Uncovering Names at the Soon-to-be-Opened 9/11 Memorial

photographed at the 9/11 Memorial in Manhattan, New York on July 28, 2011

It is well, this chiseling and unvailing [sic] of statues to commemorate great events, and the rearing of monuments for men and women who did well for the human race. It is not a waste of sculpture, not a waste of genius, not a waste of money … But there is a surer way of being remembered, and there are monuments more enduring than marble or bronze …

All that you do for others in this spirit becomes your permanent and ineffaceable memorial. The last great day will be the uncovering of that monument. Instead of the two hundred and fifty thousand people assembled at the uncovering of the monument … there shall be a great multitude, that no man can number, present at the uncovering or the monument that shall tell the story of your work, however great or imperfect. With congratulation and song, and ringing of bells, and all the harps of God and all the doxologies of heaven, that occasion will be celebrated. Does the glory seem too great for an unpretentious soul like you? It doth not yet appear what you shall be. But this I know: the righteous shall be held in everlasting remembrance, and they shall shine as the stars, forever and ever.

Excerpted from ‘Monuments’ in the ‘Editorial Comments’ section of Frank Leslie’s Sunday Magazine, volume 15, edited by T. DeWitt Talmadge. Published by Frank Leslie’s Publishing House, New York, June 1884.

The Universal Appeal of a Cool Fountain in the Hot Summer

photographed in Chicago, Illinois on May 23, 2010

That shift is most evident at the Crown Fountain by Spanish sculptor Jaume Plensa, where extra-long cedar benches were installed last fall to give parkgoers a place to site as they watch the human gargoyles spit water from the twin glass-block towers. Unfortunately, the benches already have cracks in them and may get worse after enduring more of Chicago’s notorious freeze-and-thaw cycles. But for now, they are lined with people, and the fountain, more than ever, is an urban stage where the players are the children running through the fountain and the audience consists of tourists, office workers, and anybody else who wants to be where the action is.

Maybe it’s the universal appeal of watching kids cool themselves in the water on a hot summer day – the oasis phenomenon – but, for whatever reason, people drop their guard and converse. “Is the water cool?” a female office worker sitting on one of the benches asked a little girl, who was drying herself off after running through the fountain. “I don’t think I can come back to work wet.”

Excerpted from Terror and Wonder: Architecture in a Tumultuous Age by Blair Kamin. Published by the University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 2010.

‘Love Happens, and Every Second Contains the Feel of Imagined Possibilities’

photographed in Weirton, West Virginia on October 19, 2009

… and secret rendezvous, where sex happens, where love happens, and every second contains the feel of imagined possibilities. Because in America as the sun goes down, teen-agers by the millions are plotting in their bedrooms an escape, scheming ways to make love to hopeful others, talking to mother and father with complete blameless-ness, in a way so as not to arouse suspicion, then it’s out the window after midnight. Young and free! This waitress is one of them, I can tell by the way she licks her lips between sentences, for no reason except a subconscious desire to appear alluring, she radiates fantasy, and just as I begin to lose myself in her thighs, making love to her a thousand times in my mind, it all comes back to me, where I’m at, in a cafe, and her stare of knowing, and I can tell that in her mind she is suspicious of my looks, (and by the way I throw them at her bosom because I’m remembering the art of being honest and I think she’s beautiful … so I let her know with my eyes) which have in-fact been encouraged by raised eyebrows and tender winks, and such is the way of youthful-driven impulses, getting lost in the humanity of it all, lost in being human, in complete human-ness …

Exerpted from Literati: A Revolution of Living by Kanaan. Published by iUniverse, Lincoln, Nebraska, 2003.

A Capitalistic Justification for Butchers

photographed in London, England on October 2, 2009

At what period the office of killing animals for food became a separate trade, it may be difficult, if not almost impossible, to determine. Probably at different times in different countries, and in different parts of the same country. It is the province of civilization to make trades or professions; for, as the wants, either real or imaginary, of men increase, and there is a greater demand for any article, it becomes expedient for persons to confine themselves to fewer objects, by which much time is saved, and business is executed with the greater nicety. Thus, in any district, or town, or parish, it is better for one mane to confine himself to make clothes, or shoes, or to make houses of stone, or brick, or wood, or to kill animals for all the rest, rather than for each person, or each head of a family, to practise all these employments. Thus, no doubt, arose the first Butchers. And, from killing for others, they might soon get to kill their own animals, to sell out in small portions to such persons or families as might not be able to use a whole animal while it was good.

Excerpted from The Experienced Butcher by James Plumptre and Thomas Lantaffe. Published by Darton, Harvey, and Darton, London, 1816.

Finding Magritte’s ‘Visual Critique of Language’ in Brooklyn

photographed in Brooklyn, New York on July 9, 2011

The first version, that of 1926 I believe: a carefully drawn pipe, and underneath it (handwritten in a steady, painstaking artificial script, a script from the convent, like that found heading the notebooks of schoolboys, or on a blackboard after an object lesson), this note: “This is not a pipe.”

