New York State of Mind

     For more than forty years, I have been engaged in an unrequited love affair with the city of New York.  This twenty-two square mile island supports the grandest experiment in the human epic.  Nowhere else in the world can more than one hundred cultures coexist in relative harmony, surrounded by water, and confined to a mere fourteen thousand acres of man-made landscape.  Life in New York is a daily spectacle of carefully choreographed movement of the masses scored with a symphony of ambition and disparate intentions.

     I lived in the city for the duration of two brief episodes and, along with several friends, continued to maintain an apartment on the lower east side (today, the East Village) for several years afterward.  My work finds me in Manhattan quite often and as I wander through my old routes and avenues I find myself, in unison with all relics of the beat generation, lost in lamenting the past.

     Most of my hideouts have faded into folklore and mythology.  I enjoyed espresso every New Year’s Day at the Café Borgia for thirty years.  Several restaurants have since occupied that space on the corner of Bleeker and MacDougal following the departure of Borgia ten years ago.

     I spent each of those same New Year’s Eves at the Gramercy Park Hotel until Ian Schrager converted it to a shrine unto himself.  That classic block of old New York served as a fabled refuge for artists, poets, and serious actors since the beginning of the twentieth century.  I remained a guest at the Gramercy for one more year during the occupation of the conquerors.  Upon returning to my suite at the conclusion of the New Year’s celebration, I found the entire lobby densely populated by disheveled, cross-eyed beautiful people and every elevator reeking of vomit (so much for elegance).

     During the optimistic eighties I contributed to the promotion of the most popular club band on the contemporary circuit.  The Human Switchboard was quite often a showcase band at CBGB’s where Bleeker meets Bowery.  I will truly miss that smelly, smoky, baudy sanctuary.

     Many of my favorite eateries have also vanished and have been replaced by franchised, formica carry-outs.  Fond memories of Christie’s, Maxie’s Restaurant, even St. Mark’s Pizza have been exiled perhaps to this paragraph alone.

     I have never been resistant to change.  In fact, I welcome progress and try to influence it where I can.  All change, however, is not beneficial.  New York is gradually becoming a commercial strip mall.  The Village was, at one time, a medina of independent designers and unique and courageous boutiques most of these have been replaced with brand name stores and label outlets.

     Art galleries have evolved into art hotels which simply rent space to any self-proclaimed artist with a trust fund or an advertising budget.  There is no longer a hierarchy of talent or even a qualified jury.  The resulting effect is a glut of mundane, uninspired art.

     New York was once heralded as a place where anything could happen even if only for a moment.  Today, the only thing that happens in New York is the continuation of events which already happened.

     Greed and indifference have broken the back of the urban spirit, imagination is paralyzed.  I am, by definition, a capitalist.  I am, however, able to perceive the profound contradiction between financial success and greed.  Greed is insatiable and therefore can never experience true success.

When Emma Lazarus composed the final stanza of The New Colussus, she wrote:

Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

     From this miasma of human sewage emerged the greatest, most resilient species in Darwinian classification, the New Yorker.  To theseindividuals New York owes her identity and, with it, her gratitude.  Further, among these huddled masses are the cornerstones and capitals of New York’s future.  I fervently hope I live long enough to witness or even participate in the renaissance. 

Ode to Vanessa Rose

     My close friends often joke about my magnetic attachment to the city of New York , which borderson obsession.   I have lived there twice and, with friends, kept an apartment for several years.  I read volumes of text pertaining to city life and can discuss the history ofGothamon a graduate level.  I have planted many seeds throughoutmy tenure , some  have born fruit, some have not , some still may.   At any rate, no matter where I am in the world, my life goes on in Manhattan.  The alluring element of the metropolis of my youth was not simply her tolerancefor, but her embrace of individuals who chose a life less ordinary.  Vanessa was one such person.   

     My personal history includes a twelve-year bout with substance abuse which is a novel in itself but by the grace of God I have maintained continuous sobriety for twenty years.  This brings me back to Vanessa.   I met Vanessa in my early years of recovery.  Vanessa was a marijuana addict (yes, they do exist).  In her youth she discovered the New York counterculture and established a notable identity within it.

     She was able to design jewelry but more importantly, she could sing.  Unfortunately, her parents were indoctrinated during the reefer-madness era and were convinced she had a serious mental disturbance.  They convinced her to seek professional help and so began her demise.

