By Caitlin Hawke

On this blog, I've written a lot about enterprise on Broadway, so much so that there's a whole category at the right where I tag just those posts. (To dive in, you can see, in particular, Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3 of the series I call "Empty Storefronts and the Changing Streetscape.)

Generally speaking, the series has chronicled the uptick in long-empty retail spaces, the loss of Mom & Pops, and the darkening of movie houses. Now I turn to the shuttering in October of three dine-in restaurants in such quick succession that if leaves me wondering if a new trend is afoot.

Either way, gone are Mezzogiorno, Il Gatto Nero and Henry's; all of these folded up shop in October.

Notoriously hard to sustain, eateries represent a key piece of the retail ecosystem. But they are as sensitive to rent and labor increases as any other commerce.  However, unlike the old Broadway shopper's pivot to patronizing etailers, New Yorkers still dine in their neighborhoods.

Take for example, the closure on October 14 of Mezzogiorno (2791 Broadway) which was in the old Indian Cafe space north of W. 107th Street. After a very lengthy, costly renovation, this gentrifier of an Italian spot opened in 2015 just as its owners were preparing to close the chic, decades-old SoHo location. A surprise to all, I think, they looked to Bloomingdale to resettle. I concluded at the time that the rent savings made the uptown operation viable. And yet three years later, it has closed. Perhaps Bloomingdalers didn't care for the higher price point or the flush old regulars didn't find their way uptown. The clock struck mezzanotte at Mezzogiorno, and their 31-year run is now over.

Then, Il Gatto Nero, just a block south at W. 106th Street (2758 Broadway), also closed suddenly in early October "unable to carry on in this economy." It had only been open a handful of months, having replaced the well-received but overpriced-for-what-it-was Macchina. That machine is now a ghost having died young, too. 

Yelp reviews praised each of these places (though there was the legendary takedown or two). And they attracted nods of approval from the Michelin guide, for what that's worth. They just didn't keep us pouring through their doors.

Of the three, the one loss that stings was Henry’s. News came only a week or two before the October 21 closure, when owner Henry Rinehart announced in an email his plans to move on from his Frank-Lloyd-Wrightian restaurant that stood at W. 105th Street for 19 years and bore his name. Henry's replaced Birdland for those of you who recall back to the space's jazzier days. Rinehart’s reason was "a change in personal and professional priorities." The business has now passed to Henry’s partner chef Scott Snyder and his Boulevard Seafood Company, soon to be reviewed in these pages.  You may be relieved to learn that the famous kale salad will die another day since Chef Snyder didn't nudge it off the menu.

Under Rinehart, Henry's was, to many, a Cheers -- the sitcom bar made famous by an ensemble of wry barflies yearning for a 'third place' to take a break from their worries. Hopping bar scene. Sports mecca. Brunch spot. Outdoor cafe. Neighborhood sing-in club. An ample Thanksgiving table away from the hearth or for the weary home cook. A place where if they didn't know your name, at least they acknowledged you as a regular. Henry’s had it all and was a big player in the community. And if that isn't enough, Henry himself was an advocate for healthier school lunches.

I don't doubt that many felt Henry's had its gentrifying side when it first took root. It was always a bit above other local haunts in terms of cost. I noticed that prices crept upward recently. Perhaps to fend off what became an inevitable battle to reap profit out of such expansive square footage. Alas, Henry's is no more.

To paraphrase James Carville, I wonder if what I am observing isn’t along the lines of the temple-thumping exclamation: “It's the rent, stupid!” — similar to the problem with the Mom & Pop die off. But the answer may be more complex. Restaurants might be competing with the availability of high-end prepared foods that come from Whole Foods or West Side Market, or with the quality specialty ingredients home cooks can now find at Trader Joe’s and H Mart, among other groceries.

As I say above, restaurants don’t yet seem to be victims of etailers like Amazon, but is something other than rent pressure weighing on the old-style dine-in spots? Is it that the market only bears up to a certain menu price point around here? Or is it just a matter of time before more Serafinas move in, more large restaurants go vacant, or just more turnover occurs?

Fortunately, city council members regularly take up the topic of commercial rents, mindful of all the vacancies. Unfortunately, the needle never moves much. It seems early to say, but we might be seeing a little progress with new legislation sponsored and small business committee hearings held by Ydanis Rodriguez. Councilmember Helen Rosenthal is also a proponent.

