Eastern philosophies and meditations. I think in his "legitimate life" he's some sort of lawyer, but I am horrible with remembering such things. Generally when other people talk about their jobs, I just sort of glaze over and ponder things like, what kinds of dreams might cats have, or what would the world be like if humans were amphibious. By the time someone has finished explaining their profession, I have successfully nodded along while absorbing absolutely nothing. I think that this, by some definitions, may make me a "flake," but I can't be bothered to really care. In any case, I met my friend of unknown profession in a meadowy part of The Ramble while he beat some sort of animal skin drum made specially for him by a member of a Native American tribe with whom he was trying to become affiliated for the purpose of ritual spiritual practices (I think he met up with them sometime before of after Burning Man one year, but I sort of glazed over for that story as well). It was a beautiful evening, and I enjoyed meandering about barefooted in the grass while my friend drummed away in some sort of trance, communing with the "nature" in Central Park. Once I had stepped on one too many cigarette butts in the grass and my companion had finished speaking with the trees, we decided to walk through the park and enjoy the setting sun. We strolled along the winding tree-lined paths of the ramble, up and down the rocky hills until me reached the lake and the Bow Bridge, which then lead us to the Bethesda Fountain and up into the Central Park Mall. Upon passing all of the stoic stone statues of the Poet's Walk under a canopy of stalwart old trees, we began to hear lovely and strange music playing in the distance. As we drew nearer, we could see a large crowd of people moving about in beautiful motions ahead, swaying around like flowers in a breeze. They were all dancing to Argentine Tango music, some dressed in fine clothes and others wearing shorts and t shirts. Under the pink light of the sunset, the swirling mass of people of all ages and colors dancing on that summer evening was a hypnotic scene to behold. It's not often one stumbles upon hundreds of people dancing the tango in public, but it's just one example of the many unexpected happenings that are so easy to come across in New York. It was like viewing a piece of a dream, only the dream was simply one of many realities of the city in summertime.

There are other less pleasant realities of the summertime, such as the amount of tourists crowding the sidewalks and the sight of exposed sweaty cellulite on the subways, but they are all manageable when mixed with the number of outdoor farmers' markets, musical performances, street fairs and bizarre parades from cultures you would  have never known existed. On holidays like the 4th of July, Gay Pride or the Puerto Rican Day Parade, an influx of overly tanned young people with an abundance of hair products find their passages through the bridges and tunnels on the west side of Manhattan from their native New Jersey and they graciously stink up the city with the sounds of elongated vowels and the smells of cheap caffeinated booze. They run about the streets, throwing litter and tragedy along their path, and eventually go back from whence they came, somewhere in suburbia, leaving New York in shambles. In August, Europe comes to the city in droves, enjoying the generous vacation time granted to citizens by their social-democracies and labor practices that would make members of the Tea Party shutter at the thought of the taxes that support such a human-friendly system. Walking about neighborhoods like SoHo and Greenwich Village or the shopping districts of midtown, one can hear a rainbow of languages spoken by strangers in posh sunglasses and sporty shoes (Europeans always have the best shoes for some reason, and it makes me jealous). I always find it curious to see a large group of Italians or Brits completely enthralled by the squirrels in Central Park. Don't they have squirrels in their own countries? Then this line of thinking gets me to wonder if they mentioned that at some point in high school biology class, but I was too busy glazing over and pondering the dream life of cats or the thoughts in the heads of those monkeys they used to send into space before they allowed humans venture that high into the atmosphere...

Now the summer is drawing to a close, and the feeling of change is in the air on the streets. Billboard advertisements for fall sweaters and snappy jackets are popping up everywhere along with window displays in shops incorporating images of colorful trees and smiling porcelain white mannequins in tweed. My second summer in the city has come and gone, but I feel like I embraced it this time around. Now, as the days become shorter and school children with grumpy faces pass me by on my way to the train in the morning, I am beginning to look forward to the crisp mornings to come and the opportunities to wear my favorite cardigans again. I am anxiously awaiting another beautiful autumn in New York, but not without a tiniest bit of mourning for the lovely summer gone by. The summer of 2011 was a very nice one, and I feel very lucky to have spent it in such a wonderful place.