The other version – the last, I assume – can be found in Aube à l’Antipodes. The same pipe, same statement, same handwriting. But instead of being juxtaposed in a neutral, limitless, unspecified space, the text and the figure are set within a frame. The frame itself is placed upon an easel, and the latter in turn upon the clearly visible slats of the floor. Above everything, a pipe exactly like the one in the picture, but much larger.

Excerpted from Ceci N’Est Pas une Pipe by Michel Foucault, translated and edited by James Harkness. Published by the University of California Press, Berkeley, California, 1982.

Four Examples by Felix Morelo, the Man of a Thousand Chalk Faces

photographed in Brooklyn, New York on July 2, 2011

Hence the faces: his sidewalk art, which began about two or three years ago pushing both body and mind to their limits. Morelo drew his record 2,056 faces during a marathon 13-hour session that announced his move to Brooklyn by covering it in his doodles. By the end of the endeavor, he said his hand was shaking and he was hallucinating, but believing that numbers are the way to attract attention, he continues to draw as many faces as he can. Almost two weeks ago, he covered a park in Queens with 1,160.

“I feel like artists have the chance to climb the social ladder. It gives you access,” Morelo said, while admitting some of his art is fueled by anger at his current situation. “By doing these faces… I still have to force myself to be strong, you know, physically and mentally.”

From donations Sunday, Morelo made about $75 (some of which was spent to take his girlfriend out for $2 falafel). Between donations such as these, occasional art sales, unemployment checks and food stamps, Morelo says he gets by, but he has gone through two short periods of homelessness. (Morelo also used to give “Free Advice” in Union Square on everything spanning from discontent in jobs to trouble in relationships, but stopped doing so after getting a ticket for accepting money without having a permit.)

In addition to faces, Morelo also draws “bad luck” and “good luck” spots – circles enclosing one phrase or the other in all caps – representing his philosophy that life is a balance. Believing street art allows everyone to be a judge of his work (provided they don’t just step on it), he hopes one day to penetrate the art world and find a gallery home. Some of his work is currently being featured as part of the annual biennial for the Museo del Barrio, whose curator he met while drawing on the subway.

Excerpted from ‘Face Value: Street Artist Scrawls During Pride Parade, Donations Cool‘ by Emily Foxhall. Published June 29, 2011, in the New York Observer.

The Stories of the Giglio and Our Lady of Mount Carmel, and How They Came Together in Williamsburg

photographed in Brooklyn, New York on July 10, 2011

The story, which is passed on through the generations on both sides of the Atlantic, is that around 410 AD, North African pirates overran the town of Nola. In the chaos, Bishop Paolino was able to flee into the countryside with some of the children. Upon his return, Paolino learned, from a sobbing widow that many of the young men, her son included, had been abducted into slavery. Moved to compassion, Paolino offered himself in exchange for the boy and was ferried off, a prisoner of the brigands. While in North Africa, word of the courage and self-sacrifice of Paolino spread and became known to a certain Turkish sultan. Taken with the tale of altruism, the sultan intervened, negotiating for the freedom of this holy man. Through the sultan ‘s efforts, Paolino and his paesani, were freed.

Overjoyed by his safe return, the entire town greeted him carrying lilies, symbolic of love and purity. That joyous homecoming jubilee is considered the very first observance of what would develop into an annual sacred event. Through the years, various trade guilds (farmer(ortolamo), butcher(beccaio), tailor(sarto), breadmaker(panettiere), blacksmith(fabbra), cobblers(calzolaio), deli merchants(salumiere), and wine makers(bettoliere) ) began to compete to produce the most sensational display of lilies. Over time, these displays became more flamboyant.

Today, although still called lilies (gigli), they have evolved into huge flower-laden steeples of wood, 50 feet or more in height. In Nola, these gigli structures and a boat (la barca) are carried through the streets on the shoulders of hundreds of men, in remembrance of the return of Paolino to Nola. The atmosphere is quite competitive and each guild hires the best lifters they can secure, because the carrying of the gigli is judged. Creativity of construction and musical accompaniment is also scrutinized even after the formal competition ends, and the men of Nola carry and dance the gigli throughout the night.

This is the tradition that was transplanted to Brooklyn, New York by the Nolani immigrants. It would be embraced stateside by all of those Italians who had emigrated from towns and villages surrounding Nola. World War II diverted the community’s energies (and men) in another direction and the Giglio Feast was discontinued temporarily. It would not be until June 22,1949 (the feast day of San Paolino) that this feast was reinstituted.

the 1950s, despite the controversy it caused in the community, The Shrine Church Of Our Lady of Mount Carmel took over the reins of this important feast. Almost immediately, the church combined the Giglio Feast with the feast honoring Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Since 1954 and the merging of the two saint days into one celebration (known as the Cooperative Feast), the Giglio Feast has been celebrated in July, with all activities leading up to its culmination on July 16th, the feast day of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Since the Cooperative Feast came into existence, there has been a juxtaposing of religious, secular, traditional, and ethnic components within this celebration.