Called the “Small Business Jobs Survival Act,” the bill aims to define conditions and requirements for commercial lease renewal negotiations, requirements for lease renewal terms, arbitration-triggering conditions, limits on security deposits, and prohibitions on landlord retaliation.

I’ve been writing about the changing streetscape a lot because some days I feel like we’re in the 11th hour, the 59th minute of what I view as a retail crisis on Broadway. And while restaurants may not be as endangered as Mom & Pop retailers, I truly hope we don't wait until the last minute to solve the economics of Broadway. We can see with our own eyes that the law of supply and demand has been subverted. But it can be fixed.  But sadly not in time to sing for our supper at Henry’s.

By Caitlin Hawke

Ladies and gentlemen, friends and neighbors. Let it be said that the week was good to us on Broadway. For starters, after a good soaking rain, we got repaved up in Bloomingdale (thank you DOT -- not a moment too soon). And a wee mile south of here, Bob Dylan gave us a little shelter from the storm.

If you are a regular reader of this blog, you might roll your eyes that I am squeezing Dylan in again. But I can't help it. The idea that the nonplussed Nobelist would take up a seven-night residency in my neighborhood gave me two full months of delicious anticipation. Over the weeks, I sprinkled in a couple of trips to The Public to see Conor McPherson's play "Girl from the North Country" to stave off the yearning. It satisfied and distracted me enough to get me to Thanksgiving and then just one week remained 'til I walked down our main drag to the Beacon to take in Dylan's fifth of seven Upper West Side shows.

Before I tell you about the concert -- and like Donald Fagen, Ringo Starr, and the irredeemable jerk who ruined the most beautiful ballad of the show last night before he was ejected by Beacon muscle, perhaps you also made your way to the Beacon and will tell me in the comments how you experienced this round -- I need to say a little something about this Homer from Hibbing, notorious for thin wild mercury ways. 

One: he never, ever, ever gives you what you think you are going to get or even what (you think) you want. Let me give you an analogy that comes from a past experience. Say you were cooking with Bob. And you both decided that you would get home early, lay out all the ingredients and then when he got home you would cook together. And say you had in mind using what was familiar and on hand. So, you saw reason to make an omelet and set out eggs, which you pre-beat, some onions, tomatoes, perhaps some cheese. When he comes home, you think to you yourself, the two of you will jump into action, utterly in sync, and whip that omelet up. Man gets home. Sees the path you are leading him down. Feels a tad fenced in. And before you know it, he's added bonito flakes, shredded seaweed and toasted sesame seeds to your eggs and is serving it up katsu-style over rice. Your head spins.

I am not sure if you follow my digression. But Bob will not be defined. Nor will he go where you want or expect. Best to come to your seat and see what the Master whips up. And just be thankful he's still cookin'.

Two: his Nobel was for literature, but it could just as easily have been for the art of imitation. He is the ne plus ultra of mimicry. His muse comes in many forms, and one is to incarnate others. Think Johnny Cash and country Bob's Nashville Skyline Voice. Think of his blues. His gospel. His Rolling Stones-like Rock and Roll. Think of his recent crooning and complete embodiment of Sinatra. When Bob goes on an impersonating jag, he goes deep and he goes long.

So, on Thursday night, I was open to the unexpected. Last year this time, he was Bing-Bob, Sinatra-Bob. But my friends, after five full LPs of ol' Blue Eyes covers, the crooner fever seems to have broken.

Instead we got a concept show of Bob deconstructing Bob.  Bob on Bob, if you will.

Beacon-Bob has delivered this whole week long a resounding reply to Bruce Springsteen's Broadway gig. Where Bruce was stripped down, solo, Bob was still kitted out with the best band in the business. But make no mistake: this show was to Springsteen's like a response to a call. 

He crafted it to be fully immersive. From the curtain that rose (see what I mean about Bruce on Bway?) telling us we were in a show, to the uniform-clad boys in the band in that bath of warm incandescent lighting, to the sumptuous set with his gleaming Oscar for "Wonder Boys" and an unexplained classical bust of a woman on prominent display, to the shiny baby grand that he would Jerry-Lee-Lewis into submission: Dylan's point this week -- and presumably on this leg of the Never Ending Tour -- was to create an ambiance and a full-on 'concept spectacle.' And once the physical part of the stage was set, he and his boys turned to the metaphysics of this concept piece: the playing, and the smithing of the old into the new.

