(n.) the act of fooling a man into thinking you’re his girlfriend, while his real girlfriend is trapped in another universe, by using your vagina, so you can steal valuable information and ancient pieces of technology. (via hailmulders)
Bildbau No 1, 2007. 50 x 70 / 6o x 85 cm. Light Jet Print. Philipp Schaerer.
After graduating from the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology in Lausanne (École Polytechnique Fédérale de Lausanne, EPFL) as an architect in 2000, Philipp Schaerer (1972) worked as an architect and knowledge manager for Herzog & de Meuron in Basel (2000-2006). During his four years working as a research assistant at the chair of Computer Aided Architectural Design (CAAD) at the Faculty of Architecture (Swiss Federal Institute of Technology Zurich) under Prof. Dr. Ludger Hovestadt, he was able to continuously develop his knowledge in the area of digital image processing. Working as a freelance architect and image creator today, his main interest lies not only in design and in the execution of small scale projects, but also in creating images of architecture and the built environment. His work comments on this issue.
The series of images with the title Bildbauten deals with the effect and the claim to credibility of images of architecture that appear to be photographs. It further questions the medium “photograph” as a documentary piece of evidence depicting reality.
Frontal views of fictional architectures serve as an example. By means of their exaggerated and orchestrated way of representation, they model themselves on the object-like appearance and the formal language of contemporary architecture in a rather ironic way. All images try to reproduce a reality. They are not a photograph; instead, they were newly designed and constructed from scratch by means of image synthesis and digital image editing.
The focus of my work does not lie in the meticulous reproduction of photographic images. The question is rather how images which appear to be photographs are perceived and how the relation between appearance and reality, truth and arrangement can be described.
The enigmatic emergence of a museum that is in principle “empty”: a true sensory experience created by Ryue Nishizawa and Rei Naito.
TESHIMA ART MUSEUM The blob is not only a recent phenomenon; the contiguously curving building is not merely the result of parametric manipulation on the computer. Twentieth-century modernism was imbued with many wantonly non-orthogonal forms, from Kiesler’s theoretical Endless House to Niemeyer’s sensuous concrete gestures in Brazil and other sunny climes. Such proposals blur the quantifiable, fuse the in-between, and appeal to our emotions. The Teshima Art Museum may not automatically reveal the authorship of its architect Ryue Nishizawa. It certainly seems unconventional when first discerned amid the stepped green fields of Teshima, an island in Japan’s Inland Sea. The museum billows upward as a white, bulbous and irregular excrescence. This note of irregularity – its gently shifting morphology – marks the structure as being somehow different from any generic shell or strictly rational building. The first-time visitor may also be surprised by how big or, more correctly, how extensive the project is – it stretches over 60 metres along its longer axis. As you move across the landscape, adjusting to changes in elevation, the building appears to change volume, inflating and deflating like some seamless dirigible. And then you notice an aperture puncturing this smooth carapace, a dark circular opening like the blowhole of a static beast. It’s a strange thing this Teshima Art Museum. There’s no immediately obvious point of entry. The use of exposed concrete suggests an industrial facility amid the bucolic if highly tailored nature of the island; yet the concrete also assumes a mysteriously soft shape (what could be inside?) and is unusually white (the absence of colour or the blending of all colours?) surrounded here by the verdant fields and a stand of trees towards the Inland Sea. You next notice a second and smaller blobular pavilion – a shop and cafe. You spot a dainty ribbon of raised concrete path. Then you discover a ticket office tucked into a hillside slope. This latter location is the starting point for a rather wonderful promenade.
Opened last October, the Teshima Art Museum is the latest step in an enlightened plan that the Naoshima Fukutake Art Museum Foundation and the Corporation Benesse have been developing since 1989.
The concrete path loops away from the architecture into the trees, offering glimpses of sea and snatches of sound from the water below – the put-put of a distant boat – before circling back to the enigmatic white concrete shell. It’s unlikely that visitors come here entirely unprepared, without expecting some sensory, cultural or artistic experience. The Teshima project follows on from Tadao Ando’s halfdozen buildings on Naoshima, an adjacent island where Nishizawa and Kazuyo Sejima built the skeletal and orthogonal ferry terminal. Sejima is also inserting several jewel-like pavilions into the village fabric of Inujima, a second neighbouring island. All exist thanks to the patronage of the Naoshima Fukutake Art Museum Foundation.
