BY RICHARD BEARDS
Notes and comments from an English illustrator’s perspective, New York: October 2006 – April 2007.
This is an unedited version of a diary kept by British illustrator Richard Beards during a seven month stay in New York. A shorter, edited version appears in Varoom 05.ANew York always felt like unfinished business. Securing a deal with an American agent fifteen or so years ago the timing coincided with a change of direction, a new way of working and above all thinking; hence a new market oblivious to my previous incarnation.
Besides having me sign an exclusivity contract my agent demanded a not inconsiderable sum of money up front for the publicity I was about to receive, and the Lord made me truly thankful. During succeeding years disappointment generally outweighed optimism, despite consistently producing high quality work, despite periodic speculative promotional trips to New York.
Further on down the line, one agent retired and another procured, but progress continues to drag its weary feet.
Illustration has for many years been a peripheral business. Once, graphic design and illustration cohabited the same planet, but after their respective orbits shifted apart designers became the business people and illustrators were left floating in the ether. The illustration business is an anomaly; it’s at best comprised of a loose assortment of people with little or no connection to one another. Personal contact has all but disappeared - portfolios are fast becoming redundant and work is undertaken via email. Maybe the current situation will be the catalyst that drives the applied arts into previously uncharted waters, has perhaps already begun to do so.
Quote: ‘The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practising an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake.’
Kurt Vonnegut, from A Man Without a Country.
October 4 2006
Yellow cab from JFK, diverting through Queens on an evening thick with leftover summer humidity, vignettes of daily life exposed to jet-lagged travellers in a low sultry glow, bouncing across potholes on tired shock-absorbers, breaks pulling unevenly, slewing the car wildly at red lights.
Greenwich Street, Tribeca, home for the first month - familiar territory, having first stayed in the same apartment early 2001, with a perspective dominated by the World Trade Center, often shrouded in dark cloud, red beacon flashing through the haze, or reflecting azure skies, resplendent in sunlight. Subsequent visit; nothing but the nighttime illumination of Ground Zero.
Memory buzz: Paris, September 11 2001. Watch live footage of smoking WTC on TV in department store without fully comprehending the cause. Evening, watch full horror in bar. Later, return home and call L’s apartment but receive no answer. Catch her at JD’s office. Tells me she was at home watching when the second plane hit. She stopped watching when people started jumping. And then started packing.
This visit - walks by the Hudson all the way down to the southernmost point of Battery Park, passing the marina, watching the comings and goings of boats, often at sunset, looking across to Jersey City bathed in an orange glow, surrounding vast sky turning azure to indigo, choppers and light planes flying low along the course of the river, water mass swelling and undulating, mysterious dark shapes appearing and transforming themselves in the diminishing intensity of light. And frequent cutting high winds in this, the windiest of Manhattan places, stripping trees bare of autumnal leaves as temperatures lowered, with intermittent days of warm sunshine and balmy evenings.
Beers at Puffy’s Tavern, brunch at The Odeon.
Conveniently, first NY appointment with Wall Street Journal – a walk down to the World Financial Centre on a blustery autumnal day, skirting around Ground Zero and its attendant hordes.
News in the publishing world – long-established people losing jobs, balance of power shifting, diminished budgets. Sounds promising.
November 2
Move to West 17th Street between 7th and 8th Avenues. South facing fifth floor walk up at top and rear of 100 year old building. Metal construction stairway with marble treads and wooden banister rails, patterned tiled landings. Two rooms plus kitchen and bathroom. A room to sleep, a room to work. No outlook, no noise. Can’t have it both ways.
Where’s all this going? An inauspicious start in New York has not encouraged optimism. Cold indifference from my agent. Should be a secret agent.
November 6
A pleasurable lunch with S; eminent illustrator, juggler and man about town, generously donates a few contact suggestions to a worthy cause.
November 9
American Illustration Party. More of a bun fight than an evening of culture. Loud rock music for the photographers whose show was held jointly. Lower Eastside location terrific, wall of work impressive, but didn’t get my fifty dollars worth, in part due to a personal aversion to crowds, leaving the scene of destruction before it turned ugly. And those people keep turning down my work.
November 11
Illustration Symposium at Parsons. A day of talks, discussion on the state of the art. Auditorium full. A glittering array of distinguished guests from the wild and crazy world of illustration, but no art directors or designers on the podium. In the land of the blind a one-eyed man is king.
Presentations ranged from the entertaining and informative to why do I need to see and hear this. Older participants generally expressed themselves in easy self-effacing manner, producing much that was anecdotal, while articulation seemed a problem amongst some of the younger, who didn’t want to appear too grown up.
From the golden age – Herriman, Steinberg – to contemporary animation, designer toys; all avenues were explored, much digging was done but no evidence was found for a healthy industry: just an array of individuals who do OK for themselves but whose business practices have little in common.
Plat de jour: Kim & Gene Deitch. Intelligent entertainers still cartooning after all these years.
Illustration may be suffering a health crisis but we’re still some way off ringing its death knell. Somehow, broadening the parameters by which illustration is defined seems an admission of defeat. As does the notion of cooking up another name for it. Both points arose at the symposium. If it’s a matter of redefining illustration surely we then have something else, after which we’re talking semantics.
Quote: ‘To avoid disappointment in art, one mustn’t treat it as a career.’
Orhan Pamuk, from My Name Is Red.