Throughout the concert, I kept imagining how each new rendition of so many deeply familiar songs had come to their novel melodies and arrangements.  Was it Bob solo in his studio reworking them? Did he consult a producer? Did the band work it all out together?  My best guess it the former. What's true is that he always does this change up, switching in new melodies and making old songs hard to recognize until the chorus betrays the novelty. Akin to the way a jazz musician riffs and keeps it interesting, Bob's method can hardly be faulted; he's been out on the road for 50 years. Clearly, performing scratches an itch for him. But strictly on his terms. And he refuses to let his art bore or grind him down.

When Paul Simon retired from touring recently, he said he'd been out there so long he felt like he was a cover band for his own music, phoning in "You Can Call Me Al" and deriving no pleasure from being a performance monkey, feeling the audience's demand to deliver each song precisely as recorded to no longer be a bearable endeavor.

At the Beacon this week, on our boulevard, Dylan delivered transformative versions of his songs, not stripped down like Bruce Springsteen's. But tightly conceived to pack in the ambiance he wanted to stagecraft: spiked with American 1950s music, Jerry Lee Lewis was definitely in the house. Tinged with some rocking Warren Zevon. There was even a trace of Daniel Lanois, though Dylan would fight that thought.

To understand, you have to listen for yourself. I am putting a link to a rough recording of Tuesday night's show at the bottom of this post (if you are receiving this in an email, you'll need to click on the title of the post at top to go to the blog page and stream it from there). But if you feel it's a slog to go through the whole concert or if you are not a Dylanista but are a bit curious, perhaps skipping to these three selections will make it easier on you, and yes, I get that this is an acquired taste, the rough audience recording and the gruff singing. So if it's not for you, it's not for you.

Don't Think Twice, It's All Right 1:09:35
Gotta Serve Somebody 1:32:09
Blowin' In The Wind 1:42:44

Keep in mind that listening to the guerilla concert recording won't come close to the full experience Dylan conceived for this residency.

So, better yet try to get in! You have exactly ONE more chance in this limited UWS engagement because on Saturday night after the last gig, he pushes on for Philly where he's the inaugural act for "The Met Philadelphia" -- Oscar Hammerstein's eponymous grandfather's 110-year-old opera house.

In our nation's first capital, I can't think of a better fanfare to herald the Met's new life than a performance by our national treasure declaring his independence. As indeed he does every time he goes on stage.

That's Dylan. "Always on the outside of whatever side there was. When they asked him why it had to be that way, 'Well,' he answered, 'just because.'"

The full concert recording above will not appear if you are receiving this in an email; click on the title of the post to see the video on the blog or go to youtube.

By Caitlin Hawke

It's late on a Thursday so you'll have this throwback on Friday. But do come travel with me in time to just about two months after Black Tuesday, 1929. The new year 1930 has been rung in, it's good and cold, the Great Depression has begun. But unemployment won't peak for three more years in the city. 

And the great bellowing lung of our neighborhood, Straus Park, pays it all no heed. For here is a town square where folks of all ages come to inhale the fresh, crisp air and to entertain one another. An era before TV, the golden age of radio shines by night, but by day by golly the folks are out.

Fortunate in many ways, but in one we are not: we lack a town square. We lack that knowledge that you can fall out on a daily basis into the local pocket park and meet all your neighbors. It's why I love the yard sales that the Block Associations put on.  It's why BAiP's community-building mission is so needed.

We have forgotten how to commune in our own backyard.

The video below is extraordinary for its quality, its crystal clear sound, and the uncanny you-are-there feeling. See Straus Park -- less green, ok -- but more vibrant than you've ever seen it before. See all modes of 1930s transportation, including a rollerskater and a period pram. Get a good gander at Broadway looking north from its intersection at West End Avenue. And get a peep of the back of "Memory" -- far from the star of this movie.

It's perfection. A talkie of a time capsule. And it's yours if you click on the image above since if you are reading this in an email subscription the video won't play.

​Enjoy!

h/t to the West Side Rag comments section for bringing this beaut to the surface.

The "One from the Vault" feature plumbs the archives of back issues of block association newsletters for new neighbors and lovers of our community and its history.  To read others pieces from the vault, click on the category at right.


By Caitlin Hawke

First, I want to note the kindness of Chris Brady who gave me permission to illustrate this post with his technicolor photos of the Movie Place (TMP), the way it was. I found them at Chris's photo feed here a while back, and they stopped me cold, for the love of a place I remember so well. I've been saving them for you.