So you find yourself on a comparatively remote Japanese island, enjoying the village life and ocean air, trying to understand the entirety and indeed the full purpose of this unapologetically contemporary and unusual structure. You continue along the narrow concrete path, dipping slightly, to discover the Teshima Art Museum re-emerging between the trees, its low white curve holed now by a second dark oculus sinking towards the ground plane. Then you observe a protrusion morphing out from the main body of the building as a stretched, contiguous surface. This limb is cropped close to the footpath to permit access, through a tunnellike entrance, into the belly of the mysterious beast. If the building is unorthodox, its name is also strange, perhaps even disingenuous. The Teshima Art Museum is almost completely empty, devoid of contents. Its interior is fluid, a concrete membrane carpeting the ground and wrapping up from shadowy edges to span as a low unobstructed dome overhead. Neither columns nor beams interrupt the organic singularity of the total volume. Similarly there is none of the clutter normally associated with museums.
Ryue Nishizawa has laid out a mysterious white structure on the ground that is reminiscent of the shape of a water droplet. The concrete enclosure is lit by two openings and seems to inflate and deflate like a living organism. It is a shell that flows out into nature with a free span of 60 metres. The 25-cm-thick slab is free of columns or visible beams.
Nishizawa designed the Teshima Art Museum in association with the artist Rei Naito, cognisant of her methodologies and of her interests in natural phenomena of water, light and air. A decade ago, Naito reworked a traditional house on Naoshima, incising a linear void beneath opaque clay walls and placing an inscrutable ring of smooth stone to hover, it appears, above the earthen floor. On Teshima her work is even more immaterial – there is, essentially, nothing. In the 20th century, architects and engineers such as Félix Candela in Mexico and Heinz Isler in Switzerland determined the design of concrete shells through pragmatic research. Like those masters, Nishizawa has striven for optimal thinness (his concrete structure is in total 250 millimetres thick) and to allow such thinness to be legible without the visual intrusion of beams, in particular edge beams about exposed openings. However, Nishizawa is also thinking metaphorically. He likens the shape of the gallery to a drop of water, a blob complete with a small protrusion (the entryway) suggesting that it has only just landed or become solid. For now Naito’s installation is for the collection of rainwater, allowing nature into this novel structure through the two large, unglazed openings. The water simply ponds or coagulates on the concrete floor. From the interior, you experience the outside in slightly strange ways. Through one oculus, you see foliage moving in the breeze. Up above, you see the sky as a disk: blue, grey, white, black. You may well have hiked a considerable distance to come to these islands, having heard of the famous architects and the famous artists, only to be re-presented with – and be surprisingly inspired by – the elements that surround us all. Nishizawa’s building evokes a faith in the ability of architecture to make the world seem somewhat strange yet simultaneously a little bit better. (via Domus)
“No longer will tens of thousands of Americans in uniform be asked to live a lie or look over their shoulder…Our people sacrifice a lot for their country, including their lives. None of them should have to sacrifice their integrity as well.”—President Barack Obama
Be really attractive. Your acne is gone, your face has matured without having wrinkles and everything on your body is lifted naturally. Eat bagels seven days a week, binge-drink and do drugs: you’ll still look like a babe. When you turn thirty, it’ll become a different story but that’s, like, not for a really long time.
Reestablish a relationship with your parents. You don’t live with them anymore (hopefully) so start to appreciate them as human beings with thoughts, flaws and feelings rather than soulless life ruiners who won’t let you borrow their car.
Go from eating delicious food at your parents’ house to eating Ragu tomato sauce over Barilla noodles. Develop an eating disorder to save money.
Move into an apartment on the corner of Overpriced and Dangerous. Sleep on a bare mattress with an Ikea comforter. Your mother talks to you about buying a top sheet and a duvet cover but feel like you’re not mature enough to own something called “duvet.”
Read the New York Times piece, “What Is It About 20 Somethings?” Feel exposed and humiliated. Share it on your Facebook with the caption: “Um….” Your friends will comment “Too real” and that will be the end of that.