Later that same day – drinks and polite conversation for the participants of the symposium at the apartment of a successful illustrator to which I manage to get towed along. Both host and apartment have natural warmth and charm – hopefully some of it will rub off.
November 23
Thanksgiving. New York shuts down, it rains all day – what does an interloper do?
November 28
Rabid Rabbit show at The Visual Arts Gallery. Nice drawing but a shortage of rabbits.
December - Winter advances, light levels fall, appointments are made, work is produced, including a first stage pencil drawing for Blab! eventually turning it into a painting after Christmas break. To be included in the Blab! Retrospective in 2008. Feels like a positive move in what could euphemistically be described as a career.
December 2
Over to 10th Avenue and beyond to catch Fiona Rae at Pace Wildenstein on last day of exhibition: You are the Young and the Hopeless - her trademark splashes and smears of vibrant colour with the addition of far eastern inspired little cutesy animals. The paintings are clever.
Plus - Ellsworth Kelly, Drawings on a Bus, Sketchbook 23, 1954, at Matthew Marks Gallery. Series of small beautiful studies in black and white, hung to perfection.
December 3
Saul Steinberg at Adam Blaumgold Gallery on East 79th Street. The first of three Steinberg exhibitions running concurrently. Does not disappoint.
December 9
A couple of blocks away in Chelsea an exhibition of note: Robert Irwin - Who’s Afraid of Red Yellow and Blue3 at Pace Wildenstein. A terrific 3D walk around installation in a space like an airplane hangar. The old guys know what they’re doing.
January 4 2007
Return to New York after Christmas break, looking forward to the next few months, during which time I will turn down several invitations to meet with English people at Soho House, New York branch of London drinking haunt with the reputation of being an English enclave. Just what I came to New York to get away from.
January 14
A walk uptown on a quiet overcast Sunday morning, buildings shrouded in mist and cloud. Light and scale strangely reminiscent of the Alps. Simply Droog at Museum of Arts and Design opposite MoMA, last day of exhibition. Product design as product design. Product design as conceptual art. Dutch. Extremely good veering towards jokey. Perhaps a demonstration of Dutch humour, or simply their proclivity towards silliness. Some nice unusual uses of materials and recycled products mixed with personal statements of no practical use. Droog objects offer political and social commentary, apparently.
January 29
Continue habit of catching exhibitions on their final day – Manet and the Execution of Maximilian at MoMA. Figurative art from an age before artists were given to suffering from an identity crisis. Then a tour around the permanent collection. Personal favourites: Franz Kline, Jackson Pollock, Al Held, Willem de Kooning, Bill Viola.
February 2
Saul Steinberg at The Morgan, Madison and 36th. More familiar work from the master of editorial illustration. A Friday night freeby but somehow less satisfying than previous Steinberg, due possibly to rather sterile ambience of museum.
Steinberg: the illustrator's illustrator who produced more covers for the New Yorker than Mayor Bloomberg has had hot pastrami sandwiches, and was considered by Kurt Vonnegut to be the wisest person he ever met. Here is a rare thing - an illustrator who's considered respectable, and one with celebrity friends such as Picasso and Calder. Perhaps Picasso was influenced by Steinberg – Francis Bacon in a moment of familiar bitchiness accused Picasso of being a cartoonist. Steinberg exercised a perfect combination of intellect and wit with an idiosyncratic method of drawing. He stated that what you respond to in any work of art is the artist’s struggle against his or her limitations (in response to Vonnegut asking him if he was gifted).
February 11
The third and final Steinberg show at Museum of the City of New York, 5th Avenue at 103rd, proves to be possibly the best of all. A Sunday morning excursion uptown, taking subway to Lexington at 110th Street: East Harlem, quiet and unpeopled, gentrification yet to find its way. Afterwards a walk up to northern extreme of Central Park, skirting Harlem Meer, a lake two thirds frozen over, joining Central Park North with views up avenues extending further north into Harlem, few people abroad, appearing somewhat desolate in cold light of winter, descending on Central Park West as far as 86th Street, crossing Colombus and Amsterdam Avenues to reach subway on Broadway._
February 24
Chuck Close & Franz Gertsch at Max Lang Gallery on a day I decide not to go to The Armory Show. Close, another old man still going strong. Prints of paintings of dull looking people. Pretty up close. Gertsch = kitsch carpets. Nice looking girls behind the desk to help male clientele feel good about the art.
February 24
Personal comment. Possibly produced under the influence of alcohol.
Observe the crowds. Contemporary art is the new entertainment. Everybody wants a piece. The world’s major art institutions, once islands of quiet reflection within the metropolis at large, are now bustling playgrounds for the aspiring, voracious consumer. The esoteric aesthetics of modern art are today common currency amongst those who would once have derided it. The ability of art to raise social status through its purchase is now corporate venture land; art dealing becoming akin to marketing and accountancy. Once eccentric outsiders vilified for their outrageousness, artists are the new darlings of the popular press.
The bête noir of culture has finally run its course, finding no new avenues to explore, no longer able to outrage, tamed by market forces. New art is formulaic and self-referential. The serpent is eating its own tail.
Since Cezanne invented an aesthetic of cubes, spheres and cones; since Duchamp planted a urinal in a gallery, artists have strived to push boundaries. The over-zealous Picasso came to epitomize the modern artist; repeatedly presenting new challenges while indulging in a lifestyle that would permanently etch itself into the public’s imagination. The scenario remains effectively unaltered throughout the twentieth century: the artist as outsider throwing down the gauntlet, challenging the public’s expectations, or even attempting to influence political change.