Incredibly, gone for 12 years already, the Movie Place hasn't come close to being replaced around here in its role as a neighborhood hub drawing from north, south, east and west. Never mind its mom-and-pop-edness.

The last owner of TMP was Gary Dennis, who is equally known for his efforts to get Humphrey Bogart his due by the dubbing of W. 103rd Street for him, replete with a ceremonial appearance of Bacall. Yes, right here in Bloomingdale.

I wrote a piece about that here last year. 

Now I love Bogie and Bacall as much and perhaps more than most. But it takes a force of nature like Gary to move city elements -- NYCHA et al -- get the naming done. So I want you to remember that when you are walking the block between West End Avenue and Broadway on 103rd staring at a "This is Us" rerun on your smartphone. Look Up! For the love of the silver screen, look up. Look up from your big sleep and appreciate that you trace Humphrey DeForest Bogart's footsteps as he left his home at 245 W. 103rd St. and padded over to the Trinity School. He lived there from about December 25, 1899 until he enlisted in the navy in 1918.

But I digress.

I still see Gary around from time to time. At a Bloomingdale Neighborhood History Group meeting last year, he gave a great presentation on the neighborhood as portrayed in films. Many chase scenes later, he had the audience eating out of his hands.

He used to keep a wonky blog on lost cinema houses. And I think he still gives tours.  Bloomingdale born, Gary grew up loving movies. Ironic then that when it was a novelty, everyone said his was the voice that used to animate the old "Moviefone" reservation line. And that amused me. You remember the Moviephone? It's the line you dialed that responded in a quasi-human voice: "Hello, and welcome to Moviefone! Using your touchtone keypad, please enter the first three letters of the movie title now."

If you don't know the voice I am talking about, here's a fun clip. It's not, spoiler alert, Gary Dennis. But he sure coulda been a contender.

TMP lasted in situ for 22 years, and it is now gone for 12. Together, that's more than the full lifespan of the Betamax.

Yes, 12 years ago, our mecca of movies closed, and it was noteworthy enough for the New York Times to weigh in. If you never had the pleasure of pushing through the door into the high-ceilinged space bustling with first dates, lonely hearts, groups of buddies and old couples riffling through bins of movie titles, you haven't lived.

Sorry, but it was a thing.

People came from many neighborhoods away to partake. To feast in the selection.  And to go home with armfuls of movies. To come back three days later and do it all again.

It wasn't just the selection. It was the connoisseurship. The guys and a couple of gals behind the counter each had a specific taste. You could ask anyone anything and with just a few hints at what you liked, out poured 5 or 10 suggestions of other films to watch. An algorithm in flesh and blood. It's called a brain and memory, actually. And it worked.

Yet it wasn't just the connoisseurship, it was also the place.  Patina would be a nice way of describing the layers of this loft-like store. Grime would be a bridge too far. Let's call it wabi-sabi.

If the Movie Place were a rock star, it would have been Keith Richards.

Yes, technology has transformed our world since then.  And yes many don't even feel the need for a screen bigger than an iPad to enjoy a film, old or new. And yes, I'll even cede that streaming a movie is more convenient.  But algorithms will never replace synaptic encyclopedias like the brain that is Gary Dennis's or that of the employees, some of whom, thankfully, still live in the neighborhood with their dogs or their now-grown kids. And for what the human touch is still worth, you can't get that kind of prickle online. Or snark. Or voice. Or, truth be told, that warmth.

Starbucks will never replace the town-square feeling that was the Movie Place on a Friday night.  And Tindr will never be as electric with possibility as browsing the Nouvelle Vague section over a handsome guy's shoulder.

Seek no more the ghost of the Movie Place, let loose to wander since 2006. For it is here. And this one from the vault of Block Association newsletters is a David Reich original. Scroll all the way down to read it.

Enjoy!

By Caitlin Hawke

Thanks to the considerable efforts of a load of brave people of the female persuasion like Elizabeth Cady Stanton, her daughter and Bloomingdaler Harriot Stanton Blatch, Susan B. Anthony, and Gertrude Foster Brown, it was 101 years ago tomorrow that New York State accorded women the right to vote, helping to pave the way three years later for the 19th Amendment. And by New York State, I really mean New York City, because if you look at the county by county breakdown (scroll all the way down), our urban forebears padded the 80,000 vote margin of victory.

