“New York New York, big city of dreams
And everything in New York ain’t always what it seems
You might get fooled if you come from out of town
But I am down by the law and I know my way around
”

— New York New York, Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Fire (1988)

“As soon as I get my head ‘round you
I come around catching sparks off you
I get an electric charge from you
That second hand living, it just won’t do

And the world could die in pain
And I wouldn’t feel no shame
And there’s nothing holding me to blame

”

— Head On, Jesus and Mary Chain, from Automatic (1989)

For the last six or seven years, my hotel of choice in New York City has been NoMo Soho, located at the intersection of Tribeca, Soho, and Chinatown. It offers easy access to the Village and the Lower East Side, where I often wander the streets with a Leica or two hanging from my neck. For ready access to other parts of the city, I couldn’t find a better location. A major subway station (Canal/Broadway) is a two-minute jaunt from the hotel, with stations serving other lines just a few blocks to the east and west.

I tend to avoid pricey hotel breakfasts, so I need a restaurant that opens early. Just a short five-minute walk, Jack’s Wife Freda fulfills my needs. For late night necessities, Soho Olive Branch Deli is just around the corner from the hotel, offering yogurt, beverages, a wide assortment of fruit and nuts, homemade sandwiches, and other snacks.

Although the area is bustling, Crosby Street, where NoMo SoHo is tucked away, is quiet and largely deserted. During the day, young wannabees can be seen staging fashion photo shoots; most simply building the portfolios that they hope will do the trick.

When I head to the subway, I pass several retail establishments, including a second-hand clothes store, a high-end Parisian women’s clothing shop (Maison Margiela), and two shops with influencer appeal.

On this trip, I encountered what appeared to be a pop-up store promoting Tyler the Creator’s new album, Don’t Tap the Glass. I never made it inside Tyler’s shop because it didn’t open until 3 or 4 PM. Each time I passed it, I encountered lines of people waiting to be admitted. I don’t wait on line to purchase goods.

One afternoon , I did skip the que to ask the security guard why the store was named “Golf.” The first several times I passed the shop, none of the Twenty-somethings standing in line looked like they were in the market for a new nine iron. Apparently, Golf is a spoonerism derived from the name of Tyler’s Los-Angeles-based musical collective, Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All. Drop the “W” from “wolf,” substituting the “G” from “gang.”

Tyler’s store was not the only reminder that he had just dropped a new album. During the week, I encountered four or five billboards scattered throughout Manhattan promoting Tyler’s new music.

[Click on an Image to Enlarge It. The Images Are Not Necessarily in Exact Chronological Order]

**The Approach: About to Head Under the Hudson River for Arrival at Penn Station**

**The Nomo Soho Rising Above the Low-Rise Buildings Lining Grand Street**

**Another Eatery within Three Blocks of Nomo SoHo**

**Paper Hangers Clearing the Surface for New Signage Advertising Concerts, Shows, and Fashion Forward Products**

**Tyler the Creator’s Pop-Up Shop Located Just Half a Block from the NoMo SoHo**

**Fashion Forward Next Door to NoMo SoHo**

**Singing Metal and Elvis in the Broadway/Canal Street Subway Station**

**Laundry Hanging Just Blocks from NoMo SoHo**

**The Subways are Safe and the Fastest Way to Move Around the City, But Occasionally, I Encounter an Oddball**

Shopping on Canal Street. In the 80s, anyone who wanted Gucci or Yves Saint Laurent, headed to Madison Avenue for a Saturday of luxury shopping, with lunch at the coffee shop just south of the Whitney Museum’s original site. Not anymore. Now people head down to the intersection of Broadway and Canal Street.

Two years ago, the New York Police Department shutdown the market in seemingly illicit goods lining the entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge’s pedestrian walkway. So far, the NYPD has turned a largely blind eye to the sidewalk trade on Canal and surrounding streets. There have been raids and arrests, but the vendors always return, creating a game of whack-a-mole, according to July 15, 2023 article in the New York Post. During one raid, the police seized over $10 million in knock-offs; evidence that the sidewalk trade is not a small potatoes. Yet, everytime I am in New York City, I see the vendors out in full force. Imagine how many squad cars pass by each day during business hours.