     The field of psychology has changed radically since Sigmund Freud presented it as a legitimate science.  Today psychology is the marketing arm of the pharmaceutical industry.  Most psychologists operate under the umbrella of a licensedM.D. If an individual enters a psychologist&#39s office the current protocol dictates that a diagnosis is warranted to validate the complaint.  If the afflicted individual employs terminology such as "nervous", "anxious", "depressed", "low energy", "afraid", or God forbid "paranoid", he or she will leave with a prescription.   The mental health professional will carefully list all of the possible side effects of any prescribed drug and the patient will invariably experience all of them.   The intelligent and astute sufferer will conclude that the treatment is infinitely worse than the condition it was meant to alleviate and will voice those concerns to the psychologist.  The professional is then instructed to say, "I only made the diagnosis based upon your complaint.   I used your words not mine", returning the liability to the patient.   The more vulnerable patient, however, will simply describe the new symptoms at which time more and different substances will be included in the treatment.   From this point onward the original diagnosis is discarded and the victim will spend a lifetime of stabilizing medications.   This, of course, is the intent of the drug industry. I worked in the human frailty business for more than ten years when it was still an honorable pursuit.  I have been exposed to every type of behavioral aberration on record.  I have even interviewed murderers.  Vanessa never exhibited any irrational behavior until her "team" began experimenting with new chemicals to suppress the adverse reactions caused by the initial prescriptions.  During these episodes she had to be institutionalized.  None of this was necessary. 

     During her periods of lucidity Vanessa was pure joy.  She knew every street vendor in the Village by name and could recite his/ her lineage.  She knew every owner of every greasy spoon and memorized every menu. She had a kind word for anyone she encountered.  She was creative and witty and absolutely hilarious.  Jewels of wisdom trickled out of the corners of her mouth during the most mundane conversations.  She was aware, engaged, and most of all genuinely compassionate.  Tourists who ventured into the East Village for a touch of local color could often hear her belt out a tune in several open mike venues.  The completion of her song would provoke comments like, "only in New York," or, "that was worth the trip".  Vanessa and I would walk the streets of Lower Manhattan late into the night fearlessly engrossed in conversation without even a threat of an incident.  We often rode the subway until dawn to escort our friends back to Brooklyn.  Vanessa was one of those people who would come up with an idea at two-o-clock in the morning and wake me out of a sound sleep with a phone call, that would last for hours.    We spoke once a week for twenty years.  Vanessa had horrible luck with men.   She could find the good in anyone but she didn’t stop there.  She could perceive the potential for good in people even when their last spark of divinity had been smothered in despair and desperation.  She may have been an angel. 

Vanessa Rose was found dead in her bed on the morning of August 4, 2012.  Because she had, so long, been dismissed as a member in the disposable society there was no investigation.  There was no evidence of foul play or suicide.  She still had dreams and desperately wanted to live.  Vanessa did not die from any disease. She died from a treatment or more specifically, mistreatment.  Her body could no longer metabolize the chemicals that Modern Medicine sold her.  I will miss her so much. 

Evaluation of Congestive Art Failure

     Art has been defined as the foremost expression of human creativity. Further, art is a universal language used to convey a belief, idea, or feeling through the implementation of a chosen sensory medium.

     The final days of the previous millennium produced a bizarre and disturbing movement throughout the amorphous world of art from which a voluminous saturation of language and media was ubiquitously distributed to convey nothing. To add insult to injury, on many occasions the producer of this "art," when asked to articulate the connection between the inspiration for a particular work and the work itself, remained conspicuously speechless. A high point of academic tragedy is reached when an individual achieves a platform from which to make a statement and is thus exposed as one having absolutely nothing to say. In yet another twist of absurdity, this "movement" of sub-intellectual flailing seemed to have been hijacked by a coven of over-ripe divorcees attempting to plot the course of art history with their lucrative alimony settlements.  The end result of this phenomenon was more than a decade bursting at the seams with an abundance of average art to the extreme.