The day that women's suffrage was on the ballot, 12,000 women stood on corners throughout the city encouraging people of the male persuasion, aka the then voters, to grant women the vote.

They were angry women. Docile women. Black women. Chinese women. Uppity and arrogant women. Handsome and plain women. "Women who knew their place." Working women. Moms and daughters. Religious women. Temperate women. Righteous women. Organized women. Women who loved men. Women who loved women. Women who persisted.

And lo! That day nearly half a million men voted with -- and really for -- them all.

The NYC Women Suffrage Party was looking for twice that turnout in support. They advertised in Columbia's Spectator the day before shooting for a million-man team. But I can't fault them for dreaming big.

In and among all of this rich history of suffering for suffrage, there's a gem: the overlooked story of Elizabeth Cady Stanton's daughter, Harriot Stanton Blatch, is one my readers will relish. Harriot, according to Douglas Feiden writing in Our Town New York for last year's centennial, was an inveterate upper west sider who  lived at 250 Riverside Drive, right here at W. 97th Street.

Harriot had the distinction of living through most of the battle for women's suffrage, beginning as a babe in the arms of her mother, the battle's field marshal. Harriot grew to be a force to be reckoned with in Manhattan as the battle waged on to its glorious end on November 6, 1917.

Says Feiden: "Among [Blatch's] triumphs: In 1907, she founded the Equality League of Self-Supporting Women, which trained working-class women to campaign for suffrage and was “open to any woman who earns her own living, from a cook to a mining engineer. Then in 1910, she organized the city’s first blockbuster suffrage parade, a march down Fifth Avenue climaxing in a giant rally in Union Square. Blatch and thousands of like-minded activists transformed virtually every nook and cranny of Manhattan — its streets, salons, townhouses, tenements, clubhouses, concert halls, vaudeville houses, boarding houses, hotels, parks, pools, auditoriums, alleyways and office buildings — into a living, breathing operational base for the suffrage movement."

New York was far from the first state to let women into the voting club. But that's a digression. What's important is that the ultimate change came through the grassroots of the states. And that it took a long, long time. Ohio voted women's suffrage down on that same day. But New York's upvote cranked the motor hard.

Vagaries of our 'states rights' vs. 'federal rights' dynamic are evident throughout our legal system, from managing voting, to our banking system, to the electoral college to name only a few. These will likely persist, thanks to our country's reverence for its founding documents. And anyone who rides the subway knows the vagaries of state-controlled city budgets despite larger urban tax bases and headcounts.

What the story of 1917 tells us is that our populousness in the Big Apple matters. It matters to the state. And it matters to the federation. Our votes do count. History bears that out.

Today, I am grateful to those excellent women, like the ones above, who got out there 100+ years ago in each neighborhood of NYC. The women who patiently organized for decades. The people who made up the Women's Suffrage Party. And to the half million male voters of New York State on November 6, 1917 who just plain did the right thing.

Tomorrow, five score and a year later, the country will be looking to New Yorkers again.

Find  your poll. Tip your (big, black, feathered) hat to the Stantons, mère et fille.  Grab your umbrella. And hit the street, thinking about what corners all across the city looked like 101 years ago: 10, 15, 30 women deep. Recall for a moment those men who voted to enfranchise at long last their wives, sisters, mothers, grandmothers, aunts and lovers in the great state of New York.

And make your way to cast your vote as if someone else's suffrage depends on you.
​

By Caitlin Hawke

Kids weren't the only tribe out in force on Wednesday evening in Bloomingdale. Photogs Ozzie Alfonso, Celia Knight (at right in candy corn scarf, I swear!), Maria Vitagliano and David Ochoa were lying in wait to capture the wee sugar-fueled neighbors.

While one or two King Georges were spotted, there were no Hillary Rodham Clintons in the ratpack, but someone needs to say "It takes a village"!  'Cause it does.

Just look at that table of goodies below. Yowza.

This was of course thanks to your Block Association vols who made it all come true.

Hat tip to child-at-heart and toothfairy accomplice Jane Hopkins (depicted above in the boa and orange witch hat), who has been the field marshal for nigh on forever -- all right, not quite that long, but you get the picture. To her team of big kids who dole out the dough. To the good folks at St. Luke's who always pitch in. To the donors who made contributions of candy, time, and dollars. And to the families who came, saw and conquered the treats and the streets.