Dealers overflow the sidewalks, making it virtually impossible to walk along the street during peak shopping hours without stepping on the merch. Some area residents have signed petitions demanding that the police permanently shut down the sidewalk bizarre. Even New Yorkers find the sales force intimidating.

One merchant who displays dresses on two clothing racks even has a rectangular fitting mirror so that customers can see how they look before laying out cash. I am still waiting for a dressing room, as well as alterations at cut-rate prices. “Come back Tuesday, and little Stella McCartney will be ready.”

Walking past the merchandise displayed on blankets spread out on the hot sidewalk, I heard shoppers and dealers haggling over price. The more someone spends, the steeper the discount. Of course, what you are buying is most likely a counterfeit knock-off. But will anyone question the authenticity of a handbag as its owner preens her way along Madison Avenue—even if the gold coloring used for the Yves Saint Laurent monogram is a shade darker than the real deal?

While the NYPD may be too busy to devote resources to clearing the sidewalks, I don’t understand why the luxury brands have not filed trademark infringement lawsuits, seeking to enjoin further activity. Maybe they have concluded that the folks buying the fakes at a discount would never buy the real thing, so it just isn’t worth wasting resources trying to find the people behind the sidewalk trade.

Those who prefer electronics to leather goods will not be disappointed. Shrink-wrapped Apple products are also on offer. Typically, someone quietly approaches a potential buyer, asking whether they need earbuds, or VisionPro goggles. Fake Rolex watches can also be had at bargain prices, as can fake Nike sneakers.

The Internet may have killed shopping malls, but the Canal Street market continues to thrive.

Ellis Island. I first visited Ellis Island two decades ago, but given the current political climate, I decided a return trip was warranted. My visit, which was an act of political defiance, served as an important reminder that the United States owes its success to immigrants. Between 1892 and 1954, close to 12 million foreigners passed through Ellis Island. Nearly 40% of Americans can trace their familial roots to at least one of those 12 million people.

My first visit centered on the main building, which now functions as a museum, with lots of artifacts, photographs, and text. On this visit, I opted for the Hard Hat Tour of the island’s hospital facilities, which are located directly across from the boat slip separating the main building from the hospital. The tour guide does distribute white hard hats before the group enters the hospital. I hoped that the person who wore the hat on the last tour did not suffer from Aspergillus Flavus. More about that later.

Unlike the main building, the hospital has not undergone restoration. The rooms are filled with rubble; windows are broken; and rusted equipment is scattered throughout. Unfortunately, most of the original fixtures and equipment were stolen by scavengers, who pillaged the buildings after Ellis Island closed in 1954. Despite the thefts, enough relics remain to provide a sense of what it was like to be confined to the hospital.

The only way to visit is on a 90-minute guided tour, which proved informative. No text to read, but the National Park Service and the Statue of Liberty-Ellis Island Foundation have strategically placed photographs made by Jacob Riss, one of the early social reform photographers, who documented life on Manhattan’s Lower East Side at the dawn of the 20th Century. The people pictured most likely entered the country through Ellis Island.

The guide offered up three particularly revealing historical facts. First, she spoke about the horrible choice faced by those who either arrived with or contracted infectious diseases, including Aspergillus Flavus, which destroys scalp hair, leaving honeycombed patches on the victim’s head. Never heard of it? That’s because we now have antibiotics, which did not exist when Ellis Island opened its doors.

Those who contracted an infectious disease were given a choice: Enter an isolation ward for a prolonged stay, or return to their home countries. This sometimes meant that the members of a newly arrived family were separated from each other, with the children finding themselves alone in the isolation ward. Ah, separating migrant parents from their children. Nothing new, although Donald J. Trump doesn’t do it for medical reasons. For him, it is a sadomasochistic powerplay. I often wonder whether he is into Pup Play.

