Photographing New York Shadows

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In a recent post called “Reflections on the Windows of Greece” I mentioned that, when I’m traveling, for some reason I’m drawn to photographing windows in Greece, doors in Paris and chairs in Nicaragua. (Don’t know why—it’s not a conscious decision.  I think the doors and windows attract me because I’m always wondering what lies behind them.)

(What I love to photograph best in every country is people, especially children, but that can often get you in trouble.) 

Lately, while walking around Manhattan with a camera in my hand, I’ve become fascinated with the shadows cast by the fire escapes.  (I’ve mentioned before that my good friend Mari Seder, who is an award-winning professional photographer, once told me that sometimes the shadow is the most important part of the photograph.) 

Whenever I drive into Manhattan, when I turn off the FDR Drive onto 96^th Street, I notice the building above, uninhabited except for the bodega on the ground floor. If the sun’s out and the shadows are there, I take a picture through the windshield (while I’m stopped, waiting for the light to change of course!)  I love the crazy zigzag patterns of the shadows.

The other day, while walking on Third Avenue in the Seventies, I came upon a block that was a virtual symphony of fire-escape shadows.  Do you like the panoramic photo above or the closer photo below best?

I also tend to photograph architectural details.  In Manhattan, it’s important to look up (except when crossing a street, of course!  Those taxis can be lethal!)  You’ll find all sorts of unexpected treasures, like these.

 Once I started looking for shadows that make pleasing patterns, I found them everywhere.  Here’s  a photo I took while waiting for a check-up in my doctor’s examining room!

And here’s a table and chairs outside near the pool.

When I left Manhattan last Friday, I rode on a LimoLiner bus which traversed Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard in Harlem.   It was lined with antique buildings with fire escapes. We were moving too fast for good positioning, but I snapped this photo through the window before Manhattan faded into the distance.

Only in New York--A Photo Essay

On a recent visit to Manhattan I wandered around like the tourist that I am, clutching my camera to record sights and sites that native New Yorkers don't even notice as they hurry about their daily chores.  Nothing startles New Yorkers, whether it's break dancers on the subway, dog-sized rats in Central Park or naked cowboys and cowgirls in Times Square, but I, accustomed to life in a quiet New England village, kept on snapping photos and muttering, "Only in New York!"

Where else can you enjoy the sunset and dinner on your roof, 27 stories above the pavement...

....or eat on a barge in the Hudson River that never leaves the dock. (It's called The Frying Pan, at 26th Street and the Hudson.)

....or you can just have organic hamburgers delivered from the nearest Bareburger.

Granddaughter Amalia samples all the free fun in Manhattan's parks and playgrounds.  Here she is driving a train at the Little Engine Playground at Riverside Drive and West 67th Street. (And afterwards we always walk over to "Pier i"  for outdoor dining on the water.)

 She's tried fishing at the Harlem Meer in Central Park on the East Side at 109th Street. (It's all catch and release and you can rent the fishing poles and get instructions and free bait.)

And in the summer heat, nearly every playground in Manhattan has sprinklers and various kinds of water play.

On my recent visit, Amalia and I went to Art Farm at East 91st Street between York and First where  children learn about nature, animals and how to care for the planet.   Where else would you meet a giant Madagascar Hissing Cockroach?

Some of the children were willing to touch the creature, but most of the adults retreated to watch from a distance.

Amalia was more eager to pet the rabbits, hens and a new little guinea pig.

Wandering around by myself, I  noticed near Times Square one of the soon-to-be illegal Elmos who harass tourists and ask for money.

I marveled at the ever-present dog walkers.  How do they keep all those dogs from fighting with each other?  Or breaking away from the pack?

And I noticed this truck delivering Cannabis Energy Drink to the local Korean Deli.  I wonder what they put in that drink?

Art is everywhere in Manhattan, and most people never even notice it.

I spied faces in the architecture

Fire escape shadows on uninhabited buildings...

Split-Rocker is a giant flower-covered sculpture by Jeff Koons which dominates Rockefeller Plaza and coincides with the blockbuster Koons show at the Whitney Museum.

Even this graffiti-covered truck, which we encountered as we drove toward the Triboro Bridge on our way home, qualifies as art in my opinion...one of the many odd treasures you can find only in New York, the greatest city in the world.

