3.17.11: Mother Nature speaks | New York Social Diary

Mother Nature speaks

Looking south along Fifth Avenue from 55th Street. 1:40 PM. Photo: JH.

Thursday, March 17, 2011. Getting warmer. I had a luncheon appointment yesterday with a man who runs a hedge fund. He called me in the late morning to tell me that because of the tentativeness of the situation in Japan, he needed to stay in the office and monitor. Concern.

Coincidentally a few minutes later I got an email from a longtime reader in the Pacific Northwest encouraging me to address the situation, that it was a moment in the lives of millions of people that was more important and crucial than any party I might cover or any public event/celebration that might crop up.

I understood. Although what does one say when Mother Nature speaks. Remember the Earth, She is thy Mother. Honor thy Mother. And Father.


	Looking east across 57th Street from 6th Avenue. 3:10 PM.

I was thinking about that the night before when I was writing the Diary about the Save Venice Ballo Maschera. I have been thinking about it for a long time now. Even years, to those who know me. Japan has increased the focus, as no doubt it has for many others.

In our own lives, in times of personal catastrophe we ask ourselves many questions. Often it is: why me? Or, if you are religious, “what did I do to deserve this?” Or, as often the case with many of us, “What did I expect after what I did? Or said, or thought.” These are human responses to the self.

Those questions often offer the opportunity for learning. Such as: Don’t mess with Mother Nature. It’s a hard lesson for most of us, because we do. All the time. And we’re often arrogant about it, as if all that matters is the Myself.

Many of us live our lives repeating these questions over and over. Recently there was an article in the New York Times about our lack of compassion for ourselves, and its effect on our personal health.

The irony is that the Japanese people are by nature cautious and prudent about managing their lives and their institutions. Or so it seemed. Until now.

But now it’s a little different. The reality has moved. It’s bigger. It’s been getting bigger and bigger for a long time now. As the world has been getting smaller. The brilliant James Lovelock, the scientist and futurologist, tells us that Mother Earth has had it. Easy for him to say: he’s 92.

Some would call that the End. I would call it the Change, but then I’m human and the end is always near.

As I was saying, I had this lunch date which was suddenly canceled. It was Wednesday and I hadn’t been to Michael’s in several days. Coincidentally I learned that JH was out on a photography shoot for the HOUSE section, in the same building as Michael’s. So we decided to meet for a rare lunch together. Steve Millington took a picture.

DPC and JH at Michael's.

Baby Iceberg, Vegetable Crudités, Applewood-Smoked Bacon, Blue Cheese Dressing.

Di Stefano Burrata, Persimmon, Jamón Serrano, Extra-Virgin Olive Oil, Aged Balsamic.

This is the 11th year of the NYSD, and the 13th year JH and I have been working together. He first came to work for me shortly after he got out of college when I was editor of Avenue Magazine in the late 90s. Two years later he and I launched the site. It has been a very successful collaboration, possibly because for almost the entire time we’ve never worked in the same room, or even location, together. At Avenue, he ran my office and I worked from home, and since then we’ve always worked in our homes. We communicate constantly, of course.

One upshot of this venture for JH is that because he used to have to cover a lot of events with his camera (while I was elsewhere), one night he had to cover a party at Graff where he just happened to meet a very pretty young girl with bright smiling eyes named Danielle Rossi, and now they are engaged. The entrepreneurial spirit has unexpected rewards also.

Today is St. Patrick’s Day. Noo Yawk Noo Yawk. The Fightin’ Irish. I grew up among them. It’s an education. One of the most obnoxious places on the planet if you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time (I’m talking late afternoon), and not a few are, is Noo Yawk on St. Paddy’s Day. Oy-vey.

Although having raised themselves up from their roots, the Fightin’ Irish have been superseded in that department of Obnoxia in Noo Yawk by the Puerto Rican Day parade. That’s when many of the residents of Fifth Avenue and thereabouts (including many Irish descended bankers and tycoons) shudder, and cover their landscaping in plywood and leave town till it’s over.

That last paragraph will unintentionally annoy (piss off is more like it) quite a few people protecting their nationality. I speak no ill, and have no prejudice, but rather point out that different personalities descend from different parts of the planet which are different from other parts, as we know. And under the right circumstances (usually booze fueled) they can make asses of themselves because they can.

My father was a born and bred Brooklyn Irishman. He actually pronounced it noo-yawk. Growing up in a small New England town where Waspdom was not only assumed to the point of invisible, but even nameless (although many called themselves Republicans — Eisenhower Republicans, to be more authentic), I had a hard time comprehending the “Irish pride” my father expressed frequently in a number of ways and a variety of times.

He did not drink, however. Never touched the stuff. His father did, however; and from him he learned that hard lesson. (Although a brawl here and there could always raise his excitement temp, if not his fists).

My first real exposure to St. Paddy’s day in New York was when I came here to live and start my life after college. I was 21 and green beer (or anything else they were passing around) was fine with me, as were a lot of other things.

My most vivid memory of the day goes back to that St. Patrick’s Day (and I may have told this story before, so forgive me), when I was riding home on the Lexington Avenue Line subway (now called the 6) about 9 pm. There was a young, wisp of a pasty-faced red-haired girl, probably no more than 20 or 24, wearing a bright green coat and beret, and passed out with her head resting on the chrome handle of the bench. She looked like a kid who worked as an assistant in some back office on Wall Street, and lived in the Bronx. I imagined she’d come from the office party (at some bar). Her face was that Irish milk white against, her skin almost translucent against her carrot red hair, and drained of all blood. Even her lips were white. Anybody seeing her there could tell you why.

As we pulled into the 77th Street station and the train lurched to its stop, the body of the sleeping red-headed pale faced girl in Irish green lurched forward, never waking for a second, and then lurched right back into her sleeping position against the chrome bar. With nary a wink. And, as her head came to a rest, her mouth opened, her jaw dropped (she’s still passed out, mind you), and out flowed a steady stream of green beer, in a direct path all the way down the front of her coat which immediately absorbed the flow.

She never knew.

I had to get out at that stop. I was laughing so hard, standing there by myself on the subway platform, I’m sure people thought I was a crazy drunken kid on St. Paddy’s Day. I know it wasn’t funny. It meant she’d probably never know what happened even when she saw her coat on the day after. But the thought still makes me laugh. Cruel, I know; but very funny.

Artist Robert Glenn Ketchum with woven photo-based screen Last night at the Park Avenue Armory for The AIPAD Photography Show, New York The Gala Benefit Preview for the John Szarkowski Fund.

The AIPAD Photography Show, New York The Gala Benefit Preview for the John Szarkowski Fund

Last night at the Park Avenue Armory, Art and Photography collectors and aficionados gathered to celebrate their aesthetics and contribute to the John Szarkowski Fund which enables MOMA to acquire new Photography. Szarkowski was a Photographer, Critic, Historian, Curator, and most importantly, Director of Photography at New York’s Museum of Modern Art (from 1962 – 1991). In that position he influenced what became to be known as “Modern Photography’ – the Snapshot composed image, Photo-Minimalism and Abstraction, as well as a general appreciation of Photography as Fine Art.

AIPAD is the abbreviation for the Association of International Photography Art Dealers.

Seventy Galleries from ‘round the globe are presenting Museum-quality contemporary and vintage Photographs – some daringly incorporating video and movement.

The show will continue through March 20th and also includes a variety of interesting panels and presentations.

Jill Lynne for NYSD