Work at a coffee shop but feel hopeful about your career in advertising, writing, whatever. Remember that you’re young and that the world is your oyster. Everything is possible, you still have so much to see and hear. You went to a good school and did good things. Figure if you’re not going to be successful, who the hell is?
Date people who you know you’ll never be able to love. See someone for three months for no other reason than because it’s winter and you want to keep warm by holding another body. Date a Republican just so you can say you dated a Republican.
Eventually all these nobodies will make you crave a somebody. Have a real relationship with someone. Go on vacations together, exchange house keys, cry in their arms after a demoralizing day at work. Think about marrying them and maybe even get engaged. Regardless of the outcome, feel proud of yourself for being able to love someone in a healthy way.
Start your twenties with a lot of friends and leave with a few good ones. What happened? People faded away into their careers and relationships. Fights were had and never resolved. Shit happens.
Think of yourself at twenty and hanging out with people who didn’t mean a thing to you. Think about writing papers, about being promiscuous, about trying new things. Think of yourself now and your face looking different and your body feeling different and how everything is just different.
Form the habits that will stick with you forever. Drink your coffee with two sugars and skim milk every morning. Buy a magazine every Friday. Enjoy spending money on candles, smoke pot on Saturdays, watch the television before bed.
Move into a bigger apartment on the corner of Mature and Gentrification and finally buy a duvet cover. Limit your drug-use. If you find yourself unable to do so, start to wonder if you have a problem.
Have your parents come to your place for Christmas. Set the table, make the ham, wear a sophisticated outfit, This will all mean so much at the time.
Think about having children when you stop acting like a child. This may not ever happen.
Maybe this is assuming too much. Maybe this is generalizing. Maybe society uses age as an unrealistic marker for growth. Maybe. Still feel the anxiety on your 30th birthday and think to yourself, “Oh shit, I’m no longer a 20-something.” (via withquest)
Spatial Construction no. 12, c. 1920. Aleksandr Rodchenko (Russian, 1891–1956). Plywood, open construction partially painted with aluminum paint, and wire, 24 x 33 x 18 1/2” (61 x 83.7 x 47 cm).
Rodchenko conceived of line as the edge of a plane that is receding in space. In a reverse demonstration of this idea, the nesting ovals that compose this construction were cut from a single sheet of aluminum-painted plywood, then rotated and suspended, transforming what was essentially a plane into a three-dimensional object suggestive of planetary orbits. Rodchenko made this work during a time of civic turmoil and great possibility in Russia, and for him and his Constructivist colleagues line was a component of a new art that would address societal ills, resulting in positive transformation. “In the line a new worldview became clear: to build in essence, and not depict (objectify or non-objectify); build new, expedient, constructive structures in life, and not from life and outside of life,” the artist wrote in 1921.
ON LINE: DRAWING THROUGH THE TWENTIETH CENTURY
Drawing conventionally has been associated with pen, pencil, and paper, but artists have drawn lines on walls, earth, ceramics, fabric, film, and computer screens, with tools ranging from sticks to scrapers to pixels. Looking beyond institutional definitions of the medium, On Line (on view from November 21, 2010 to February 7, 2011) argues for an expanded history of drawing that moves off the page into space and time. Comprising the work of more than one hundred artists, the exhibition charts the radical transformation of the medium between 1910 and 2010, as artists broke down drawing to its core elements, making line the subject of intense exploration: as the path of a moving point or a human body in motion (the dancer tracing dynamic lines across the stage, the wandering artist tracing lines across the land), as an element in a network, and as a boundary—political, cultural, or social.
On Line is organized chronologically in three sections: Surface Tension, featuring the artistic drive to construct and represent movement through line within the flat picture plane; Line Extension, composed of works in which lines extend beyond flatness into real space—that is, into social space; and Confluence, presenting works in which line and background are fused, giving greater significance to the space between lines. In following the development of the meaning of line over the last one hundred years, the exhibition traces it in movement, across disciplines, and as it has been drawn out and rewoven in time and space—inevitably reflecting the interconnection and interdependency that are increasingly both shaping and emerging from a globalized society. Line, like thought, once understood as linear and progressive, has evolved into a kind of network: fluid, simultaneous, indefinite, and open. (via MoMA)
A supporter of the repeal wears a quote made famous by Barry Goldwater, the late Republican senator from Arizona.
