Just Stop

Scaffolding never made me stop.

It only made me run in fact, generally for cover during New York's rainy days. But earlier this afternoon, on my way home from work, I decided to stop. I was on my way to my favorite Chelsea dive, The King's Head Bar on West 23rd Street and 10th Avenue. Along the way, I found myself slowing down just one block away, on West 23rd Street between 9th and 10th avenues. And there it was. Something that made me stop.

Outside of the London Terrace Gardens apartment complex is a different type of scaffolding. A pleasant type, that makes you enjoy and realize the beauty of renovation and restoration. Instead of the typical white banner plastered with posters about magazine or unknown musicians, the scaffolding around this building was different. It was art.

One panel in particular caught my attention. It was a profile of a woman done completely in black and white, which was very reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's. Initially I thought that she was smoking from a long cigarette holder, but in actuality she was blowing smoke from the palm of her hand. And within the smoke were large ants, crawling about. Strange, I know. But captivating.

Never had their been a single piece of scaffolding that made me stop and realize that art is everywhere, constantly surrounding me, and in a neighborhood where art reigns supreme, the scaffolding bridges the gap between the art world and the real world.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Oh snap, who beat The New York Times? I did! Below is the link to an article that appeared in the Times on March 27, 2009.

Converting Chelsea Scaffolds Into Art Read More!

Alone?

It’s Wednesday evening. My apartment is eerily quiet tonight, since my one roommate is studying for an Orgo final at the library, while the other one is seeing “God of Carnage” uptown. And me? I’m curled up on the couch, watching Family Guy, with my best friend: Bombay Sapphire with tonic, and a splash of lime.

With each sip, I kept thinking of my father. It’s almost been two years since I last saw him. Two years since I last heard his voice. He died on the final night of my freshman year of college. Right after he and my mom settled in for the night, he had a massive heart attack. Just a few minutes after midnight, my father was pronounced dead.

Around 2:00 a.m., the R.A. on duty pounded on my door. I was fast asleep, having nightmares about my French final scheduled for later that day. I opened the door, and there she stood with a man from N.Y.U. Public Safety.

"Beau," she said. "You need to give your mom a call."

Before I even reached my cell phone, I knew. But I kept going, and dialed. My mom answered the phone. Her voice had always been so strong and fearless. Tonight it was different. It sounded empty. Alone.

"Sweetie, I need to tell you something," she said; she was crying. My heart started beating faster. I began shaking. "Your dad, he passed away tonight."

And that was when my world fell apart.

Bombay Sapphire had been his favorite drink for years, and even after he finally stopped drinking when my older brother was born, he always kept a bottle prominently displayed in our liquor cabinet, despite the fact that he never actually offered it to anyone. To this day, it remains unopened.

"It's the best," he told me once. "Just look at it."

He always loved the bottle, the light blue sparkling gem with a portrait of Queen Victoria displayed prominently in the center of the white label. Even now, I can see a bottle sparkling on my kitchen counter top.

The first bottle of liquor that I ever bought – legally that is – was a bottle of Bombay. I had just turned 21 years old, and I found myself wandering around Warehouse Wines & Liquor on Broadway near N.Y.U. For some reason, I was very stressed. I had no idea what I would choose for my very first legal purchase. Then I saw it. It was beautiful. The sun was coming in through the window, and it truly looked like a sapphire, perched atop the gin shelf. It was expensive, but I bought it.

A month later, the same bottle is still in my kitchen. There is still more than half a bottle since I save it for lonely nights, when I need a friend to cheer me up. Tonight is one of those nights. Despite the fact that my apartment is silent, besides the voices coming from the television, I know that my father is here with me tonight. And with my final sip, I suddenly don’t feel so alone anymore. Read More!

End of an Era

Can you believe it!?! The iconic New York magazine sign on Madison Avenue and 49th Street is in the midst of being removed, in order to make way for the Burberry logo.


In October, the online fashion blog Racked reported that the British luxury label had signed a lease at 444 Madison Ave., which will included retail space, in addition to a significant amount of office space within the building, thus giving Burberry precedent over New York magazine.

Once the transition is complete, the Burberry sign will be placed above another sign, which will display both the time and the temperature.