Art had a new purpose. And after all, its previous purpose had been by and large usurped by the advent of the devil’s own artform: photography had sprung Jack from his box, released art from its prison, sending it on a rollercoaster ride into hitherto uncharted territories. But that was then, and this is now, to quote a cynical phrase from the Handbook of Marketing, typed by one of those infernal monkeys who wasn’t half clever enough to write the complete plays of Shakespeare, or anything else vaguely intelligible for that matter.
Marketing, one supposes, has been with us a long time in one shape or form, most likely invented by the Romans, who after all created the majority of important things pertaining to modern life. Given time they would probably have colonized Mars. But empires have a habit of imploding, and so it would seem a natural process for the Contemporary Art Empire, having expanded exponentially and with no respect for gravity, to follow that same, inevitable route. All things must pass.
A visit to the prehistoric world presents a pertinent perspective. Big beasts ruled the planet for billions of years, as most reasonably intelligent people have come to understand (this would probably rule out marketing people), had it their own way for so long and as a consequence probably thought they were invincible, didn’t understand the indelibly inscribed rules of the universe. Meanwhile, what begins life as a piece of niche marketing eventually moves into a larger vacancy. Goodbye big beast, hello little furry fellow who’s been hiding in a tree for countless aeons waiting for his time to come.
Analogies are fun. Ask any marketing executive. When pertaining to juggernauts they’re especially rewarding. Their wheels inevitably fall off, if they don’t drive themselves over the edge of a cliff first. And now they may even run out of fossil fuel, having ignored the many warnings from environmental activists, while efficient, environmentally friendly vehicles are being driven by the little furry beasts who’ve finally come out of the woodwork.
So, the art juggernaut loses its wheels; the big beast lays down and dies: a spurious notion perhaps, and only the fickle nature of history will decide. Anyway, the story goes that while the dinos are indulging themselves in their rather grand post-romantic existential nihilistic chemical frenzy, oblivious to any world outside their own, the little furry fellows are unpretentiously and intelligently laying down the groundwork for a new kind of art. They have attitude and sharp teeth with which to bite the ankles of their bigger brethren. They have brains and guile and a sense of playfulness. In a sense they never grew up.
March 5
The winter is persistent. A biting wind and snow flurries today. A couple days of milder weather then immediately back below zero. At least you know you're alive. Last bout of snow I walked across to the Hudson, crossing the Westside Highway at around 12th Street. About a couple of hundred yards out into the river between piers - where the remains of jetties, now just dark worn posts forming a uniform pattern and where the water runs slow or remains still - I saw icebergs. Frozen river topped with snow, breaking up into car size hunks, bobbing gently in the light of a low sun. No people to speak of - just a lone dog walker leaving prints in the snow - and the constant roar of rubber on concrete occasionally accompanied by the sound of a chopper following the course of the river. A bleak wasteland at the edge of the city, a stone's throw from the latest hangout of the beautifully expendable. I refer to both the people and their incomes.
Earlier; a foray to Balducci's on 8th Avenue to buy a pint of milk, ended up with a six-pack. Balducci’s is now merely a franchise, no comparison to the original family run old style Italian deli on 6th Avenue. They gave it up and sold the name. There was public dissension but to no avail.
Further up 8th Avenue the new Times building is going up. They say it'll be the greenest building in the city. It’s also said that the newspaper will soon disappear to exist purely in electronic form. Did television replace radio? Maybe the people at the Times think real estate is a sounder investment than journalism.
Occasionally there’s something to watch on TV. CNN International is informative but riddled with endlessly repeated interruptions. After initial ambivalence towards Charlie Rose on Channel 13 I've warmed to him. He's something of an institution and interviews an interesting array. Last week it was Harold Pinter, who in old age and frail health is less of a cold fish than of past but no less vitriolic. They say of 20th Century playwrights he and Beckett are top guys. I don't know as theatre has never been my thing but I do know that Beckett was far more photogenic than Pinter. And from an artist’s perspective Waiting For Godo is too close for comfort. A while back I was invited along to a play called Nite' Mother at the Big Little Theater on the lower East side. It's just a room, rather like a living room, with about 25 seats. You could say intimate. There are two actors in the play, who play mother and daughter. It's extremely bleak and ends in the only way a bleak play can end. I ate pastrami on rye at Katz's beforehand so I was well prepared. There were some people in tears at the end but it didn't get me. If someone wants to shoot themselves that's fine by me.
A personal antidote to the typical isolation and introspection of an illustrator’s life is to walk, blowing away cobwebs and the weight of a heavier than lead mindset. And what better place to walk than New York City, the energy giver; walking to rid the blues from my shoes, or for the manic hell of it, hour after hour, drawn forever by some new vista, under a cloudless cerulean sky or at night accompanied by the Empire State’s illuminated presence. Sometimes watching traffic lights change in sequence into the infinity of the night, or experiencing the earth’s curve from the westward horizon to the east, the city’s unique mass, energy and purpose, quality of light and atmosphere provoking constant transformations.