If you are sitting on the sidelines, thankful that we have a community-building association in our midst, consider pitching in and helping the Block Association. We're looking for why-oh-ewe!  To volunteer, email us at info@w102-103blockassn.org. To become a member, click here.

And now to our gallery: "Nightmare on 102nd Street!"  If you know someone in these pictures, send them this link and tell them to subscribe to the blog: https://www.w102-103blockassn.org/blog/nightmare-on-102nd-street.

By Caitlin Hawke

October 31 -- this Wednesday -- is fast approaching. If you are not planning on coming out after sundown to lurk with the best of us on W. 102nd Street and West End Avenue, you are gonna be missing the best night of the year in Boo-mingdale.

Details in the poster below.

Here's a shoutout to the Schuyler sisters who, via their dad, have a special connection to our neighborhood and make for a spooky jack-o-lantern. (Hat tip to young Honora Overby who posted her creation on Twitter).  Good enough to send squash sculptor Saxton Freymann out of his gourd with pride.

Stay tuned to this channel for the post-parade photo gallery like this one from a past year. If you plan to have your camera that night, send your best pix to blog@w102-103blockassn.org. I'll post shots of costumed munchins big and small.

By Caitlin Hawke


Manfred Kirchheimer has lived in our neighborhood for 54 years and his days of glory seem just to be getting going. Manny is an 87-year-old independent filmmaker. His documentaries are direct, personal, and driven by an aesthetic sense that can find narrative, meditative beauty, and social commentary in the claw of a huge excavator or a klatch of coffee-drinking friends.

Manny is a documentarian who received a Guggenheim at the age of 85, and a year later, in 2017, was honored by MoMA with its first retrospective of his films. The series unfurled over nine days with two screenings of each of his films and a world premiere of his film “My Coffee with Jewish Friends.”  The MoMA reviews were great.

The retrospective was the brainchild of Jacob Perlin, a sort of guardian angel of cinema. Jake is the artistic and programming director down at the Metrograph, now in its second year.

A little digression here about the Metrograph, which if you don’t yet know it, is worth the trek to 7 Ludlow Street on the Lower East Side. Yes, you have to be able to tolerate its chi-chi side with a hipster restaurant-bar, not to mention the concessions stand which you just have to see and judge for yourself.

These revenue drivers, I suppose, are part of the business model to keep it afloat in today’s real estate market. But at its heart, the Metrograph is about cinephilia, screening archive-quality 35 mm films as well as new releases on state-of-the-art digital equipment. Quirky seating was made from reclaimed pine harvested from the now-demolished Domino Sugar factory. It’s a minimalist, gallery-type setting but that doesn’t stop the two-screen movie house from conjuring up the littlest film houses in Paris’s Latin Quarter, where you slip in and fall back in time.

The Metrograph has screened several of Manny’s films. “Tall,” Manny’s documentary about the American skyscraper and architect Louis Sullivan, ran there for five weeks and kept reeling them in.

The Metrograph-MoMA-Manny bridge is Jake Perlin. Jake became a celebrator of Manny’s work a while back and Manny now refers to him as his “agent.” The Jake-Manny story began when a cult classic of Manny’s film, “Stations of the Elevated,” went out of print from 1995 to 2014. It is known as the classic graffiti documentary.  Now a precious time capsule, it was shot over three weeks in 1977, released in 1980, and is somewhat surrealistic according to Manny. It forms a diptych with “SprayMasters,” which is about four graffiti artists in their 50s. Separated from “Stations” by 28 years, “SprayMasters” (2008) combines footage left over from the former with recent interviews of the artists.

VHS copies of “Stations” have circulated for years fueling its cult status, most recently on platforms like YouTube. Like all underground cult classics, it needed to ride again, but one major hurdle blocked it: the prohibitive cost of music rights. The score included Charlie Mingus and Aretha Franklin. To rerelease it meant to cough up $30K. That’s budget enough for two or three films, the way Manny works. So Jake rose to the challenge, got the rights, and “Stations” is back in circulation.

Perlin eventually found his way to Manny’s Broadway and W. 101st Street living room to see the documentaries on real film –- projected as they were meant to be. He quickly pulled in Josh Siegel,  MoMA's film department curator and, together at Manny’s home, they screened film after film. The idea for the retrospective was hatched and the rest, as they say, is history.

I caught up with Manny a few months ago and interviewed him. How was it to have this late career recognition? “It’s absolutely wonderful to have this moment,” he told me, “and it wouldn’t have happened at 40 years old. You have to live a long time!”