“Being able to have a building that’s going to say ‘Burberry’ in lights is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” said Eugenia Ulasewicz, the president of Burberry North America. “Remember, Thomas Burberry founded gabardine fabric, and outerwear is a cornerstone of our brand, so to have it say ‘Burberry’ and, by the way, here’s the temperature — that’s very unique.”

To me, that says trashy.

Due to new zoning codes, illuminated signs are no longer allowed on new skyscrapers in this part of the city; the new sign atop 444 Madison Ave. however was however grandfathered in due to the building's age. Let's just pray that this will not start a trend with other luxury labels. I cannot even imagine what New York would be like if Juicy Couture situated themselves atop the MetLife building. Read More!

Hot Child in the City (cliché, I know)

When I landed on the tarmac at John F. Kennedy International Airport on Dec. 19, 2008 after having spent 4 months living in Prague, I had become accustomed to male – and specifically homosexual – prostitution. It was normal, nothing shocking at all.

I still remember the first time that I ever met a prostitute. After downing half a bottle of vodka, I left my apartment with my roommate and a friend, and we headed to Escape, what we assumed was simply a gay club. Wrong! As soon as we arrived, we learned that it was what the Czechs called a gay rent bar (a place where men go if they are specifically looking to find a prostitute). And on that night I met my first prostitute. He looked no different that any other student at N.Y.U. in Prague. He was 19 years old and a high school drop out, who made almost $300 per encounter.

After that, I began to see prostitutes more and more often. By simply walking down a certain street, I would have to struggle to avoid eye contact in order to prevent a hoard of teenage boys from running towards me, offering everything from oral sex to their virginity. On one occasion, I was actually mistaken for a prostitute and offered $400, because the man thought that I seemed purer than the rest. At that moment, I lost interest in Prague.

But upon my return to New York, I thought that was all behind me. That is until I downed yet another bottle of vodka – I should seriously consider switching to gin or rum – and headed off to a notorious, local gay bar (if you're really curious and want to know which one, send me an e-mail).

After getting my groove on to a handful of classics – Britney, Madonna, etc. – I wandered away from the dance floor and over to the bar. Standing there, looking right at me, was a god: a 6-foot-5-inch god. Persian. Wavy, brown hair. Blue eyes. Fantastic body. He ordered me a drink – Vodka again, ugh – and we talked for the next hour, about politics, restaurants, the Yankees, even the latest Kelly Clarkson song. Anything and everything.

When I finally got up the nerve to ask him if he was – and let's pray that my mother won't be reading this – interested in, uh, joining me for the remainder of the evening at my apartment, he moved closer, and whispered something in my ear.

"I'd love to," he said. "For $200."

I pulled away with a confused look on my face.

"Are you a..."

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I am."

I politely declined, and instead of admitting my disappointment, I simply blamed the economy and N.Y.U.'s hefty bill. He smiled, and was kind enough to buy me another drink (Rum! Praise the Lord!). And that was when I heard his story. He was 28 years old, a graduate of the University of Chicago and Columbia Business School, and a former employee of Lehman Brothers. After months of being unemployed, he wanted to return to his financial stability and used the only asset he had left: his body. After a few more drinks, I left the bar (with a dinner date I might add – bad choice?) and I went home to go to bed.

I was restless for nearly two hours however. In the wake of the economic recession, had prostitution crossed the Atlantic? I sat there wondering about prostitution in New York. This may sound naive, but while I was living in Prague, I had this image that New York was above Prague, and far too cosmopolitan for prostitution. I eventually decide to wake up my roommate and tell him my story. He chuckled.

"Haven't you ever looked at Craigslist? Loads of 'escorts' advertise on there all the time," he said. "And check out Rentboy too."

I spent the next hour realizing that prostitution had been surrounding me for longer than I had cared to imagine. In the deep corners of my mind I am sure that I knew that petty prostitution existed, but it was not until I had my first, one-on-one experience with a prostitute in America that I realized that it was indeed everywhere.

The next morning I headed off to brunch with several fellow "Chelsea Boys." It was eerily similar to a "Sex and the City" moment. We were all at Cafeteria, sitting around sipping mimosas and talking about life. When I brought up my night, I was surprised by the responses that my story received. My friends were not concerned with the fact that a smart, intelligent young man was selling his body so that he could simply get by. They were in fact more concerned with whether or not I would attempt to sleep with him after our date. It was in that moment that I finally realized Chelsea's biggest flaw.