March 6
A circular two and a half hour walk, provoked by cabin fever and prolonged wait for client response, cutting lose in winter boots, in thrall to a harsh sun and a wind that cut through to the bone, delivering a wind chill factor of minus 15 Celsius. Departed eastwards from 7th Avenue, crossing 6th and 5th Avenues, arriving at Union Square and on to Stuyvesant Square at 2nd Avenue passing St. George's brownstone church west of square, then a right turn on 1st Avenue where 16th is curtailed by austere brick built apartment blocks, turning left into 14th Street, crossing Avenues A and B, arriving at the East River Powering Station at Avenue C (Loisaida Avenue). Four towering steel chimneys jutting from a pillared behemoth emitting snow white steam swirling and evaporating in the crystal blue sky. Ten minutes of looking, moving very little. After which turned southwards then left into East 10th, crossing Avenue D and on to East River Drive, all the while passing more of the same tall brick apartment blocks, albeit with austerity softened by tree lined pathways criss-crossing between them, glistening in the sunlight. Declined the invitation of a steel pedestrian bridge to cross the carriageway, instead returning to Avenue D then southwards toward East Houston Street. Walked once more toward East River Drive, stopping and not crossing. Views across the East River and the Williamsburg Bridge stretching towards Brooklyn. Five minutes of looking and not thinking - observing traffic until vehicle belching pungent and excessive exhaust fumes encouraged retreat, this same vehicle having ironically been first encountered on 14th Street and again on Avenue C like it was following – then westwards on East Houston passing school kids finishing school for the day, characteristically noisy and foul mouthed. Then left into Pitt Street arriving at Delancey Street and the start of the Williamsburg Bridge; two four lane carriageways bisected by a high level bike and pedestrian route protected by red painted steel barriers stretching toward the first of its cable supporting steel towers. Delancey an eight lane tarmac wilderness lined with worn lowrise buildings at this, its easternmost point; a jumble of twentyfive to thirty storey brick tenements to the east and southeast, scattered around the bridge; irregular shapes of contemporary apartment blocks, some half-built, breaking the skyline in other directions. Returned northward for a block then turned left into Rivington Street crossing Essex, Ludlow and Orchard Streets, newly fashionable shops and bars, the sun having retreated, just catching the tops of the five storey buildings or an odd fire escape in its warm glow. Hurrying now as coldness invaded body warmth, towards the Bowery, turning right then zig-zagging towards the university land of Washington Square, ex-hangout of vagrants and addicts, via Lafayette and Broadway. Crossed the square in the last dying rays and on towards 6th Avenue. From here a two block sprint along Greenwich Avenue then upwards on 8th Avenue towards West 17th Street. Receive call from client on return. Snow forecast.
March 16
(The end of a week, the back of a job which resulted in neck seizure and brain dysfunction.)
A day of ice pellets in New York City; a fine frozen sleet tinkling on the windows like fairy dust and coating the city in ankle-deep white slush, sidewalks and thoroughfares alike; blocking drains, melting in gutters and forming large icy puddles in which to trap pedestrians; stinging the face in sharp persistent needle-pricks, caught in gusts and blinding the eyes. We’re in the city that never sleeps, never lies down and dies in the face of adversity; a little inclemency never hurt no one, never stopped the traffic, never hurt a fly.
Talking of flies, there’s a fly here in my apartment been keeping me company throughout the winter months. A New York City style fly, a survivor. It’s just a housefly but it refuses to die; how can you die when there’s still so much to be done? when spring will soon be sprung. It warms itself on the inside of my lampshade, intelligent enough to avoid getting burnt; it lands on my work or the open page of a book I may be reading as if to say hi you’re not alone, we’ll suffer this shit together. I like this fly. I must confess I never liked a fly before but it’s not really doing anything much different to me, just living its quotidian existence and waiting for better days.
Memory buzz: an impromptu evening at Bemelmans Bar, The Carlisle Hotel, East 76th Street at Madison Avenue, December 2006. It went like this: a chance encounter, 1am at Fanelli’s Bar, Soho leading to an exchange of contacts. A memory bathed in the glow of alcohol and the company of fellow reprobates, darkness without and within as a consequence of a not inconsiderable quantity of black paint combined with low wattage lamps, and vacated of tourists at this hour. The barman, a boxer with nose to prove it and a sense of humour acquired in the ring. At the bar customer side: M, a tall black man who likes a social drink, who has the gift of the gab; a real charmer, a man of all walks of life, was once a commentator of basketball on British television; carries a bag full of his own history, a ragtag bunch of papers dumped on the floor below his seat. M can talk and so he does. He speaks English eloquently, like it gives him immense pleasure, and he’s not backward in coming forward. Closing time arrives in its usual inconsiderate way. He writes his details on the back of a receipt from Blue Star Enterprises, Inc. 3603 Broadway at 148th Street. The exchange takes place and farewells are made. M being a man of his word phones with an invitation a week or so later: drag yourself out and meet me at Flowers Gallery, upper Eastside, for a glass or two. I hesitate, but I go. I arrive and there’s M, having grown an inch or two since the time before, bowing his frayed baseball hat to join in conversation with vertically more challenged mortals of the white variety - this is polite society and he’s on his best behaviour considering he’s had a couple. Promise previously made, he introduces me to Mr. Flowers, charming Englishman and son of the gallery’s founder. And subsequently I meet R and E, a couple who are not a couple with whom I fall into the discussion of a painting. A not uninteresting painting, but I could do better if my life was at stake, which it may be one day. They are painters too. The soirée starts to fizzle out when I experience the usual paranoia on discovering I may be the last to leave. I say farewell to M who is about to part with unearned income in exchange for a painting. At least, that’s the game he’s pretending to play, and like basketball it’s a fair game: a feint here, a feint there, confuse your assailant. I catch up with R and E on the way out and they suggest The Carlisle, and of course New York is a place to drink with strangers, if there should be such place. Anyway, I liked them, if an excuse needed to be sought.