Found Art – The High Line

You may argue that a park is not art, but in the case of the High Line I think you’d agree with me that it is.  It has outdoor sculpture and artistic plantings, ghost signs, views of  the Hudson river and even a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty in the distance.

Live birds were checking out this sculpture for real estate

 And, in the other direction, you can gaze at cityscapes including the Empire State building. 

 Even the billboards and graffiti seen from the High Line seem like art.

I’d been hearing raves from New Yorkers about this newest park.  I finally got to visit it on March 13^th, when one of the first really spring-like days brought Manhattanites out to stroll, visit, photograph or just soak in the sun.

Originally—in the 1930’s-- the High Line was an elevated freight rail line above the streets of Manhattan’s West Side. The trains carried freight from docked ships into warehouses, where it was stored.  

In the mid-1980’s a group of property owners lobbied for demolition of the entire structure, but the Friends of the High Line was founded in 1999 and ultimately won the City to their point of view—to “reclaim the High Line” by turning it into an elevated park (accessible by elevators as well as stairs).

The High Line runs on Manhattan’s West Side from Gansevoort Street in the Meatpacking District to West 34^th Street between 10^th & 11^th Avenue.  The first section of the High Line opened on June 9, 2009 and the second section, which runs between West 20^th and West 30^th Streets, opened June 8, 2011.  Now they’re talking about a third section.

On the High Line there is room for picnicking, sunbathing and people-watching, and in the summer, street vendors sell food and drink, all made from local ingredients.  Soon The Green Table—an open-air café—will open as well, featuring food from environmentally friendly farms. 

On March 13 there were no food vendors, but everyone was luxuriating in the promise of spring.

Crone Driving Complaints

I just drove from my daughter’s apartment on Manhattan’s Upper East Side to our home in Grafton, MA – a 180-mile, 3 ½-hour drive that I make (usually round trip) at least once a month. Sometimes I do it alone, other times, like today, I share the driving with my husband.
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Every time I complete the drive — especially by myself -- I’m inordinately proud of the feat. Because I lived in Manhattan for 14 years, I didn’t even get my driver’s license until I was 36 years old, pregnant with our third child and living in the countryside of Massachusetts. (Actually I drove from age 15 to 18 in Minnesota when I was in high school and then quit when I went to college, so had to take driver’s training all over again 18 years later.)

When I got my second driver’s license —pregnant and 36— I tried to avoid ever getting on a main highway, much less driving out of state. But I had to transport the kids to school and on play dates, and eventually I expanded my repertoire.

The drive from Manhattan to Grafton MA is really not bad —up to 96th Street, over to the FDR Drive, over the Triboro (now Robert F. Kennedy) Bridge, then eventually on to the Parkways— Hutchison and Merritt--where commercial vehicles are forbidden, thank God. This is the scenic part —full of wild turkeys and deer and a lot of charming bridges, none of which is identical —like snowflakes.

Then, just before Hartford, I get back on I-91, whether the trucks abound, dwarfing my little Prius. (Those huge double-decker auto carriers seem to rock back and forth because their center of gravity is so high—and I always think they’ll topple over, squashing me like a bug.)

At exit 29, with Hartford in view, I turn off onto I- 84 which is a really boring hour-long stretch until I pick up the Mass Pike at Sturbridge and know I’m only 20 minutes from home.

While driving, I have plenty of time to think about some of the minor annoyances encountered on the road —especially for a crone who is a rather tentative and fearful driver. (Let me say here that in the past 34 years, I’ve never had a speeding ticket and never been in an accident when I was at the wheel --knock on wood! My insurance company ranks me as the safest driver in the family.)

Here are thoughts that passed through my idle mind today as I was driving —not complaints, actually, just observations.

--Have you ever noticed that when some idiot is weaving in and out, speeding like crazy or hanging on your bumper in the silver lane because he thinks you should go faster than 75-- it’s often someone in a red car or red flat-bed truck?

--And when some centenarian ahead of you is going so slowly that you are forced to pass them, it’s often someone in a white or black car? Who is barely tall enough to see over the steering wheel.

--And when you’re trying to merge into a speedy flow of traffic, when someone finally does slow down and wave you in, have you noticed that it’s inevitably a woman?

--But when you’re in the left-hand lane and signal that you want to move to the right lane (because your exit is coming up), most men will immediately speed up upon seeing your turn signal, blocking you and making it impossible for you to change lanes.