Second, the hospital included an autopsy theater, where physicians from the New York-area could watch autopsies being performed on migrants who died while awaiting admission to the country. Because these migrants often died of diseases that were not otherwise encountered in the United States, the medical profession viewed the opportunity to witness the autopsies as a form of continuing medical education.

Third, some people never made it off Ellis Island, finding themselves in a hospice within the hospital. Imagine taking the long journey from your homeland in the steerage compartment of a large ocean liner. The compartment is filled with hot, sweaty people, packed together shoulder to shoulder. No air conditioning. The food is no better than gruel. Human feces and urine cover the floor. Upon arrival, you become terminally ill, relegated to the hospice, where you will soon die.

Particularly notable: the hospice looked out on the Statue of Liberty. Waiting for the grim reaper to take them, the hospice’s temporary residents must have soon realized that they would never gain the liberty in this life that the grand lady promised. Only liberty from their earthly chains.

A trip to Ellis Island is both highly recommended and a civic duty.

**Donald J. Trump Ordered the Statue of Liberty to Turn Her Back on Migrants**

**Three Grumps on the Boat Ride to Ellis Island**

**The Main Building on Ellis Island Undergoing Rennovation**

**Looking Out from a Window in the Main Building Toward the Hospital**

**Standing in the Hall Where Immigrants Entered the Ellis Island Facility After Disembarking from the Steam Ships Carrying Human Flesh**

**Machinery in the Hospital’s Laundry Room (I)**

**Machinery in the Hospital’s Laundry Room (II)**

**The Hospital Morgue: Cubicles Where Dead Bodies Were Stored Before Autopsies Were Performed**

**Standing on the Theater’s Steps Where Doctors Watched Autopsies Being Performed**

**The Choice After Contracting Aspergillus Flavus: Isolation, or Return to the Homeland**

**The Past Looking at Us, Realizing They are No Longer Welcome**

**So Turn Around and Run Back to Where You're From**

**Death in the Hospice Steals the Promised Liberty that Was Just Within Reach**

**Just Cleansed by a Mid-Afternoon Storm**

The Whitney Museum and the High Line. When it first opened in 2009, I was a fan of the High Line, which is a public park built on what was an elevated freight line running through Chelsea, starting at 34th Street and ending 21 blocks to the south at Gansevoort Street. The route is lined with trees, gardens, art installations, and on both sides, very pricey residential buildings. Remnants of the once thriving meatpacking district are still present below, but the buildings fanning out from the High Line’s axis now house street-level art galleries and upscale eateries.

Unfortunately, the entire world now knows about the High Line, including the TikTok influencers. During summer days, particularly on weekends, it is packed with people. In the immortal words of Yogi Berra, “Nobody goes there anymore because it is too crowded.” To experience the greenery in peace and quiet, it is best to go early in the morning, or during a driving snow storm.

Somewhat to my surprise, when I visited this past Sunday in mid-afternoon, the High Line was largely free from crowds—maybe because the weather forecast was ominous. I would have skipped it, but a member of my group wanted to walk the High Line after visiting the Whitney Museum of Art, so off we went.

My reward: When we existed the High Line at Hudson Yards, we encountered a mixed-media installation fabricated by Victor “Marka27” Quiñonez off to the side of the Vessel. It was a tribute to the migrants who man the food carts and trucks that dot New York City’s streets and parks. Some of those vendors are now at risk of deportation.

Quiñonez’s pyramid-shaped structure, rising two or three stories, was constructed using the same styled ice chests that the vendors use to keep their perishables cool. If Quiñonez’s message is not entirely clear, just look at the sign in back of the sculpture, which identifies the work as the creation of the U.S. Department of Inhuman and Cruelty Enforcement (ICE).

Speaking of art, the Whitney has an absolutely terrific exhibit featuring the works of painter Amy Sherald, who identifies herself as an American Realist in the tradition of Edward Hopper. Never heard of Sherald? In all likelihood, you’ve seen at least one of her paintings, the official portrait First Lady Michelle Obama.