Interlude - another memory buzz. Some time prior to the above: a chance encounter with a black man on the subway – he jokes with his buddies, catches my eye, asks me where I’m from, thinks I may be German, says he loves the English - who shakes my hand and promises I’ll get rich. About ten thousand he thinks, somewhat modestly. Let’s not get carried away. Anyway, I’m still waiting. Fair dues – he didn’t say when.
More fuel required at this point, the red being dead. In truth it was yesterday’s bottle, already half drunk, and the weather demands something a little stronger. On leaving building on West 17th discover the ice storm has increased in intensity. Under street-lights it looks like a heavy fall of snow has covered the entire width of the street. Walk over to 7th Avenue, busy with pedestrians confronting the icy quagmire, and then up to the liquor store on 21st, the Empire State glowing misty green tonight, the main avenue covered in slush despite the intensity of traffic. Stop and listen to ice pellets hitting plastic trash sacks like miniature invisible bullets ricocheting in every direction. Walk on up to 23rd Street where three snow-ploughs in convoy pile the slush against parked cars. Continue on 23rd Westwards crossing 8th and on to 9th Avenue, drawn by the exotic nature of the evening, and stop to watch traffic; a personal pastime. 9th Avenue, being quieter, is covered in compressed slush all the way across, cars gliding silently over the whiteness turned orange under sodium lights. Decide to continue on to 10th Avenue, this time on 18th Street, where the night feels more desolate, the odd soul venturing along. Stop to watch clouds of ice pellets swirling sparkling in lamplight high on tenement buildings before returning all the way back on 17th Street, occasionally stopping to watch more traffic, listening to the lazy hum of iron-block V8s unfazed by the conditions.
Ludwig Bemelmans arrived in New York in 1914 from his native Austria accompanied by two pistols, later creating Madeline, a children’s book set in Paris. My research has yet to tell me if he painted for his supper, but Bemelmans Bar at the five star Carlisle, dimly lit NYC style, is a wall to wall delight of his drawings, which appear even on the lampshades. Judging by the people in the place I bet Steinberg hung out here. Most of them looked like they died at the same time as him anyhow, were probably used previously as cannon fodder in his drawings. A haunt of vampires: vampires with hairpieces, vampires with tasseled loafers, vampires with Gucci wallets. Not to mention high class women of dubious repute. No wonder the light was low, but the gold still glistened like gold should glisten. Not a place to have been when the sun came up.
Frankly, I don’t remember much of the conversation and neither I suspect do my brief new acquaintances. It’s of little importance; like life, like art, like anything which purports to be important. In any case, the band was soon to start up. Music from a similar era as the clientele; fine jazz piano and a rhythm section accompanied by Frank Sinatra singing from his grave. You had to be there. It put the meaning back into life. We each had a couple of glasses of wine and the bill came to $70 per person with cover charge and service. A small price to pay. We said our goodbyes and I walked back sixty or so blocks, on Madison until Madison Square Park then weaved my way across. Walking in New York at night gives the satisfaction of having travelled to an exotic planet in some other galaxy, and who could be so lucky.
March 18
6:30pm. Walk to 310 Greenwich Street, Tribeca, first heading across to 9th Avenue on 15th Street then down, entering Greenwich Street at it’s northernmost extremity, just below the Meat Packing district. Temperature below zero, uncleared snow starting to freeze solid; where cleared, black ice forming unnavigable patch as water drips from building’s overhanging ironwork above. Descending on Greenwich, cross-streets to the west lit golden by evening sun, fire escapes casting long horizontal shadows on buildings, Jersey City glowing across the Hudson. Sidewalks mostly negotiated via narrow walkable channels between mountains of piled up snow. Arrive unfashionably late to dinner invitation with bottle of St. Emillion. Company: one Argentinian, one Puerto Rican, one Uruguayan, one American..and one Englishman. Discover during polite but good humoured conversation that the jury’s out on Chávez (messiah or martyr) and America is in a state of decline, that New York has become a city of haves and have-nots and the less well off are being driven away. There are complaints about globalisation and its detrimental effects on culture; my argument that the price is possibly worth paying in return for the stability it brings is not well received. Return by previous route several hours later, air clear and cold, snow now frozen into transparent glacier mint ice shining under street-lights. Consume Jameson’s until unconscious.
Previously. Same walk during eclipse of moon in the eastern sky, evening January 9, two-thirds of moon in shadow, total eclipse having already taken place, watching during descent on Greenwich Street as lit part of moon slowly grows, the sight alternately appearing and disappearing behind buildings. Stop to watch moon seeming mysteriously magnified against antenna of Western Union Building on Hudson Street and glowing deep browny-red where in shadow, the lit part shining like a beacon.
Greenwich Street is the location where many evenings are spent, the meeting place of an extended family; an eclectic mix of nationalities and backgrounds, a microcosm of New York even. Souls of South American, Arab, Jewish, African and European descent can be found agreeing to differ on most things pertaining to the world at large; opinions mellowed by food and alcohol, acerbic wit deflected, shrugged off in an ambience of warmth towards fellow living organisms.
