Saturday evening there was a fundraising event on the historic museum barge in Red Hook; the reading of every last canto of Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself, as read by a number of local luminaries. It began before and ended just after sunset over Brooklyn’s Buttermilk Channel and Erie Basin, the once-Dutch, fierce little neighborhood called Red Hook.
I’ve long had emotional ties to ol’ Walt on account of my father having been a fan; he passed it on to me. So when I read him in high school (the same all girls Catholic school with fierce teachers that managed to get A Handmaid’s Tale on our reading list), I was all in.
A pleasant surprise (in addition to some celebrity personages) was that one of my classmates from aforementioned high school was among the readers. I ought to’ve stayed to say hello, but it was crowded and felt like it may have been complicated after so long. Her name is Alison Smith; I read her bookNameAll the Animals a few of years back. It was really well written; poignant and heartbreaking. It was the first time I’d seen her since high school, and brought some memories to mind.
Proceeds went to the ACLU, PEN America, NEA, Sunny’s Bar (Red Hook), and to the Waterfront Museum (the host of the event). It was a fine reward after a seven mile wander, followed by a feast at Ice House.
Here’s a sketch from Friday evening. I’d only just started when its subjects vacated the backyard, so I had to improvise. I re-cast them indoors, among the lamps, after the fact.
Had an afternoon meeting followed by a stroll through lower Manhattan on Friday. I walked from Madison Square Park to City Hall, with some decent photographic moments while across the river on a fine Spring day.
Had I worn better shoes for it, I’d have walked across Brooklyn Bridge, as is my inclination on a first fine day in Manhattan in Springtime. Next time.
I decided against the stained glass approach in the end. I Chose instead, to focus on repeated patterns— a race horse silhouette, with the silks in the spotlight, and a larger repeating pattern behind them.
After much experimentation with various backdrops and shifts in color for the silhouettes, I landed on a maximum vintage palette and pattern, which incidentally called for my current favorite typeface. 🙂
What was intended to be an excursion into Bushwick yesterday afternoon left us stranded in Williamsburg as the L train chose to go no farther than Lorimer. So we began with a beer at Union Pool, into which I’ve not stepped foot in many years, and whose backyard has greatly improved.
We followed that with a visit to Bushwick Country Club, new to us both. Not in Bushwick, nor a country club, but a cheeky dive bar, where plastic dinosaurs serve as proxies for the second of each two-for-one happy hour drink. The tall narrow window that looks onto the yard brightens the otherwise cave-like interior during afternoon hours.
In the yard, a petite mini-golf course crumbles voluptuously, having seen better days before the ravages of seasons. No doubt it retains some of its erstwhile cheer on sunnier days.
Here are some quiet scenes from my neighborhood yesterday, after the thundersnow and wind calmed. The storm never really reached any kind of pitch, but many cancellations were planned, so it was a peaceful day. I spent all but 30 minutes of it indoors; worked an 11 hour day. My wander through the snow was pretty pleasant, however brief.
Some geometric compositions from a quiet wander last Saturday, late afternoon as the light drained from the sky. This building has such gorgeous moulding. The Ninth Street subway overpass is weirdly beautiful, too.