--And then, when you discover that there is a long line of cars waiting to turn off at your exit , and you’re sitting patiently in line practicing your deep breathing exercises, some people have no scruples about jumping the line, speeding up to the front and then forcing their way onto the exit ramp, who do you think those line jumpers are? (Hint, I’m married to one. My blue Prius blushes pink every time he does this.)

--And one more observation —who do you think is more likely to jump the queue at the gas station, forget to put the cap back on the gas tank, and neglect to take the receipt for the gas? No hints here.

My kids and my husband think I’m a lousy driver because I frequently move my foot from the accelerator to the brake pedal and never drive over 80 miles per hour (or under the speed limit), but my Prius and my insurance company like my driving just fine. And every time I complete the trek from Manhattan to home I tell myself, “You’ve come a long way, Baby!”

Passover, Plagues & Spring in Manhattan & Massachusetts

Every March, on the first warm, spring-like day, I walk out the porch door in Grafton, MA and spy some purple crocuses in the otherwise barren garden. Then I know it’s finally spring. That didn’t happen this year for some reason, but on St. Patrick’s Day, I saw a clump of tiny purple irises (above) and knew that spring had finally come despite the record rains we’ve had lately.

This past weekend, in Manhattan, spring was much farther along. A walk through Central Park revealed flowering forsythia and almost-flowering magnolias and flocks of New Yorkers – lovers by the boat lake and kids climbing trees near Bethesda Fountain. On the way to the Park, tulips bloomed on the sidewalks and, in the lobby of the Metropolitan Museum, the huge vases were filled with flowering cherry branches.

It all served to remind me that Manhattan is the greatest city in the world, bar none, especially in Spring.

In Eli’s super-stocked, high-end market, where I go just to gape at the seasonal decorations and sky-high prices, I found the kid-friendly finger puppets shown above, which I had to have for my own, even though I don’t do Passover and, sadly, don’t know any small children to amuse or educate with these puppets.

The puppets are clearly mean to dramatize, at the Passover seder, the ten plagues which Yahweh visited on the Egyptians to convince the Pharaoh to let the Israelites go free, as recounted in Exodus.

I just couldn’t resist these little puppets embroidered with the names “Blood”, “Frogs”, “Lice”, “Animals”, “Cattle Plague” (he’s my favorite—the sick cow with the thermometer and the hot water bottle, ) “Boils”, “Hail”, “Locusts”, “Darkness” and “First Born.”

Only in New York!

Now back in Grafton, MA it’s raining like crazy and there are flood warnings, but I just saw the first robin outside the porch door, looking for ingredients to build a nest. It’s time to cut some forsythia and bring it inside to force it, first soaking it in the bathtub.

Happy Spring and Pesach Same’ach!

WHAT IS A CRONE, ANYWAY?

Almost a year ago, in October ‘08, I launched this blog, saying: “I will try to address issues and events that are of interest to crones over sixty, who are definitely under-served in the media. Yet we are, as a friend remarked, the pig in the python—the huge population of women who are still tuned in and creating despite (or because of) our age.”

It was daughter Eleni who came up with the inspired name “A Rolling Crone” for the blog after I had discovered that “Crone Chronicles” was already taken.

I e-mailed my friends and colleagues announcing the blog, and was surprised when I heard from several friends that they found the word “Crone” offensive and insulting to women. (Some of them added that they also were offended by being referred to as “Ladies”, when they were, in fact, women, not ladies.)

I noticed that most of the objections to the word “Crone” came from the Midwestern states—where I grew up—while friends on both coasts, in Europe and in Israel generally loved the blog’s title.

One reason I used the word “crone” was that, when I lived in Manhattan, about five of us, er, women friends, started calling ourselves the Crones back when we were in our early fifties. (Our husbands, naturally, were the Geezers.) The Crones did fun things --some athletic, like hiking or kayaking, but most of which involved sitting in a restaurant laughing so loudly that we were sometimes asked to leave.

The most fun thing we did, in my opinion was a Crone Walk from the top of Manhattan (Fort Tryon Park) to the bottom (Battery Park). Husbands were allowed to meet us for dinner on the last day. The walk took three days and involved staying in hotels (where martinis were consumed) eating in restaurants, and visiting stores, art exhibits and historic spots. Our first lunch—in Spanish Harlem—was in a restaurant where no one spoke English, only Spanish. Our last lunch was in a dim sum restaurant in Chinatown, where no one spoke English, only Chinese. (Just one of the reasons why Manhattan is my favorite city ever.)