SENATE REPEALS ‘DON’T ASK, DON’T TELL’ WASHINGTON — The Senate on Saturday struck down the ban on gay men and lesbians serving openly in the military, bringing to a close a 17-year struggle over a policy that forced thousands of Americans from the ranks and caused others to keep secret their sexual orientation.
By a vote of 65 to 31, with eight Republicans joining Democrats, the Senate approved and sent to President Obama a repeal of the Clinton-era law, known as “don’t ask, don’t tell,” a policy critics said amounted to government-sanctioned discrimination that treated gay and lesbian troops as second-class citizens.
Mr. Obama hailed the action, which fulfills his pledge to reverse the ban. “As commander in chief, I am also absolutely convinced that making this change will only underscore the professionalism of our troops as the best led and best trained fighting force the world has ever known,” Mr. Obama said in a statement after the Senate, on a 63-33 vote, beat back Republican efforts to block a final vote on the repeal bill.
The vote marked a historic moment that some equated with the end of racial segregation in the military.
It followed a comprehensive review by the Pentagon that found a low risk to military effectiveness despite greater concerns among some combat units and the Marine Corps. The review also found that Pentagon officials supported Congressional repeal as a better alternative than an court-ordered end.
Supporters of the repeal said it was long past time to end what they saw as an ill-advised practice that cost valuable personnel and forced troops to lie to serve their country.
“We righted a wrong,” said Senator Joseph I. Lieberman, the independent from Connecticut who led the effort to end the ban. “Today we’ve done justice.” (continue reading via NY Times)
Monkman’s house has a quiet presence, its front half hidden behind a fence of cedar two-by-sixes.
HOME IS WHERE THE ART IS In Toronto, a painter accustomed to crashing in his studio created an airy artistic haven with both working and living quarters for a more balanced and polished picture.
A shaft of light slants down through the clouds, flooding a mountaintop and a river valley with blue-white tones. This pastoral scene, a work in progress, fills a big canvas on artist Kent Monkman’s wall, and you can see every brushstroke, thanks to the skylight positioned just above it in the tall ceiling. With broad expanses of white walls and perfectly modulated light, this space is the very picture of an artist’s studio—and it was crafted as carefully as Monkman’s mountain landscape.
Just knock on a wall and you’ll hear a solid, workmanlike thunk. “There’s plywood behind all this drywall, so I can put in screws and hang a work any where I want,” Monkman says, relaxing on a Florence Knoll sofa just across from the painting in the open-plan room, which serves as his studio, office, living room, and dining room. “It works as a gallery as well; I use it that way when collectors or curators come to visit.”
Such flexibility is the defining feature of loft living, and Monkman’s 3,300-square-foot space has plenty of it. Located on a Toronto street that houses a chocolate factory, a crumbling car-parts plant, and workers’ houses, the home has all the character of a repurposed industrial building, with a mezzanine, polished concrete on the floor, and exposed wood trusses on the ceiling. Yet there are quiet Victorian houses next door, a pleasant courtyard out front, and a green roof, rich with multihued sedums shaded by nearby cherry trees.
On the inside, the mixture of the industrial and the domestic is largely the work of architectural designer Jason Halter, who oversaw its major renovation in 2009. “This building is really fitted out purposefully,” says Halter, a veteran of Toronto-based Bruce Mau Design, where he helped design everything from MoMA signage to a huge urban park with Rem Koolhaas. “It’s an artist’s studio, and everything that was done was done out of necessity.”
Monkman, a working artist for over 20 years, had clear ideas about what he needed in a home—and experience told him that a live/work studio isn’t necessarily the best place to reside. “For most of my time in Toronto, I’ve basically lived in my studio and storage space, surrounded by all my supplies and work,” he says.
A couple of years ago he was occupying a storefront that felt like “a bowling alley.” Given the success of his multimedia art practice—Monkman now shows at museums and major art fairs around the world—he says, “It was time to separate living and working.” So he went hunting for a new space and found this one. Once a small factory, it was the workshop of a landscape architect, Terry McGlade, who specializes in green roofs.
Skylights provide crucial natural light in the dining area and bedroom.