The gift of nobody: A private day in the Met...

The mezzanine of the Metropolitan Museum of Art's modern collection, while closed to the public...

Although I like to constantly remind myself (mainly because if I do not, then nobody will) that I am still both young AND fun, sometimes I need a little coaxing to actualize such a belief. As the once beautiful golden hairs that so loyally adorned my knobby head slowly say their goodbyes, leaving an ever-growing bulbous forehead in their place, I am coming to terms with the fact that youth is fleeting and aging is inevitable. I've traded acne for developing crows' feet and I've become acquainted with the joys of late-night heart burn and the fact that all of my belly skin seems to be slowing migrating south for the winter. I suppose this is just one of life's little passive-aggressive paybacks for the hell we all put our parents through during our teen years. This year, as I approached another birthday, once again commemorating my descent into the inevitable senility that awaits me near the end, I decided that I would focus on the fact that although I'm living paycheck to paycheck (paychecks which I earn through a job that it is no way related to my educational background or my lofty "career goals"), I am still a neat guy.

As I have made mention in the past, since moving to the city, my refuge to which I always default during any times of trouble or instability is the Metropolitan Museum of Art. If ever I am in need of re-assurance or a replenishment to my own sense of purpose in the world, an afternoon wandering through the galleries in the Met sets me back on course in no time. Upon hearing my birthday woes, a very kind friend of mine offered me the best birthday present that I've ever been given...

Every Monday, the Met closes to the public to take the time for maintenance and also to give the building one day of reprieve from all of the grubby snot-nosed children and their equally endearing aloof parents who trample upon the sanctity of the museum the other six days of the week. It is also a time when museum employees are able to come into the galleries for their own private study and enjoyment of the collections. This year, my birthday just so happened to fall on a Monday, and my friend, who happens to be a Met employee, invited me in for my own private day to see anything my little heart desired without the intrusive presence of the masses usually present in the space. Owing to my love of art and my abundant misanthropy, this was the best possible of all ways I could have imagined to celebrate the start to another year of aging and accelerated hair-loss.

Having the entire museum at my disposal was sort of a spooky, but wonderful sensation. I spent a whole afternoon wandering through the vast galleries, most of which hadn't a soul in sight (aside from an occasional guard listening to an iPod). It was eerie to see everything in the huge structure perfectly lit and set in place, but silent and still. I felt like the world had ended and my friend and I were the only two people left, although the fact that the cameras were still on and security teams were still in place killed most of my urges to run about dancing and touching things behind the ropes. I was able to get up close to many paintings that are always surrounded by large crowds and have my own personal interaction with them. Seeing images that I've known since childhood in books, and standing before them all alone is as close as I can imagine it would be to stand in the presence of God. Being alone with beautiful works by Van Gogh, Degas, Klimt and so many others that I love was an experience for which I haven't the adequate words to describe. Art museums, to me, are like beautiful cathedrals where I can go and deepen my sense of what it means to be human and inspire myself to become something more and feel uplifted. For all of my foul personality defects and my apparent neuroses, on the inside I am still the little kid who spent most Saturdays at the public library pouring over pictures in art history books and dreaming of what life had in store (although I don't let him out to play often enough). My special day in the museum helped to heal the numbness of spirit that can so quickly take over unnoticed while living in an adult world full of obligations and compromises. For one day, I was in a little world where everything was available and anything seemed within reach.

The Met

The Metropolitan Museum of Art: Cathedral to Fine Art and Free Air Conditioning...