March 19
An overcast afternoon with temperature rising to low Celsius figures instigating a slow melt. Bouncing back - despite weather a new spring to be found in my laced-up boots. Recovery rate in New York a big plus, just get out and let the city take over. Negative energy turns to positive vibes through invisible waves bouncing off buildings or passers by. However, a word of warning: this world is full of energy vampires waiting to pounce in your moment of weakness. They are the unseen dark energy that lurks on street corners, in large puddles and at bus stops.
Today’s mission: the MoMA Store in Soho to buy a WORLD TRAVELLER’S PLUG SET, Chinese made and probably costing 50 cents to produce and bought by MoMA for 75cents. Selling at the store for $15. Too bad, I’m feeling reckless. It states on the box: ‘When you are travelling internationally, the plug of your electrical appliances may not fit the foreign wall outlets. These 5 specially designed adaptor plugs should be able to help you in most of the foreign countries’. Seems like the ideal gift to buy oneself if, like me, you’re a seasoned international traveller. No sign of an adaptor plug for use in China though.
Journey: Head down to Washington Square then across to Broadway and on to Spring where the MoMA Store is located opposite the chic Baltazaar Restaurant that contains more French art deco than does many a French town. After successful purchase of desired item decide to keep heading south as the afternoon has hardly begun, taking Lafayette, crossing East Houston then turning left into Kenmare and Delancey, turning southwards down Essex, crossing Grand toward East Broadway. Walk East until Seward Park taking pleasure in environs then about turn and head for bustling Chinatown and Manhattan Bridge, viewing City Hall in distance. Chinatown buildings and signs in bright primary reds, greens and yellows, otherwise looking for the most part run down – gentrification probably not a word to be found in the Chinese language. Subway trains trundle noisily across Manhattan Bridge, meltwater in constant flow from escape pipe splatters on to tarmac below contributing to congestion of both vehicles and pedestrians. This is Dumbo Manhattan side. Pass under bridge and take immediate left, heading south down Market Street for a while. Not much happening other than an interesting basement full of a variety of seafood including what appear to be enormous genetically modified whelks. Return North, stopping and entering the crowded East Broadway Mall, full of shops, hairdressers, etc. where there appears to be only one non-Chinese person in the whole establishment – is this multiculturalism? Back under bridge and up to Canal, passing Fung Wah bus terminal (buses to Boston) located next to inviting red painted Mahayana Buddhist Temple. Not the time for contemplation so Westwards on Canal all the way to Pearl Paints, bastion of the artist in earnest, sidewalks a mess of half melted snow and ice piled high at roadside in fridge-sized dirty white chunks. Then up through Soho via Greene, taxis spinning wheels on slush and cobblestones, and through University Plaza to Washington Square and beyond.
Later watch Deep Sea Detectives on the History Channel. They didn’t find the Lochness Monster but uncovered incontrovertible proof that it may, or may not, exist.
Graffiti on wall of parking lot, Wooster Street:
‘USE YOUR EYES’
March 20
After supper descend on 10th Avenue as far as Little West 12th. The disused elevated railtrack – a rusting carcass on stilts - silhouetted black against a deep azure sky turning to orange at horizon. The moon a tiny silver slither of a crescent lying on its back in the western sky over Jersey City sparkling like a jewel across the unfathomably deep blue Hudson. A stationary 10 minutes breathing clear cold air, watching sky deepen leaving an azure arc against the darkness, crescent moon shining above, the muffled sound of rolling tyres behind the concrete barriers of the Westside Highway.
March 23
The weekend induces listlessness. Motivation to pursue personal avenues of work has not resurfaced after last stress inducing job. Periodic painful twinges of neck continue to occur, along with negativity levels driven by agent’s indifference. So much unaccomplished, while remaining time in NYC evaporates.
The story goes like this: A man arrives in New York City from a foreign country searching for self-aggrandisement. It’s an old story recounted endlessly. Perhaps New York is getting tired of this story; a notion that has already established itself in the man’s subconscious before departing from the security of his home. Circumstances have however contrived themselves to ensure that his journey becomes inevitable, despite the nagging doubts that surface in his dreams at night. Regardless, after his arrival he sets about his business and manages in the process to avoid being shot or stabbed through adhering to well-worn paths, avoiding life-changing accidents by not veering too close to construction sights and the danger of falling debris.
Far from leading the life of an adventurer he settles into a quiet routine while extending little contact towards the outside world; predisposed to self-containment from the outset and having discovered that previously established contacts are proving to be by and large of questionable value. Being stoical of nature he figuratively battens down the hatches and prepares himself for a long winter, having arrived as leaves are turning shades of gold and falling, aided by the not infrequent winds common to New York. The one thing he has on his side is self-belief, if not faith in others, in a business full of one trick ponies, Johnny One-notes; here today, gone tomorrow in a fickle sea of latest flavours and make-believe talent, multiplying like so many amoeba dividing over and over.
New York streets are paved with concrete; hard concrete. Dogs walk on the surface in parallel with humans while rats feed and breed in a damp underground ecosystem of drains and sewers; warm and humid like a rainforest. While gold fixtures on buildings glitter in the sunlight their interiors are lit by the cold suffused glare of neon. Side by side, the shiny and the tawdry. Life is in the balance, too much weight placed indiscriminately and it could slip out of control.
Our man largely studies the world in which he finds himself with cool dispassionate objectivity, understanding where the land lies, where his feet are planted. Other times his brain cells form planetary systems within galaxies within the universe of his mind. The rules of engagement are transparently plain, or opaquely obscure, depending from where in the universe the observations are made.