Seeing its massive volume—28 feet wide and 16 feet high—“I thought this place was awesome and that I’d do a cheap cosmetic renovation,” Monkman says. He bought it, asked Halter to design some hardy studio furniture, and started working there.“I used this as my annex studio at first, so I spent a while in the space. I painted here, we shot a video here.” Halter steps in: “And you were practicing tai chi here,” he says with a grin. “It’s true, I really put it to use,” Monkman echoes. “The space is wonderful. But some of the infrastructure had to be replaced, and as it turned out, you had to backtrack to go forward,” he adds.
In fact, the poor insulation, the garage-door-instead-of-windows setup, and an ancient furnace necessitated a complete overhaul. Halter was up for the job, collaborating with architect and friend Anthony Provenzano. Monkman asked them to redesign his space with a flexible plan that could shift between a studio or living space depending on his needs. Their response was to be as subtle as possible, preserving as much of the existing raw character as they could. “There was a lot of work to do,” Halter says, “but I wanted to make it look like not much was done at all.”
After Halter and Provenzano completed the initial designs, Halter and his firm, Wonder Inc., took over. The biggest changes were simple architectural fixes. Halter removed a drop ceiling, added three skylights, and replaced the garage door with a new commercial door and window system, which made it brighter and more airtight. He designed a galley kitchen for a corner of the main space and enlarged an existing mezzanine at the back, opening a wall and stretching the floor a few feet to make more space for a bedroom and bathroom.
As they worked out more of the redesign details, however, Monkman found that keeping up two rents was getting pricey—and the new space was attractive enough that he decided to move in after all. Halter listened carefully to Monkman’s requests for a building that was both clean enough to be a home and capacious enough for the quirks of his art practice. He enclosed the space under the mezzanine, creating room to conceal a Miele washer-dryer as well as a mountain of canvases, files, and supplies. “All of these cabinets were in my old space,” Monkman says. “And now they’re all here, hidden out of sight.” Along one side of the main room, Halter built a tall, clean wall as a showcase for paintings. Behind it a massive 5-by-30-foot corridor holds big pieces, hiding them with an artfully turned stretch of wall without a door.
“We had a lot of discussions about exactly how big the opening should be,” Halter recalls. “A lot of my works are very large,” explains Monkman, whose installation, video, and paintings often play with art history and representations of Native Americans. “Plus there’s space up in the rafters”—he points up to a rack hanging from the ceiling—“to store tepee poles, which is very useful for me.”
For more conventional needs, Halter designed a set of built-in shelves that run up the stairs and along the edge of the mezzanine. They’re made of Douglas fir plywood, an inexpensive and handsome material that is a standby in his projects. “I’ve always been enamored of both Frank Gehry’s and Rem Koolhaas’s use of Douglas fir,” he says. The built-ins—a perfectly orthogonal array of shelves that mirror the treads and risers of the staircase—add a hint of precision to the space, even as the wood’s whorled texture picks up on the roughness of the building.
There’s still plenty of leftover grit: The ceiling, now painted white, has an intricate array of joists and crossbeams including a set of fluorescent tube fixtures. Big chunks of stone and the brownish tint of the century-old concrete floor make it look like a rich terrazzo, adding an organic feel to the space.
The bedroom mixes a bed and lamps from Ikea with a deep, luxurious bathtub (an inexpensive model from Neptune). The artworks include original prints by New York artist Franco Mondini-Ruiz.
But the hidden treasure of Monkman’s home is up top. Pull down an attic stair in the bedroom, clamber up to the roof, and you enter a bracingly verdant space in the treetops. A broad green roof crowns the building—the work of landscape architect McGlade, the previous owner. He planted a variety of sturdy sedums and other low-maintenance plants, which have grown up in bold splashes of colors.
Halter capped the maturing roof with a patio of ipe wood, lined with tall grasses in planters made of salvaged cedar. In the summer months, this aerie is almost hidden from the neighbors by the trees—you can just see some of the light industry and old plants down the street. The mix is a fitting complement to the building, where living and working are in a fine balance. “There’s a metal shop here, an autobody shop there,” Monkman says, pointing down the street. “But most of the time all you hear is birds.” (via Dwell)
ROLLED SUGAR COOKIES
Snowflake-shaped rolled sugar cookies flavored with lemon zest.