     In the 1990's, Americans also endured the greatest economic scam since the Fisk and Gould Gold Rush on Black Friday in 1869.  A small inner circle of investors who had access to immeasurable sums of public money initiated a game of high stakes hot potato.  It began when several respectable brokerage houses fabricated a rush on stocks, which they knew to be worthless, for the purpose of resale, often on the same day, for substantial profit.  Based upon individual records of high returns recorded by these firms in the past, many other investors raced for a chance to get into the game.  This cycle of buying and selling lasted for nearly the entire decade.  When the smoke cleared and the mirrors collapsed, the companies originally offering the shares were found to have, not only no profits to report but most, had never recorded revenues at all.  When the trump was finally played, the highest bidder was left holding the empty bag.  To this day, all Americans continue to pay off these enormous gambling debts which amount to hundreds of billions of dollars.  This ploy also spilled into the business of art.  During this same period, these pseudo-moguls shifted that same logic to investments in art.  Many self-proclaimed financial geniuses speculated on works of art, again for the purpose of resale or, in some cases, to be used for collateral to finance future investments.  To this day, these individuals are struggling to inflate the values of marginal art - this, perhaps, is a generous appraisal.  If Warren Buffett were an art dealer he would most assuredly be stomping his feet proclaiming, "Great substance yields great art."

     With the arrival of the third millennium there emerged, what appears to be, a renaissance of commitment to content, visual stimulation by form or metaphor, and the return of the aesthetic. Those fluent in the language of art have re-emerged to relieve those who speak only in its slang or with a scattered phrase here and there.  The global art community appears to be trying to establish lines of communication to reveal the common elements of all peoples while, at the same time, celebrating differences.  The result of this "movement," is the restoration of credibility to the American art microcosm and a gradual erosion of mediocrity. The impending dangers lurking within this neo-renaissance are the inherent traits of impatience and reckless impetuosity familiar to all artists.  In her collection of short stories entitled, Slaves of New York,  Tama Janowicz reflects upon the, "heroes of antiquity," who performed great feats of daring with earth-moving resolve.  She then compares these illustrious champions to the celebrities of modern times who are simply, "famous for their well-knownness."  In one's haste toward recognition, the artist is often guilty of signing his/her work prematurely when a measure of tenacity would significantly benefit the outcome of his/her effort.  A work of art is comparable to an act of love.  It requires the infusion of passion, extensive foreplay, and the postponement of gratification.  The die-hard relics of the trite, post-sensationalist era often provoke the artist to reflect upon the words of Voltaire, "I don't like what you say but I will fight to my death for your right to say it." There is plenty of room in the art world for mediocrity as well as genius.

     The layman, the casual observer who maintains a deliberate safe and assured distance from the debate, must be perplexed by the magnitude of energy consumed in the pursuit of art and the degree of intensity emanating from the process.  One would be compelled to ask, "why art, for what purpose?"  Veteran artists who congregate in cafes, coffee houses, and AA Meetings are often left with the uncomfortable predicament of validating their life choices.  Ultimately, each is drawn to the conclusion that the question of choice is irrelevant.  The consensus of belief is that the artist succumbs to the mysterious obsession as if it were an implanted, spiritual engram, an ethereal assignment.  Art is, in many ways, a reflection of the collective social consciousness prevalent in a particular era, a component of history.  Whereas the historian or journalist documents events as they occur, it is the task of the artist to convey how it felt when it happened.  The definition of art, or for that matter, its raison d'etre, will perpetually be a topic of heated discussion among a small circle of otherwise unoccupied scholars.  At the same time, the absence of art in a civilized society is the first indication of an oppressive environment.  If nothing else, the artist is a catalyst for freedom of thought.

     The 1990's will forever be remembered as a decade of obscene self-indulgence immersed in a miasma of excess.  In his collection of essays entitled, My Lost City, F. Scott Fitzgerald described his fellow writers and artists of the 1920's as, "revelers who drink too much and have nothing new to offer."  Ironically, this depiction serves as a cyclic foreshadowing of subsequent generations and can be inserted as a stencil over the blank canvas of the 1990's art sub-culture.  The third millennium has presented the world with a new vista of possibilities.  The benefits resulting from these opportunities cannot be realized without the recognition of symbiotic nature, the complete interdependence, of the entire family of man.  The realization of mortality has a glorious focusing effect on intellect and psyche. The validity of existence cannot be determined by a single defining moment. Instead Being is fixed in the history of mankind through relentless contribution to life itself.