Little by little the wool unfurls from around the man’s eyes, prompting a sharpening of vision, aided by the city’s unrelenting energy, its unsentimental attitude towards him. The liaisons he instigates deceive to flatter; at no time does he show his cards in full, presenting a front of his own desire, not out of dishonesty but choosing to reveal only which aspect of his personality is deemed necessary for a particular occasion. In this way he survives, protecting himself from the knife that threatens to cut out his heart at the least provocation.
Alchemy and slight of hand are but part of the armory he employs to win over potential foe; disguised behind an easy going demeanor a quick sharply focused mind turns tricks against tricks. Rituals of magic are performed, extra dimensions brought into play, lifeless matter prompted, provoked into life, hidden meaning exposed.
But for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Expended energy creates tiredness, exhaustion even; there is a price to pay for living on one’s wits. The man’s nerves are eventually shot, he carries the weight of his endeavors on his shoulders, eyes become darkened and leaden. Withdrawn and no longer able to make daylight excursions into the city, jumping at the site of his own shadow appearing below his feet. The circle is almost complete; time slowly returns to its starting point in the inevitable cycle of renewal and decay.
But this story, like all stories, will remain largely untold, inconclusive, for it has no structure, no fixed anchorage. Our man is drifting through life unsure of his direction, like so many before him and so many who will follow. By witnessing the world in such indifferent manner he understands that to be sure of one’s direction is folly. He is chafed by the cold wind and burned by the hot sun, and that is all he can be sure of. He stays in New York for his allotted period of time and then he leaves, and that is really all there is to tell.
Graffiti at 313 West 17th Street:
WHEN CUT
ACROSS THE NECK
A SOUND LIKE
WAILING WINTER WINDS
IS HEARD
Quote: ‘In a brief and radiant “homage” to the painter Jack Yeats, Beckett said the artist who stakes his life has no brother and comes from nowhere.’
Edna O’Brien on Samuel Beckett - the Guardian Review.
March 27
An aborted visit to The Met. Winter is finally banished by a day in the high 70s.
An early lunch and then arriving at Union Square station discover there’s no uptown express today so take uncomfortably crowded local to 86th Street which stops and starts irregularly all route. Exit station and drop down a few blocks to The Met which sports a gaggle of tourist buses outside and steps to the entrance crowded with middle class white people. Enter foyer of museum to be confronted by an infernal din, a cacophony of raised voices which provoke retreat, a return to 82nd Street. Walk eastwards crossing Madison, Park, Lexington, Third, Second, First, York and finally East End Avenue to arrive at the East River with views towards Queens, Triborough Bridge to the north, unremittent light and heat from sun reflecting off pedestrian walkway, the roar of FDR Drive below. A large working vessel proceeds downriver at pace cutting open the placid soft glistening surface to reveal a green brown subsurface in its wake. Return to 82nd Street and York Avenue turning south passing the tree lined drive of Rockefeller University at 66th, taking detour from 63rd to pedestrian bridge over FDR Drive, stopping to watch and listen to traffic below. Far side of river four tall slim red and white striped chimneys point upward, breaking apartment block monotony, Queensboro Bridge to the right a towering massive rust-streaked steel structure spanning the river - resting on monolithic stone arch supports - below and behind which a floating crane sits upon dark wavering reflections, a tugboat manoeuvres a black junk filled barge. Further downriver the distant four chimneys of the East River Powering Station and the Williamsburg Bridge silhouetted grey against a silver gold glow at the horizon. Descending on York, divert to pedestrian route across bridge under criss-crossed brown steel beams amidst a din of traffic vibrating the steelwork, clattering rythmically over joins. Passing sharply lit adjacent buildings on East 60th, eyes level with top floor of dull turquoise five storey building with filthy windows advertising ‘The Bridge Suites. Furnished rental Apartments Available Immediately’. Ear plugs advisable. Walk above and over Park looking northwards for endless blocks stopping once more over FDR Drive – speeding traffic being unsentimentally swallowed by underpass below mundane 35 storey apartment block - then about turn and return to 60th and on to 2nd Avenue and entrance/exit to bridge, red cablecar from Roosevelt Island gliding high above in the shimmering blue heat. On to 3rd and views of hazy distant buildings downtown, proceeding westwards towards the southern extreme of Central Park. Then on crossing park in headache inducing heat pick up 8th Avenue and descend, jagged electric blue geometric buildings - framed by darker, more serene buildings on 8th - signifying Times Square a block or so away. Study the new Times building at 41st, elegant in it’s austere quasi-European greyness, before turning towards 9th Avenue and the Port Authority Bus Terminal at 40th, lime green triple decked steel overpasses taking buses on airborne trajectory to and from brutalist concrete pile. Almost below on 9th Avenue westside and therefore in shadow (around 5pm) a brick faced low rise block containing an exotic microcosm of international cuisine living amongst the wheels and pungent fumes of passing buses: a sea of fish on a bed of ice surrounded by white tiled walls; aromas of ground spices and coffee resided over by a fat cat; Spanish tapas; Moroccan tagine; West African groceries. Cross to east side of avenue and back into sun at entrance to Lincoln Tunnel at 36th, passing Uncle Jack’s Steakhouse at 35th: traditional New York, white-shirted waiters in black waistcoats. Then a further detour passing the all chrome Cheyenne Diner at 33rd and on to 10th Avenue all the while a warm wind blowing across from the Hudson like it was a day at the seaside. Riverside on 10th the Department of Environmental Protection is ‘Building the Future of Our City’ next to an old disused rusty hulk of elevated track crossing the avenue at 30th. Hard to see what exactly is being built in this industrial wasteland, but they have a crane and some other machinery which looks vaguely serviceable. A stop on 10th to study two red brick five storey buildings with green painted cornices glowing with unreal richness and intensity in the now low sun looking every bit as though they belonged in an Edward Hopper painting. Opposite, kids play baseball on artificial green turf surrounded by wire fence, traffic streaming down the avenue. Take an eastward trajectory along 26th then down 9th before turning towards 8th and West 17th.