Whenever I'm feeling like life is getting the best of me, which happens quite regularly, I often find myself wandering about the pathways in Central Park, avoiding sticky-fingered children and foreigners with guidebooks as much as possible. Many times, as if willed by some greater power, I find myself facing Cleopatra's Needle directly behind the massive stone structure that is the Metropolitan Museum of Art, or "the Met" as it is called for short. My attraction to this place, especially in contemplative moments of self-indulgent pretension, is likened to the following scenario between Holly Golightly and her unsuspecting upstairs neighbor in the film adaptation of Truman Capote's novella, Breakfast at Tiffany's:

"Listen...you know those days when you get the mean reds?"
"The mean reds? You mean like the blues?
"No... the blues are because you're getting fat or because it's been raining too long. You're just sad, that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?"
"Sure."
"When I get it the only thing that does any good is to jump into a cab and go to Tiffany's. Calms me down right away."

Although I can never justify the cost of cab fare (or the risk of personal injury and/or death that may result from riding in a New York City cab), I find that wandering on foot through the meandering walkways from the west to the east side of the park works sufficiently well. Furthermore, although both Tiffany's and the Met have many treasures that sparkle and shine, I prefer those which can not be purchased on platinum cards from any major carrier. There is something to be said for beauty that is truly priceless. These, and several other minute details separate me from the swinging socialite character of Miss Golightly, but our common need for a resplendent refuge from the cruel and unrelenting world unites us in spirit.

One of the most wonderful things about the Met is the fact that admission is by a "suggested donation" policy. They suggest that a reasonable adult should be able pay $20 for the buffet of culture that is offered, or even more if the aforementioned individual is really classy. Perhaps one day when I am, indeed, a reasonable adult, I will gladly pay such a fee, but whenever I get up to the desk and look at the unamused face of the fatigued attendant behind the counter, I flash a crispy $1 bill, and he or she who happens to have the privilege of accepting that generous donation from a starving artist, such as myself, hands me a brightly colored button with a rather decorative "M" stamped to the front that is to be worn at all times while navigating the maze of numerous galleries and great halls housed inside.

In addition to my love of art, there are two other primary attractions that keep me coming to the Met at least 3 times per month. One is the abundance of guaranteed free air conditioning. In July, we had a heat wave so bad, that I went to the museum 3 times in one week during the worst of it. I believe that many other broke artists did the same, as I saw more genuinely tattered clothes and bony scabby knees in those days than any other. The other attraction is the abundance of foreign tourists who seem hell-bent on perpetuating every stereotype about their respective native countries. I know that we Americans have a quite a reputation throughout the world as being rather obnoxious visitors wherever we go, but all those places seem to be evening the score and getting back at us by sending the worst possible delegates from their own homelands to the museums of New York. I can't forget to mention the middle-American families, clad in matching cargo shorts and fanny packs, always dragging some dejected floppy-haired teenager about while loudly mis-pronouncing the names of even well-known American artists. I believe that their job is to make the Europeans feel more important, and even more European. The presence of this unavoidable human theatre always provides a healthy dose of entertainment to add to the flavor of the Met experience.

All sarcasm aside, for me, the Met has become similar to a holy refuge in the vast chaos of New York City. I suppose that I use it as a spiritual center, the way one might attend services at a church or synagogue in the hope of obtaining a sense of meaning or the feeling of being grounded and resolved about the daily struggles and torments of adulthood. When all seems doomed and hope seems out of reach, I can take my "medicinal stroll" through the 19th century painting collection and see drawings by Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec or paintings by Van Gogh and my wilted demeanor perks up a bit (although when I pass Gauguin in the Van Gogh galleries I have to fight the urge to become spiteful and vindictive, but that's a tangent for another day). Perhaps seeing such beautiful work created by such flawed individuals resonates within me in a meaningful way that proves to always be uplifting. I've an attraction to the human will to create, and museums such as the Met function as cathedrals to that holy act of creation and human determination. When I'm at my worst, I can always drag myself into my very own version of Holly Golighlty's Tiffany's to regain, in true Truman Capote fashion, at least a few ounces of faith in life - enough to continue until my next episodic meltdown.