Sherald often works with large canvases, painting African Americans from all walks of life in vibrant colors. Despite the multitude of skin tones among her subjects, Sherald uses the same grey pigment for each person’s flesh, providing all of her subjects with the identical colorization. She hopes this uniformity will force viewers to focus on each subject’s interiority rather than their exterior colorization.

At first, Sherald’s work exudes simplicity because from a distance, the color fields read as solid swatches. But step closer to the canvas. Beneath the color, Sherald’s detailed brush strokes and the subtle patterns and creases in the clothing are readily visible.

Sherald’s subject matter can spark controversy. Two paintings in the show come to the mind. The first is based on Alfred Eisenstaedt’s V-J Day photograph depicting a sailor kissing a nurse in Times Square. Sherald substituted a second man for the nurse.

The second portrays a transgender woman. It was to be included in a scheduled exhibit of Sherald’s work at the National Portrait Gallery in Washington, D.C. later this year. The Smithsonian recently advised Sherald that it would not display the painting, presumably because of Donald J. Trump’s campaign against DEI and his attacks on the transgender community. Despite the importance of a National Portrait Gallery exhibit to Sherald’s career, she responded to the Smithsonian’s cowardly subservience by canceling the show.

In addition to Sherald’s work, the Whitney also had a small exhibit of Ukrainian sculptor Louise Nevelson’s works constructed with objects she collected from New York’s streets, alleyways, and empty lots. I first saw a retrospective of her work back in the Eighties at the Whitney, instantly becoming a fanboy.

One of my companions was completely knocked out by the Whitney’s new facilities. I believe he said it was the most beautiful museum he has ever visited, which says a lot.

**Maybe One of the Grumps Would Like a Date**

**The National Portrait Gallery Refused to Display this Painting Due to Donald J. Trump's Executive Orders, Causing Amy Sherald to Cancel Her Show at the Portrait Gallery**

**Like Millions of Other Americans, this Grump is Glued to His Screen**

**Celebrating V-Day Day with Amy Sherald**

**Smiling with a Clenched Fist; Approach This Grump with Extreme Caution**

**American Sublime is a Sabrett Kosher Dog**

**Looking for Peace in a Chaotic World**

**What Lies Behind the Chain-Link Fence**

**Not Too Crowded for a Sunday Afternoon**

**The U.S. Department of Inhuman and Cruelty Enforcement (ICE) Honors the Migrants Who Man the Food Carts and Trucks, Keeping Their Perishables in Ice Chests**

Chinatown, the Lower East Side and Greenwich Village. Sixteen years ago, when I took a street photography workshop in New York City run by Steve Anchell, I first visited New York City’s Chinatown as a photographer. I returned over the years, but I grew tired of the area. I centered my walks on Mott and the surrounding streets just south of Canal. This is where the tourists come for Chinese food, as evidenced by all the souvenir shops dotting the street.

In recent years, I have expanded my horizons, including the portion of Chinatown that lies east of the Manhattan Bridge. Once I cross Bowery Street, I am in the East Village and the Lower East Side. This portion of Chinatown is far more authentic.

it is not unusual for me to spend an entire afternoon walking the streets in search of images. My watch often reports that I covered 12 or even 14 miles on one of these days. The image opportunities prove both happenstance and endless. Pickup basketball games, kids popping wheelies, street musicians, murals, chess matches, storefronts, and individuals strutting or staggering down the street, among other signs of street life. I never know the totality of what I have captured until I review the images several days later, but out of the chaos, a story emerges, which is why I keep coming back.

This week, the streets served up Luigi Mangione, umbrellas, Zohran Mamdani, a Dominican monk, Yoga in Bryant Park, two rappers, and Monopoly. And I also learned that pizza does not cause acne. Most importantly, I reach a transcendent state without first making a bargain with Lucifer.