3 cup All Purpose Flour
1/2 tsp. salt
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
1 cup sugar
1 large egg
1 tsp. vanilla
Zest from one lemon
1. Whisk together flour and salt. Set aside.
2. Cream together butter, sugar until light and fluffy. Add egg, vanilla and lemon zest and mix until combined.
3. With the mixer on low, gradually add the flour until thoroughly blended.
4. Divide dough in two and roll each portion to desired thickness (we like 1/4”) between two pieces of waxed paper. Slide the dough (still in between the waxed paper) onto a cookie sheet (you can stack them on top of each other) and refrigerate until firm, about 20-30 minutes. Once firm, peel back the top sheet, cut out your shapes and transfer cookies to a parchment-lined cookie sheet. If you like, sprinkle colored sugar before baking. Bake in 350 degree oven 12-16 minutes (depending on size) or until the cookies are golden around the edges. Cool completely before decorating with royal icing. (via NY Times)
The velodrome, designed by Esteve Bonell and Francesc Rius, was built in 1984 as the first of Barcelona’s construction projects in preparation for the bid for the 1992 Summer Olympics in 1986. It was the first velodrome built to new FIAC rules permitting a 250 m (270 yd) track if surfaced with wood. The building won the FAD architecture prize in 1985.
It was the last permanent open-air velodrome used for Olympic Track Cycling events (Atlanta’s velodrome at Stone Mountain in 1996 was temporary). Olympic velodromes have been built with a roof since 2000.
publishing date: december 2010, ISBN: 9789460830334, authors: O. Helfrich, A. Peters, publishing: Post Editions, Rotterdam, The Netherlands THE BOOK OF PAPEROliver Helfrich, a German designer and book editor working and living in Rotterdam, the Netherlands, started a project called The Book Of… as a series of books to explore and elevate the aesthetic value of seemingly everyday materials such as paper. wood, glass and stone. The first book is focused on paper featuring some beautiful paper sculptures by Oliver Helfrich, photographed by Antje Peters, along with a series of essays by artists, architects and scientists, all of whom have unique approaches to paper—from adopting origami to fold space telescopes to creating earthquake-resistant cardboard architecture or using paper as a therapeutic tool. (via Anothersomething)
Ernie Sisto’s celebrated photograph of the Empire State Building after it was hit by a B-25 is superimposed on a view of the plane’s flight path toward the building on July 28, 1945.
THE IRRESISTIBLE SISTO “I was doing a handstand on the table when the cops broke the door down.”
There’s just no resisting a story that starts like that. And that’s how Ernie Sisto would hook an audience. He was as good a storyteller as he was a photographer. And, like all good photographers, he was equipped for any situation.
When being introduced to someone, he might say, “We went to different schools together.” To an offhand remark, he’d reply, “Well, you don’t have to get mad about it.” If you were having a conversation with him, he’d glance over your shoulder and wave. Of course, you’d turn to see who was there. No one. Turning back, you’d find Ernie taking a satisfied puff on his stubby cigar.
Entering Yankee Stadium to cover a game, he would leave a paper trail of dollar tips — and that was when a dollar amounted to something. He befriended the greats, like Joe DiMaggio and Phil Rizzuto, with whom he hatched a little conspiracy. When Rizzuto planned to bunt, he would give his pants a special hitch, the signal for Ernie to position his camera and get a leg up on the competition.
Casey Stengel would not have approved — had he known — but in 1949, he posed for Ernie and The Associated Press with a baseball taking the place of a crystal ball, as if he were predicting the outcome of the season.
After nearly 50 years with The New York Times, Ernie retired in 1972. He had won a bevy of awards, mentored dozens of photographers and repaired a mountain of colleagues’ watches, eyeglasses, radios, televisions and just about any other gadget they would drag in. He invented the Sisto-Gun, the first flash synchronization for the Speed Graphic shutter. And he was a master of Big Bertha, a rapid-fire monster of a camera used mostly at sporting events. He came up with rare photos of a solar eclipse in 1954 that no one else managed to capture.