Excerpted verbatim from ‘The Giglio Feast‘ as appearing on O’Giglio é Paradiso, the website of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, Brooklyn .

From Scorned Rooftops, Watching the Fourth of July Fireworks Across the Entire Borough of Manhattan

photographed in Brooklyn, New York on July 4, 2011

The department-store chain’s [Macy's] dashed hopes for a monumental backdrop for the display shows just how tricky it can be to navigate the logistical and political shoals of the city and its various, demanding precincts. In Brooklyn, resentment still lingers at the highest levels over Macy’s decision to move the fireworks from their longtime spot in the East River to the Hudson two years ago.

That move initially was presented as a one-time shift to celebrate the 400th anniversary of Henry Hudson’s landing in Manhattan. But Macy’s decided to keep the display on the west side of the island last year in anticipation of moving downriver to the statue this year. Now, Macy’s officials are mum about where they want to fire off their rockets next year, despite the parade of entreaties from Marty Markowitz, the borough president in Brooklyn.

Macy’s “should return the pyrotechnic spectacular to the East River or even New York Harbor, where it helps boost our city’s economy, bringing viewers out to the restaurants and riverfront nightspots of Brooklyn and the outer boroughs of Manhattan and Queens,” Mr. Markowitz said. “As it stands, the celebrants with the best views will once again be residents of New Jersey and the west side of Manhattan, excluding a large part of the city in which Macy’s has its flagship store.”

Excerpted from ‘Spurned by Lady Liberty, Macy’s Fireworks Show Stays Put‘ by Patrick McGeehan. Published July 1, 2011 in The New York Times.

Sand-Painting a Familiarity with the Sacred Plants

photographed in Washington Square, Manhattan, New York on June 25, 2011

There are many myths extant among these partially civilized tribes which exhibit their conceptions in reference to the appearance of the humanized divinities. They are very beautiful and full of poetical fancies; the imagery of them having been drawn from the magnificent scenery of the region and is resplendent with the colors with which the rocks and mountains were clothed and sparkles with jewels and precious stones which abound, as is as varied and striking as the vegetation which covered the mountains. The symbols also of the different tribes were derived from the scenery; many of them were invented to express the operations of nature, though the tribes borrowed symbols from one another as well as myths. Many of these myths and symbols were embodied in the sand paintings, which for a long time were unknown, but are now proving to be very interesting objects of study, for they are like the missals written during the middle ages. They are not only very beautiful, but they perpetuate the ancient traditions of the people; in fact, have preserved the sacred book from destruction.

These sand paintings show a wonderful taste for color, and at the same time reveal an elaborate symbol which represents the elaborate nature powers – such as the wind, rain, lightning and four points of the compass – also a familiarity with the sacred plants; but the most remarkable thing is that that gods of the sky are always represented as having the human form clothed with the sunbeams and the colors of the sky and adorned with rainbows, but controling [sic] the nature powers and guarding the plants. This is one peculiarity of anthropomorphism.

Excerpted from Myths and Symbols; or, Aboriginal Religions in America by Stephen Denison Peet. Published by the Office of the American Antiquarian, Chicago, 1905.

Waiting on Your Bicycle Outside a Beijing Temple

photographed in Beijing, China on September 1, 2007

Summoning her courage, she motioned to Tyler and led them inside. It took a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the relative darkness of the interior. They stood in a cavernous temple, the heights of which were lost in shadows. Three enormous bronze buddhas, representing the past, the present, and the future, sat enthroned upon their long altar, the front of which was decorated with elaborate and colorful filigreed panels representing the auspicious symbols of the religion. Concrete pillars rose up to the ceiling, decorated with bright red banners adorned with black calligraphy. Other banners hung from the ceiling, ending in rich tassels of red silk. A forest of incense sticks burned inside wide stone urns of sand. Baskets of fruit offerings sat between banks of candles, and it was all Allison could do, after having stolen a bicycle from a peasant and honey from a farmer, not to steal fruit from the gods.

A group of monks in saffron robes stood chanting at the far end of the altar, their resonant chorus echoing from the high stone walls. One of the monks beat on a deep drum that reverberated like thunder through the temple. Another rang a brass gong, while yet another sounded chimes. Their voices rose and fell in unison in a steady, rhythmic mantra of worship, their shaved heads bowed over hands folded in prayer. Seemingly oblivious to the three visitors who stood dripping in the entryway, the monks never faltered in their mesmerizing incantation.

Excerpted from China Run by David Ball. Published by Simon & Schuster, New York, 2002.