After hearing complaints from my friends about the word Crone, I decided to research it. I was vaguely aware that some indigenous peoples considered Cronehood to be the honorable third stage of a woman’s life (Maiden, Mother, Crone) and that entry into cronehood—and menopause—was celebrated with rituals, because the crones were revered as wise women who could impart their knowledge to the tribe.

When I started researching “Crone” and “What is a crone?” on Google, I quickly realized that this is a topic for a Phd. thesis, not a single blog posting.

If you would like academic insights into the various historic personifications of the wise crone, check out a site by Kathleen Jenks, PhD, called “mythinglinks.org”, especially an essay called “Common Themes, East & West: Crones & Sages”.
She refers to Eve, the Mother of All, (holding in her hands an opened pomegranate, whose Hebrew name, rimmon, comes from the word rim, to bear a child.) She also mentions Hecate, Baba Yaga, native American rituals , tales from India’s Crone shamans—it’s a treasure chest of crone facts including a bibliography.

That led me to a lyrical and eloquent essay by a woman called “Z Budapest”-- “Crone Genesis” --that begins, “I am in my first year of Cronehood. In my sixtieth year.” Near the end of her essay she writes “We are one block of herstory, one savvy chain of generations, one strong and active generation that is going to continue to change the world. When we are done, being old will be fashionable, stories and movies about old people will be normal, and we will live a long time.”

I also discovered that women who celebrate their cronehood, especially with rituals, are often Wiccans—followers of paganism as a religion. This is not true of me and the Manhattan crones—who each probably have our own brand of religion or spirituality, although we’ve never discussed it. What joins us, I think is laughter, not a particular political or religious agenda.

But there is, I quickly learned, a growing Crone movement in this country —probably multiplying in strength as more and more women reach cronehood.

If you look up cronescounsel.org, you will see that the upcoming Fall 2009 Gathering, Crones Counsel XVII is happening Oct. 21-25 in Atlanta, GA.

That site says that the mythological Crone comes from the mists of ancient times, in the Middle East, Greece and the Balkans (30,000-10,000 BCE)… “The goddess was revered as one all-encompassing mother goddess who controlled birth, death and rebirth. This concept began to change as women themselves became increasingly under the dominion of men…Crone, hag and witch once were positive words for old women. Crone comes from Crown, indicating wisdom emanating from the head; hag comes from hagio meaning holy; and witch comes from wit meaning wise. The Crone began re-emerging into our consciousness in the early 1980’s and today many older women are embracing this connection. We are tapping into the ancient crone’s attributes of wisdom, compassion, transformation, healing laughter and bawdiness.”

So I submit that calling myself a crone and my blog “A Rolling Crone” is not insulting to my age group.

I’ve noticed, among my friends, that when a woman turns sixty, she often throws a birthday that basically is a celebration of herself, although previous birthdays and most of her party-giving efforts might have been devoted to celebrating her husband or children or parents.

I think at sixty a woman tends to step back and think “I’ve done pretty well so far, so I’m going to give myself something I’ve always wanted—a trip to Europe-- or enroll in a class to learn tap dancing or piano—or just throw a party that’s all about me and invite all my friends. (One of the New York crones rented a chateau in Tuscany and invited her friends.)

Here are some thoughts I came across from Linda Lowen who writes a blog about women’s issues. In an essay called “The Crone Movement -- Empowering Older Women”, she quotes a past member of the Crones Counsel Board who said “A Crone is a woman who has moved past mid-life and who acknowledges her survivorship, embraces her age, learns from the examined experience of her life, and, most likely, appreciates the wrinkles on her face…A Crone is a woman who is comfortable with her spiritual self, her intuition, and her creative power.”

Linda Lowen comments: “Wonderful qualities for a woman to possess at any age, but especially significant for a demographic that often feels bypassed by a society that has little use for women once they reach menopause. This Halloween, if you’re a woman 45 or older, instead of feeling tricked by the process of aging, consider the treat of making peace with yourself as you appreciate this phase of your life. Embrace your inner Crone.”

(That’s easy—Every Halloween as I wait on the porch for the influx of trick-or-treaters, I’m always dressed as a witch!)

I would like to hear from you how you feel about the word “Crone”.