“I never took a great picture, but I took a lot of good ones,” Ernie would often say. It didn’t happen to be true. He knew how to hook an audience, taking many great pictures that illuminated the American timeline. He straddled a cable to shoot a bird’s-eye view of the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge. He shot a ceremony taking place at the base of the Statue of Liberty from the torch, with the statue’s crown creating a remarkable design. He followed street urchins, in knickers, chasing down a line of elephants walking, nose to tail, toward the old Madison Square Garden.
Ernie’s most challenging moment arrived the morning of July 28, 1945, when a B-25 bomber lost in a dense fog crashed into the Empire State Building, tearing a hole into the 78th and 79th floors, killing 14 people. Ernie worked his way through the fire and police lines, boarded an elevator commandeered by emergency workers, exited on the 67th floor and climbed up to the gaping hole, shot some images and then continued higher, to the 86th floor. He persuaded two other photographers to hold onto his legs while he hung out over a parapet on a precarious perch overlooking the gash. From there he snapped his Page 1 trophy.
The other photographers, not interested in repeating Ernie’s derring-do, passed him their film holders and he shot an image for each of them. He would say later, “Those guys won a lot of prizes with my picture.” He was half joking. (via NY Times Lens blog)
1992: A Volunteers of America sidewalk Santa at the Liberty Deli, Madison Avenue and 49th Street.
NORTH POLE NOIR “Ho, ho, ho. You got a problem with that?”
Thus, we might imagine, speaks the New York Santa Claus. Certainly, the specimens seen in these photos, culled from the New York Times archive, have an edge. They may not be everyone’s idea of that jolly old elf, but New Yorkers have a unique claim on the gentleman — St. Nicholas, after all, was the patron saint of Amsterdams old and new. We should be able to portray him any way we want.
Mr. Claus is largely an amalgam of characters drawn by New Yorkers like Washington Irving, Clement Clarke Moore, Thomas Nast and Francis Pharcellus Church. (Who? The guy who assured Virginia that yes, there is.) But a number of these pictures show that other places could take a cheeky approach to Father Christmas, too.
Ernest Sisto, best known for his photo of the B-25 that hit the Empire State Building in 1945, took Slide 3, which shows an NBC announcer, John Clarke, fortifying himself with a Manhattan before greeting 60 needy children who were being treated to turkey dinners on Dec. 12, 1965. The setting was Eddy’s Restaurant on West 48th Street, a favorite of NBC and Associated Press employees, who threw money into a loving cup throughout the year to finance the annual benefit. It’s safe to say Mr. Clarke wasn’t the only one drinking at the event.
That feral-looking Santa in Slide 14, who seems to have decapitated Vixen in the parking lot of the Garden State Plaza in Paramus, N.J., was captured by D. Gorton on Nov. 25, 1977. Yes, Virginia, the ’70s were rough.
Slide 6, taken by Meyer Liebowitz, shows the would-be Santas who arrived Nov. 19, 1959, at the Volunteers of America tabernacle on East Houston Street. But it’s easy to imagine it as a police lineup. “Officer, I’m sure of it. Third from the right. He’s the one who came down my chimney that night!” (via NY Times Lens Blog)
Production Designer | New York, NY | 2-Person Household | Has done films for Cindy Sherman and Larry Clark. Photo by Mark Menjivar.
“You Are What You Eat is a series of portraits made by examining the interiors of refrigerators in homes across the United States.
For three years I traveled around the country exploring food issues. The more time I spent speaking and listening to individual stories, the more I began to think about the foods we consume and the effects they have on us as individuals and communities. An intense curiosity and questions about stewardship led me to begin to make these unconventional portraits. A refrigerator is both a private and a shared space. One person likened the question, “May I photograph the interior of your fridge?” to asking someone to pose nude for the camera. Each fridge is photographed “as is”. Nothing added, nothing taken away. These are portraits of the rich and the poor. Vegetarians, Republicans, members of the NRA, those left out, the under appreciated, former soldiers in Hitler’s SS, dreamers, and so much more. We never know the full story of one’s life.
My hope is that we will think deeply about how we care. How we care for our bodies. How we care for others. And how we care for the land.”
“The unique thing about man is that he is capable of being aware of his tragic fate; he can be aware of the fact that he will die; he can be aware that the ultimate meaning of the universe and life itself is unknowable. A nation that is without an awareness of tragedy and death is to some extent a nation that is still in the mists of primal ignorance.”—Liu Xiaobo