For them, living in Chelsea is about the excitement and the glamor, the cheap thrills. If only they could finally take a step back, and see all of the flaws of the community that they have come to cherish and love so dearly.

(And for your information, the answer is no, I did not.) Read More!

Am I an Artist?

Last Saturday, I was walking down West 24th Street in Chelsea, on my way to brunch with some friends. As I walked down the street, with music from my iPod drowning out the world around me, I passed by the Danziger Project, an art gallery that focuses primarily on photography.

Normally I would have walked past the gallery without a second thought. It was just another Chelsea art gallery. Nothing new. Nothing different. But I decided to stop this time. I had time to kill, and after all, the gallery had been receiving quite a lot of attention in the past month, especially after The New York Times reported that artist Shepard Fairey had filed a lawsuit against The Associated Press over the use of his now iconic poster of President Barack Obama.

Currently, the Danziger Project is displaying both the Shepard Fairey poster and a copy of the original photograph that it is based on, one taken by photographer Mannie Garcia for The Associated Press in April 2006, when Obama spoke at the National Press Club with George Clooney after he returned from Darfur.

Due to the success of Fairey's poster, James Danziger, the gallery owner and a former editor for Vanity Fair, helped to lead the effort which discovered the original photo that Fairey based his posted on. Now that it has been discovered, Danziger is selling reproductions – some autographed! – developed by Garcia. A limited number that is. Only 200. Each going fro $1,200!

Twelve hundred dollars for a reproduced photograph!?! Sounds crazy, right? Well, apparently people in the art world do not seem to think it is that crazy. The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, for example, just purchased a copy of the photo, and will display it alongside a copy of the Fairey poster.

The commotion surrounding Garcia's photo and the Danziger Project again prompted an article from The New York Times, just two days after my initial visit to the gallery. Noam Cohen's article was titled, "Viewing Journalism as a Work of Art," yet he himself never answered a very important question: is journalism art?

As a student of journalism, I began to think about this question, and it was not until I heard a lecture given by one of my former professors, which addressed both "In Cold Blood" and "All the President's Men." Truman Capote transformed his notes and interviews with convict Perry Smith, into what is now often regarded as a pioneering work of true crime. While Bernstein and Woodward's novel is now one of the best-selling novels of all-time and is read by historians and thrill-seekers alike. Both are journalism. And both are art. If these are art, then wouldn't Mannie Garcia's photograph of Obama be considered art as well? Of course. Garcia is making art every single time he picks up a camera. Despite the fact that his art traditionally appears in USA Today and not MoMA does not change the fact that he is indeed an artist.

But the notoriously humble Garcia refuses to call himself an artist.

“I want to avoid calling myself an artistic photographer," he said. "Wire guy, I am comfortable with that."


Danziger Project:
534 W. 24th St.
New York, New York 10011
(212) 629-6778

info@danzigerprojects.com

Hours:
Wednesday - Friday: 11am to 6pm
Saturday: noon to 6pm
Monday - Tuesday: by appointment only Read More!

Hey Chelsea, did you know…?

When I signed my lease for my apartment back in November, I really did not know anything about Chelsea. In fact, all that I knew was that Dorothy and all of her friends would be there to greet me, with arms wide open. Besides that? Not much at all.

Well, all of that changed when I decided to explore my new neighborhood, with my friend Alfred, a professional tour guide with 19 years experience, who allowed me to follow him on one of his walking tours through Chelsea. Despite the fact that it took place over three hours, during one of the worst rainstorms that I can remember, I truly did learn a lot.

For example, did you know that before it became New York’s rainbow capital, Chelsea was once the capital of red America? Located on 23rd Street between Seventh and Eighth avenues, was the headquarters of the Communist Party of the United States of America. What is it today? A pet supply store.

And just across the street was the infamous Hotel Chelsea, where Sir Arthur C. Clarke wrote my favorite novel, “2001: A Space Odyssey.”

What else happened in Chelsea?

Did you know that French singer Edith Piaf was married in 1952 at the Saint Vincent de Paul Church on 23rd Street between Sixth and Seventh avenues. And who was her matron of honor?

“Piaf asked her best friend, Marlene Dietrich, to be the matron,” said my guide Alfred.