March 28
A final lunch with S. Talk comes easy. A shared agenda. A shared thirty year freelance illustration experience. Similar views on the state of the art. Everyone I encounter seems to be at a personal crossroads.
March 30
Society of Illustrators 49th Annual Exhibition Awards: a pleasant and rewarding experience on my last Friday in New York. A mix of the old and new, the traditional and hip. Overall, a sense of history, of continuation. The first real evidence that there is such a thing as an illustration community. The terrace is open to the moon. The atmosphere is congenial. I shake hands with famous and successful illustrators who buy me drinks and treat me like an old friend. Shame about the carpet on the walls. Return from East 63rd to Chelsea by foot under the light of a silvery moon in the early hours via Park Avenue accompanied by an agent of indeterminate age and state of mind.
April 1
A last Sunday stroll uptown to Adam Baumgold Gallery at East 79th and Drawn to the Edge – an eclectic mix of what could dangerously be referred to as illustration, depending on your definition. Small scale, drawing based figurative art by artists not necessarily entrenched in the world of commercial illustration. Some would call it crossover art. Insiders and outsiders, the dead and the living, shoulder to shoulder on the walls. Favourites: Marc Bell, Elvis Studio, Julie Doucet.
April 2
Kindly donate HP printer to Parsons on a morning shrouded in mist. Then, a walk to Tribeca and a last lunch with K at The Odeon as the sun breaks through, followed by a stroll down to the Financial District in the hazy sunshine, and some of the best architecture in NY. Slithers of light bursting from perpendicular chasms, framed vignettes of shadowy buildings forming dramatic backdrops, jutting gargoyles way up in the stratosphere. No sign of Superman.
April 3
Blue Van to JFK. A tour around the East Village looking for an elusive passenger and then down to Delancey and the Williamsborough Bridge. Final stunning views flashing through the bridge’s iron work of a silhouetted Manhattan in a hazy early evening glow.
Impressions of New York
New York’s soul is a thing to search for, not immediately apparent, sometimes disappointing the visitor expecting a fast return. Like other similarly vast conglomerations this city welcomes outsiders but doesn’t bend over backwards to accommodate them, falling below expectations arisen from false preconceptions; unsurprising given New York’s rich history and its ability to create its own myth. To delve beneath the veil of superficiality which is New York’s self-made smokescreen one has to search beyond the mundane, be a little enterprising.
Unlike most European cities with their municipal control and planning, tight infrastructures and safety nets, New York feels like it creaks at the seems, hangs together despite attempting to run out of control. Surrounded by water, Manhattan is in a straightjacket and ready to burst its rivets. The escape routes are few and congested. Massive bridges span the East River, taking away some of the heat, while tunnels serve to increase the squeeze.
Contemporary worlds attempt to eclipse the past; none more so than the present and its mock culture of indifference. Witness the navel gazing going on these days in New York, a city typically better known for its dynamism and less so for introspection. Perhaps it’s a generation thing – the shiny happy souls who frequent the latest hangouts won’t be too concerned about those being driven out of town by the zero gravity consumer explosion, even less so by the forecast of doom in the print industry. Post 9/11 saw New York traumatized; a trauma now being eradicated by a new wave of unsentimental capitalism – a final blast from the old volcano perhaps, or will the lava form a new mantle over the old?
Spring 2007
London, land of fitted carpets.
When living abroad it’s briefly possible to shed one’s skin, transcend time to some degree. Returning home the need arises to rebuild a protective layer, face up to the past and present. Nothing any longer seems real. A time perhaps to move on, draw a line under the last thirty years of pretence, search for a new path of deceit.
Thirty years of freelance work: no medals to pin on my chest, no trophies on my mantelpiece, no art directors’ heads on my wall. Never did try hard enough to be one of the beautiful people. Still feel like one of the best kept secrets in the world of illustration.
New York remains the place of personal choice to channel creative energy; its openness and lack of cynicism wins over the petty competitiveness which surfaces over and again in London. For all its world weariness New York retains a freshness, a raw energy born of a pioneer spirit, a will to keep moving forward unencumbered by human frailty. The downside is the lack of a safety net for its inhabitants, but isn’t that what keeps them dancing?
An Unwritten Diary is the diary I never kept during my six month residence in New York.
Afterword
Parting company from my agent created a sense of relief and liberation, faintly euphoric, as though I were reclaiming my life. Shame they didn’t show a little more interest.
American Illustration once again declined my generous offer to contribute work to its forthcoming annual. A handful of pieces did however manage to creep on to its website – whether this constitutes success or failure is a moot point.
I’m now playing a waiting game. An empty mind, a blank sheet of paper and no strategy is where I find myself...