**Standing at the Intersection of Canal and Bowery Streets**

**Luigi, What Did You Think You Were Protecting?**

**Leafleting Below the Manhattan Bridge**

**Won the Primary by Promising to Take on the Oligarchs**

**Luigi is Entitled to a Fair Trial, But if He Is Found Guilty by a Jury of His Peers, He Should be Severely Punished**

**Examining the Merch at a Chinatown Fish Monger**

**An Old Friend Partially in the Shade**

**Chinatown Comes Alive Early on a Saturday Morning**

**For Donald J. Trump, Chaos Is the Means to Control the Populace**

**Smoking a Doobie on NYU's Front Lawn (or So It Appears)**

**A Bold Assertion Given the Number of Chinese Restaurants in NYC**

**The Colossal Sign Painters are Back at It**

**Miley Still Visible, But Giving Up Ground**

Governors Island. I’ve been looking for a good reason to take the short ferry ride to Governors Island, which is located just 800 yards off of Manhattan’s lower tip. This past Saturday provided the perfect reason—a free jazz festival from 1:30 PM to 6:00 PM. I had assumed the festival would take place in a vacant field, which proved incorrect.

Historically, Governors Island served as a military base. Walking the island’s perimeter, I saw that the base was largely self-contained, with a swimming pool, movie theater, ‘luxury’ housing for officers, barracks for the rank and file troops, machine shops, and drill fields.

The military is long gone; the buildings are now occupied by artists, cultural nonprofits, food joints, and even a spa. Visitors can rent bikes, and foot-powered buggies. People tossed frisbees and baseballs, grilled and picnicked, and spread out on blankets in grassy fields.

The jazz festival took place on Colonels Row, which is an elongated shaded parkway, with red-bricked barracks on one side and what were single-family homes for the officers on the other. Staging was threadbare, with a portable stage, a white canopy, and rickety sound system. When I arrived, Cindy Lou was belting out some favorites from the Sixties and Seventies, including Mustang Sally, the Spiral Staircase’s More Today Than Yesterday, and Rock Me.

After a short break, drummer Ronnie Burrage took the stage with his band. In the Eighties, Burrage worked with Andrew Hill, Jackie McLean, and McCoy Tyner. I wasn’t expecting such an accomplished player at today’s outing. But when he introduced the band, my jaw dropped. The fantastic Cyrus Chestnut was holding down the piano slot. Who would have thought two internationally known jazz musicians would be featured at a free day of jazz attended by no more than 150 people.

Following Burrage, pianist Nat Adderly, Jr. took the stage. Adderley was Luther Vandross’ pianist and arranger from 1981 until 2003, when Vandross suffered the stroke that would eventually claim his life. As part of the somewhat Seventies fusion set, Adderly played Superstar, one of Vandross’ favorites.

I did not stay for the full set because I had to be back for an 8:30 PM dinner reservation at Pepolino, a TriBeCa neighborhood Italian favorite, frequented by Adrian Lyne, who includes among his directing credits, Flash Dance, Lolita, Fatal Attraction, and Indecent Proposal. Last year, he stopped by my table to extend his greetings, but he apparently has other neighborhood favorites because he was nowhere in sight this year.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a lot of photographs of the musicians. My 90mm lens was back focusing, which meant many of the images were slightly out of focus. It will go in for repairs.

**Literary Crunching and Grinding Into Governors Island**

**One of the Grump’s Attempting to Smile**

**Cargo Cranes Rising Up in the Background**

**An Elegant Couple Enjoying Some Jazz on a Saturday Afternoon**

**The Return Trip Following a Wonderful Afternoon of Jazz**

Stephen Colbert. Last Monday, I made the pilgrimage to the Ed Sullivan Theater for the Late Show with Stephen Colbert. My wife submitted her request for tickets on June 20. When she received the email notifying her that she had won the ticket lottery, she also received a list of instructions. Don’t dress in black; don’t dress in white; no tank tops; no drones; no fireworks; no backpacks. Not wanting to be denied entrance, I left all my cameras in the hotel room safe.