I was also informed that the original headquarters of my mecca was located at 17th Street and Seventh Avenue:
“In 1923, Barney Pressman pawned his wife’s engagement ring for $500 in order to lease a small store on 17th and Seventh Avenue,” said Alfred. “He built that into the 200,000 square foot flagship store of Barneys New York.”

Which unfortunately closed in 1996 when the company filed for bankruptcy, and is now home to the Rubin Museum of Art.

At first, I was not sure if I would get anything out of the tour, but was I ever wrong! Yes, it was long. Yes, it was raining, and yes, by the end, I was soaked. But, yes, it was worth it.

For more information, please call (212) 979-2388. Read More!

Trip to the Market

As stock market prices continue to plummet, the current recession has had one benefit: notoriously expensive food is suddenly inexpensive. Including lobster, which recently sold for a mere $7.95 at the Lobster Place, located at the popular Chelsea Market.

“We’re selling just as much lobster,” said Ian MacGregor, president of the Lobster Place, New York City’s largest purveyor of live lobster. “Prices are down, and suddenly people are willing to buy lobster.”

The Lobster Place is just one of many tenants at the popular Chelsea Market, located on Ninth Avenue between 15th and 16th streets, which has come to symbolize the transformation of a gritty neighborhood into a vibrant culinary hub.

Despite the recent economic crisis, the upscale Market appears to be unaffected, as its stores are filled with locals and tourists alike who have come for the opportunity to buy fresh foods directly from wholesalers.

“Believe it or not, our wholesale operation has outgrown the space here, and the original vision for this market is definitely evolving,” he said. “If you take a walk around here, you’ll find no less than 15 luxury high-rise buildings going up, and now we view our tenancy here as a tremendous opportunity for retail expansion.”

“It has more than any food store that I’ve ever seen,” said Charlotte Garvey, a Maryland native who is spending the week in New York City with her husband. “And I’m surprised how inexpensive everything is. The produce here is some of the cheapest I’ve ever seen, but it all looks so fresh, and delicious.”

The present-day Chelsea Market is a product of investor Irwin B. Cohen, who in the 1990s purchased a handful of buildings that had once made up the headquarters of the National Biscuit Company, commonly known as NABISCO.

Completed in 1898 as the company’s bakery, the ovens were notorious for baking some of the world’s most famous biscuit and cookie brands, including Premium Saltines, Vanilla Wafers, Fig Newtons, Barnum’s Animal Crackers, and Mallomars. The building is however probably most famous for being the birthplace of the Oreo.

“When I was little girl, we used to buy Oreo cookies that came straight out of the oven, in fact they were still warm,” said longtime Chelsea resident, Marissa Shapiro. “Then we’d get a nice, cold bottle of milk on the way home, and sit on the front steps eating them.”

“A package was only a nickel back then,” added Shapiro. “With the way that the economy is now, I can’t afford to buy all of the extravagant products at the Chelsea Market. No sweets for me. Just my produce.”

In 1959, when NABISCO moved its operations to Fair Lawn, N.J., the complex was sold to investor Louis J. Glickman. With few tenants, the buildings slipped into disrepair throughout the 1970s and 1980s. When it finally reopened in the 1990s, the Market helped to gentrify not only west Chelsea but also the nearby Meatpacking District. Today, the Market is as a masterpiece of Chelsea, and despite the rough times, is as crowded as ever.

“I love it here,” said Eloise Parks, a longtime resident of Manhattan. “You can buy anything you want here. If you want wine, you can go to Chelsea Wine Vault. If you want the freshest produce, go to the Manhattan Fruit Exchange. It’s all here.”

When she first opened her bakery at the Chelsea Market in 1997, Eleni Gianopulos had never imagined that how successful the Market would become.

“I had no idea how much our retail business would take off,” said Gianopulos, whose bakery is called Eleni’s New York.

In August 2005, Gianopulos moved her bakery operations to a new 20,000-square-foot space in a warehouse building in Long Island City, and has decided to transform her Chelsea Market store into a full retail location, and now uses the entire ground-floor portion of her space at the Market for her retail business.

“Am I worried about the economy?” said Eleni Gianopulos, the owner of the popular Eleni’s New York bakery. “Of course not.”

“Everyone needs to eat,” she added. “As long as they continue to eat, we will continue to serve.” Read More!