A Thought For Tina

     During my long and successful climb to obscurity I had, on two occasions, the opportunity to work as a designer for an independent fabric import company based in Miami, Florida.  The job had few gratifications but did allow me to shuttle back and forth to New York quite frequently.  On one such mission, referred to as a “design symposium” (pretentious for trade show), a group of up and coming designers and I decided to do the only rational activity following nine hours of marathon discussions concerning tapping the yuppie market, appealing to the masses and profit potential.  We went out to get drunk.  New York enthusiast that I am, I was elected to pick the spot.  Having met Andy Warhol briefly in 1969, I thought it adventurous to seek him out for an updated appraisal of his pomposity.  We found out that there had been a recent sighting at a place on 57th Street called Mr. Chow.  We immediately recruited the services of the informant who professed to have a contact at Mr. Chow who could guarantee us a respectable table.

     While being led to our table moments later, I made incidental eye contact with a goddess addressing two couples several feet from our table.  She smiled at me with an impish grin as if to acknowledge the entrance of an old acquaintance.  I seated the two ladies in our group and moved toward my assigned seat.  As I removed my coat I noticed my apparition gliding across the floor toward me.  I remained standing, considering the slim possibility that I was her destination.  She stopped very close to me, extended her hand and softly uttered, “Hello, I’m Tina Chow.” 

     I gazed into her endless third world eyes, reflexively offered my hand and said, “I’m pleased to meet you, I’m Quinn Stilletto.”  She took my hand and turned it so my palm was facing the floor.  I panicked thinking she was examining my freshly ravaged fingernails but instead, she commented on my ring which, frankly, bears a profound resemblance to a hood ornament.  I wanted to return the compliment on her jewelry but not knowing where to begin, I passed.   

     She then asked me a question I was used to hearing.  “Are you a rock star?” 

     I answered, “No, I’m an artist but this week I’m a designer.”  I was amazed at the genuine interest she displayed in my oratory, and the relative ease with which she discussed the design microcosm in New York.  She was a consummate conversationalist and a gracious listener. 

     In a previous career I had been a fashion photographer for the Crowther Photography Studio in Cleveland but I must confess, I rarely read a glamour magazine.  Nor was I current on the modeling elite of the period so I was absolutely ignorant to whom I was addressing.  I stupidly inquired, “So what do you do, Tina?” 

     Without reacting to my faux pas she politely replied, “My husband and I operate this restaurant and I’ve done some modeling.”  For Tina Chow to say, “I’ve done a little modeling,” is comparable to Perlman saying, “I dabble with a fiddle.” 

     Apparently I gave myself away because she then asked me where I was from.  I was certain that my answer would end the conversation but I took the plunge.  “I’m from Cleveland, Ohio,” I said boldly. 

     Her compassionate eyes exploded into stardust and she again took my hand and said, “I’m from Cleveland too.”  I suspected this was a colossal joke but she had an adequate recollection of the city.  We spoke for a few more minutes during which she bought a round for our table.  I came to discover later that this was her habit where artists were concerned.  She offered us many words of determined welcome and endless encouragement before she excused herself in pursuit of her next assignment.  As quietly as she appeared she slipped out of my life. 

     As we were leaving Mr. Chow I got one more reprieve.  Tina hastily excused herself from the table across the room and met us at the door and said, “Come back soon, Quinn."  I, of course, read much more into it.

     I thought of Tina often in the months to pass.  My career took a nosedive along with the economy and although I was in New York on several occasions, I never set foot in the restaurant again.  I deluded myself into believing that I would not be able to face her again without some grand news to report.  The irony of my thinking is that Tina Chow was not the kind of person to whom that would have mattered. 

     The next time I saw Tina she was on the cover of the March 2, 1992 issue of New York Magazine.  This, however, was not the Spring Fashion Issue nor was it the Restaurant and Entertainment issue.  It was the story of a Lady of great beauty and grace who tragically succumbed to the AIDS virus.  As I read her story, my fifteen-minute interlude with her became a lifetime.  I thought of my many friends and acquaintances who had perished within the time since I’d seen Tina.  After a difficult divorce from her husband Michael; Tina was vulnerable and uncertain about her future.  This phenomenon is familiar to a great many unfamous people, myself included.  She made a mistake that cost her her life.  Tina Chow slept with a total of four (4) men in her entire forty-one years.  I can’t help feeling a sense of personal loss and grave injustice. 

     The Art community, like none other, has been decimated by the AIDS virus.  It is my fervent wish that en route to the long awaited cure, the dead and the dying be remembered in the prayers and promises of the survivors.  It is not fair for many to say that we knowingly avoided contracting the AIDS virus.  We merely escaped it.