Manny retired from the School of Visual Arts in 2017 after teaching there for 42 years. He has taught for much of his career at places like CCNY, Columbia, NY Institute of Technology, and Philadelphia College of Art. But his movie-making days are far from done. “Dream of a City,” a tone poem about construction and other city phenomena, will be released soon.  He is currently editing his new film, “Middle Class Money, Honey,” based on conversations with friends and acquaintances –- from millennials to octogenarians –- about earning, spending, and their relationship to money as they live in NYC.

Manny emigrated to the U.S. at the age of five. Early on, he lived in upper Manhattan, including Marble Hill and Washington Heights. After a short decade in Rego Park, he moved to the UWS in 1964 where he raised his two sons with his wife Gloria, a partner in crime when it comes to the documentary-making family trade. For example, following Manny's documentary film "We Were So Beloved," which dealt with the history of the Jewish community in which he was raised, Gloria edited and annotated the interviews and these became the book "We Were So Beloved: Autobiography of a German Jewish Community" co-authored by the couple.

Before coming to our neck of the woods, the Kirchheimers had been looking for a new place for two years. At the time, Manny was filming “Claw” on the Upper West Side. It was Gloria who found the new apartment. Manny recalled that their original rent for seven rooms was $233, including electric. Suffice it to say, they snapped it up.

I asked him how he keeps his enterprise nimble and manageable. The secret, he says, is that he stays close to home. Because financing takes years, he keeps sets and travel to a minimum. He has a devoted crew, some of whom are his former students, and shoots only on digital these days. He can film for about $5,000 before getting to the sound mixing; that costs another $3,000. He edits the films himself -- generally a one to two-year process.

He filmed “Short Circuit” -- a rare fiction in his catalogue and dating to 1973 -- in and from his W. 101st Street apartment, much of it straight out his window. From there, his camera filmed westward straight down 101st Street to the undeveloped Jersey side of the Hudson, and south down Broadway with a good look at several old-time storefronts. Like the shot at the top of this post, the images of the neighborhood are excellent. And the documentary-style footage is remarkable for both how integrated Broadway is and the degree to which people on the street engaged with one another -- something that has been completely displaced by cellphone usage. The story is also one about complexities of race relations and socioeconomics. The following description comes from the Union Docs website where the film was shown in 2014:

"In his apartment on the corner of 101st Street and Broadway, a documentary filmmaker begins to question his interactions to the white family and black workers he shares his daily existence with. Staring out his window he begins to drift and fantasize a parallel life, which turns into a complex sound and image montage of street photography depicting a long­ since vanquished Upper West Side. Full of doubt, a lifelong city resident looks at his liberalism and doesn’t like what he sees. Constructed reality and documentary fiction, an unclassifiable masterpiece of ideas and technique that by all rights should be considered a landmark, had it not been virtually impossible to see."

One of his most well-known films, “Canners,” (2017) was largely shot on the Upper West Side. It’s about the industry begat by the 5-cent deposit on soda cans and water bottles. It’s social commentary and anthropology and art, rolled into one.

I asked Manny about the retrenchment of west side cinema, dwindling into oblivion before our eyes. He fondly remembered the 1986 screening of “We Were So Beloved” at the Metro, right around the corner from his place. And he recalled Dan and Toby Talbot, their New Yorker theater having been torn down, moving to the Metro for some years. The Talbots of course went on to build the Upper West Side's taste for foreign and independent film at Lincoln Plaza Cinemas. There, this past fall, one of the last films Dan chose –- not knowing it would be Lincoln Plaza Cinema’s swansong -- was Manny’s “My Coffee with Jewish Friends,” which ran until the very last day of LPC, opening shortly after Dan passed away.

I asked him to reflect on his body of work. Like children, how could Manny point to his favorite of his films? He hedged by telling me that by financial measure, the most successful so far have been “We Were So Beloved” with “Stations” incredibly only in second place. I suspect that might change with more time.

But, he softened and replied, “Claw” was his favorite. Asked why, he explained “I think I sank my heart into it and then it came out so nicely. It’s a good film.”

You can have a look at a series of Manny's film trailers here. And keep your eye open for the next chance to see these in an art house.

Right under our noses lives Manny Kirchheimer, a filmmaker who is part of the city’s history, recording it, making it, while instructing aspiring filmmakers as to the ways of observing, commenting and documenting.