The right decision, but a big mistake. Tonight was the first show following Colbert’s announcement last Thursday that CBS and Paramount had canceled the Late Show. CBS claimed that it was canceling the show because it loses $40 million annually, which is a plausible reason.

Yet, Donald J. Trump has no sense of humor, particularly if he is the butt of the jokes. With Trump in control of the Federal Trade Commission, Shari Redstone must have been concerned that Colbert and other CBS/Paramount celebrities could cause Trump to quash the proposed merger between Paramount and Skydance, which in all likelihood means the cancellation was not entirely about $40 million in annual losses. It was the opportune time to jettison lovable Stephen, who will undoubtedly go on to a fourth career filled with even more success.

We had a guaranteed tickets for admission, but we still needed to be in line before 3:30 PM. Normally, the studio audience is admitted to the theater around 4:30 PM for the 6:00 PM taping. Tonight, we stood in line well past 5:00 PM. From what I could gather, Colbert was pre-taping a gag with Jon Stewart, Jimmy Fallon, Jimmy Kimmel, Anderson Cooper, and Seth Meyers. So we waited.

Normally, I would have been irritated, but around 4:30 PM, the New York City branch of Refuse Fascism staged a demonstration outside the theater, which for me, was particularly frustrating. I had no cameras, and I was unable to step out of line. For a photographer, a fixed position is death.

Begrudgingly accepting the situation, I pulled my iPhone out. I suck as an iPhone photographer, so my images are terrible. Nevertheless, they serve as an important visual record.

Once we passed through the equivalent of airport security, we were admitted to the theater, being directed to the first row of the balcony. Here is an important tip for everyone who attends a Late Show taping before the show ends its run in May of 2026: Whatever you do, don’t drink liquids or eat watermelon the afternoon of the taping. The audience is forced to file into the seating area without first being given access to the bathrooms. Shortly before the audience fluffer comes out, the members of the audience are told they can use the bathroom, but only if it is an emergency. Needless to say, after standing in line for up to three hours, and then sitting in a ice-cold theater for 30 minutes (I am told 42° F), there were lots of emergencies.

Paul Mercurio is the opening act or fluffer. His job is not comedic entertainment. Instead Mecurio’s sole mission is to bring the audience to a fever-pitch before the band and Colbert makes their entrances. We were instructed how to laugh, how to stand and wave our arms, and how to scream and yell. We practiced endlessly. Mercurio pointed to several audience members, each one being required to demonstrate his or her high exaggerated laugh. He also led us in a “Fuck Trump” cheer, which may be another clue as to why the show was cancelled.

Before Stephen came out, Louis Cato and the band took the stage, playing several songs. Cato is even more animated in person than he is on camera, leaping and twirling his willowy frame. I’d like to see him in concert sometime.

I had assumed, a ramshackle stage and furniture, with lighting and camera work being used to hide the disrepair. I, however, was wrong. CBS spent big bucks on prepping the studio and set. It is glossy and colorful, with lots of detailing.

What was most unsettling was Colbert’s overall demeanor. We were told that he feeds off the studio audience’s energy, but his relationship with the audience was largely one of detachment. He stands about three of four feet in front of a camera, with a large square lens hood attached to it. He performs for the camera; not the studio audience. During the monologue, he never made eye contact with the audience.

From the front row of the balcony, I could see the text for the monologue scrolling on the teleprompter. I couldn’t read the words, but I assume there a very few impromptu deviations from the rolling text. To his credit, Colbert’s delivery makes those lying in bed think Colbert’s chatter is off-the-cuff.

At one point, Colbert screwed up a joke. As I recall, during a commercial break, Colbert redid the joke from the point immediately before he screwed up. There was no pauses or other spacing, so the editors must do one helluva job splicing the revisions into the broadcast tape..

Following the monologue, Colbert brought out two surprise guests—Lin-Manuel Miranda and “Weird Al” Yankovic, for a short musical number that never happened. I had seen Weird Al in concert Saturday night. Let’s just say a little Al goes a long way.

The show’s headlining guest was Sandra Oh. Not surprisingly, the interview was flat—Colbert is not the best interviewer. Aside from blue index cards with the questions, the interview was unscripted.

Interestingly, the Oh interview straddled a commercial break, although we witnessed the complete interview uninterrupted. Later, Colbert looked into the camera, saying “We will be right back with more Sandra Oh,” which was then spliced into the broadcast tape.

After the interviews were complete and Colbert said good night, he left the stage, but quickly returned to thank the audience for our support. I was told that he normally comes out before the show begins, taking a few questions, but not tonight.

As noted, this was the first show since Colbert announced his cancellation, so he had the weekend to work on jokes about and jabs at CBS. Despite normally posing as an irreverent comedian, he was visibly nervous during the taping.

As for photographs: If you take out your iPhone, you get kicked out of the studio, so I have no photographs of what went on inside the studio. There was a photographer on stage during the show, documenting everything. I naturally was very envious.

As for peeing after the show, the bathrooms are locked, so make sure you have located an alternative spot before entering the theater. Even those suffering an emergency must look elsewhere for relief.

Overall, I am glad I finally saw Colbert live, but no one should suffer FOMO if they are unable to attend or obtain tickets. It is not a life-changing event.

Protesters Outside the Ed Sullivan Theater Where Stephen Colbert Would Tape His First Show Since Announcing the Cancellation of *The Late Show*

**Refusing Fascism Outside the Ed Sullivan Theater**

**The New York Police Department Moved the Demonstration Across the Street from the Ed Sullivan Theater**

**Calling Out Shari Redstone for Her Failure to Stand Up to Donald J. Trump**

The Park Avenue Armory, The International Center of Photography, and The Frick. The city’s museums had some excellent exhibits. On Tuesday, I caught the Diane Arbus retrospective, Constellation, at the Park Avenue Armory. In total, 455 of Arbus’ photographs were on display, hung in groups of five or six on lattice work spread across the massive hall. Many of her classics were on display, including the young boy with a toy hand grenade, the New Jersey triplets, the couple sitting in their nudist colony living room, the cross-dressing man with curlers, and the portrait of Tiny Tim. Interestingly, the exhibit used Arbus’ title, which means the word “retarded” was used in reference several children.

I’ve seen at least two other Arbus retrospectives during the last decade. I never tire of looking at her work. Lots of present-day photographers mimic her street portraiture, but she was the pioneer. Unlike Arbus, most photographers don’t have personal relations with their subjects. Arbus, on the other hand, befriended many of her subjects. When I bought the ticket, the guy at the desk cautioned me about nudity. I looked at him, and said, “Are you surprised? She reportedly slept with some of her subjects.” He laughed, secure in knowing that nudity was not an issue for me, but that he had given the required warning.

I was particularly struck by how the photographs were displayed. When I first walked into the room, I was overwhelmed by the gridwork that recessed into infinity. How was I going to get through the exhibition in the allotted time?

Turns out the curator played an amusing visual trick. I didn’t realize it, but the far end of the room was a wall covered by a mirror, thereby “doubling” the size of the exhibition space by adding a trompe l’oeil effect. As I unknowingly approached the mirror, this guy was coming at me. When I moved to the left so he could pass me, he moved to his right. After three rounds of this dance, I was close enough, that when I tried to touch his shoulder, signalling that I would let him pass, I realized I was looking at myself in the mirror.

On Wednesday morning, I headed east to Essex Street, where the International Center of Photography is located. One thing is for sure; they have a tremendous bookstore.

The Center had turned its galleries over to Edward Burtynsky, who is the preeminent environmental landscape photographer in the world. Working with large format equipment, Burtynsky travels to the far corners of the world, capturing images under the rubric, The Great Acceleration. He hopes to illustrate how humanity has altered natural landscapes. Ironically, Burtynsky creates gorgeous landscape photographs, but many reveal oil fields, mines, and suburban sprawl that have destroyed the natural environment.

This exhibit was particularly interesting because it pulled back the curtain on Burtnsky’s methodology, which includes the use of gimbals he designed for images captured from airplanes and helicopters. The many images of him at work reveal two or three assistants and fixers, meaning that each image is expensive to produce.

On Saturday morning, I headed to the upper East Side to the Frick Museum. During the last five years, the museum underwent extensive renovation, so I wanted to see the alterations. By and large, the main floor remained the same. The Turners, Holbeins, and Rembrandts were still hanging in the same locations. Some may have undergone cleaning. Thankfully, they made no alterations to the room that holds Fragonard’s Progress of Love wall-sized paintings, which are lovable because they are so schmaltzy.

The Frick holds five of the Vermeer’s 34 surviving paintings—I’ve seen at least 26 of the surviving works. It grouped three of its Vermeer’s together, exhibiting them as if it were staging a blockbuster show.

As for the notable changes: Before the renovation, the mansion’s second floor was closed to the public. Now it is open, with new exhibition space and the Museum Café. Don’t expect to enjoy the Café without a reservation.

I have visited the Frick at least a dozen times, generally on weekday mornings. Usually there are just a few people in the galleries. Today, the galleries were much too crowded, making it impossible to enjoy the art. With the passage of time, the weekend crowds may dissipate, but for the foreseeable future, expects crowds because people are curious about the renovated facility.

Earlier in the week, I also visited the Jewish Museum, which is hosting a large exhibit of Ben Shahn’s work entitled On Nonconformity. Rather than looking closely at each painting, I purchased tickets to an unusual gallery talk. The curator behind the exhibit devoted her talk to explaining the curatorial process rather than focusing just on Shahn’s paintings. It is interesting to hear why particular colors for the walls were used, as well as why one work was displayed in proximity to another.

**Looking Out from the International Center of Photography's Stairwell**

**"Take a Lesson from the Lovely Lemon Tree"**

Man About Town. Over the course of my seven days in New York, I spent lots of time walking, including jaunts down Fifth Avenue’s Museum Mile, shoving my way through Times Square, meandering along Park Avenue, gazing in Union Square (no farmers’ market on Sundays, Tuesdays, or Thursdays, for those who can’t go to a city without going to a farmers’ market), taking shortcuts through Central Park, wandering in Chelsea, and passing quickly through Wall Street. Tyler the Creator was my constant companion.

**Relaxing on the Rooftop of the Stavros Niarchos Foundation Library**

**How to Focus on Not Being Wrong in Union Square**

**Playing on Aspirations from the New Guilded Age**

**Not Dead More Than a Week and Already in the Secondhand Bin**

**Modeling Plastic, or Plastic Modeling?**

Lever House Displaying Claes Oldenberg's *Plantoir*

**A Replacement Beastie Boys Wall Mural**

**Miley Finally Lost the Battle Among Competing Paper Hangers**

**Finishing Off with Some Good Vibes at The Django (in the Roxy Hotel)**

Departure. Eventually, I needed to return to Chicago, which meant taking the 6 Train to Grand Central; changing to 7 train, and then taking the M70 bus to LaGuardia, Terminal B.

And so goes another trip to New York City. My next one is scheduled for Halloween week. One thing is for sure: You encounter the grumpiest old men in New York City. These three were lurking about in Union Square on Sunday morning.

Jack Siegel is a Chicago-based photographer who traverses the streets of Chicago with camera in hand. Jack's practice includes architectural photography and urban landscapes.

Archive

Jul 28 Grumpy in NYC

@Jack Siegel's Portfolio

“The world itself is an artist of incomparable inventiveness, and that to recognize its best works and moments, to anticipate them, to clarify them and make them permanent requires intelligence both acute and supple.”

Chicago Journal (Experiences In Chicago)

Detours Journal (Experiences Elsewhere)

Jack Siegel is a Chicago-based photographer who traverses the streets of Chicago with camera in hand. Jack's practice includes architectural photography and urban landscapes.

Archive

Jul 28 Grumpy in NYC

Jul 17 Trouble in Philly