Until there’s a new house or Lincoln Center picks up on Mannymania, I guess I’ll have to say “See you at the Metrograph!”

I am embedding above a very short film on Manny made by one of his SVA students, Bianca Conti. If you are reading this in your email subscription, click on the blog post title to view this directly on the blog.

By Caitlin Hawke

My guess is you'd have to have been born by 1960 or earlier to hear the name Vaughn Meader and begin to chuckle.  An old-time Bloomingdaler, Manhattan Mark, turned me on to this comedian and JFK impersonator whose 1962 album "The First Family" captured everyone's attention and won the Grammy for best album of the year.

It is hilarious. Good, clean, spoofing fun is made of JFK, Jackie, Bobby, Teddy, the kids and members of the kitchen cabinet.  Kids listened with their parents.  Adults popped it on the turntable after dinner parties. It flew out of stores as the fastest selling album ever with 1.2 million records sold in the first fortnight.

It was such a sensation that Kennedy quipped at one function that Vaughn Meader wasn't able to make it so he had come instead.

If you listen to the full first album at the bottom of this post (email subscribers, click on the post's title to listen to it on the website), you'll see Meader's spot on mimicry of Kennedy's accent and cadence and even the JFK wit.  It's so innocent and so clean by today's standards you'll be charmed.  And it plays as a very interesting counterpoint to contemporary comedians' take on the current POTUS.

To get to the UWS connection, the second volume, which Meader released in 1963, includes an adorable on-site interview with 2nd, 3rd and 4th graders at the Alexander Robertson School at 95th Street and Central Park West.  The first video below is teed up to take you right to the kids (you can rewind to listen to the whole record).  Make sure to listen to the first album when you have time -- the second video below.

The timing of the Volume 2 release was not felicitous, arriving in stores just a few months before Dallas. Meader's soaring popularity and lighthearted appeal had no place in the darkness and aftermath of JFK's assassination. The second album was withdrawn from stores. Meader's career never recovered, and he said that he himself also died on November 22nd.

That part of his career did go away, but Meader lived on through the tumult of the Sixties and had a few more turns to his career. He died in October 2004.

May 29th is the 101st anniversary of JFK's birth, and this is my nod to the legend that lives on.  And to a comedian whose timing was both excellent and terribly bad.

Above is an excerpt from Volume 2 featuring Vaughn Meader's visit to an elementary school on Central Park West and 95th Street circa 1962/3.  (To stream this in your browser if you are reading this via email, click here).

Above is the entire recording of "The First Family" -- Vaughn Meader's knockout comedy album of 1962.  (To stream this in your browser if you are reading this via email, click here).

By Caitlin Hawke

Note: For readers who prefer me to keep it hyper-local here on the Block Association blog, please indulge me today. It's a New York story, with traces of the Upper West Side. But it's a special occasion.


Losing Philip Roth is a body blow. I haven't processed his death yet, but I mention it because of the joy his writing has given me. Sentences that go on at the length of mini-novellas. Laugh-out-loud humor impregnating even the darkest of novels. Stories so imaginative, prophetic, true.

The magnetism of his narrative voice and sheer force of his imagination was singular.

And yet, as he'd announced and then enacted the halt of his writing career, I'd grown used to the idea that he was done producing and had chosen the Upper West Side as his home away from his Connecticut home. Over the last couple of years, there were many sightings of Roth near the American Museum of Natural History (he lived at 130 West 79th Street). And at 85, I thought hopefully, he still had a long time here with us. That comforted me.

When the Nobel brouhaha erupted recently, suspending the literature award this year, I thought: 'Philip hang in there old chap, 2019 is yours.' 

Alas, no.

Sort of like a Bizarro universe version of the Lance Armstrong Tour de France "victories" which now all have asterisks and blanks where his name once appeared, I propose that we ink in Roth for the 2018 Nobel-that-cannot-be and be done with it. Like swearing in Merrick Garland at the next possible chance. Because it's the right thing to do.

I know this is a very roundabout way of getting to Bob Dylan. And some readers may spontaneously link the two by way of the Nobel. Many felt Roth should have gotten it the year Bob Dylan did, figuring the prize committee would not name back to back US laureates. Some were outright scandalized that Dylan got it at all.

Not me. But it smarts that Roth's chances are now done.

Philip Roth and Bob Dylan are filed in the very same drawer of my brain right beside each other. Send me to a desert island and that's who I am taking. Just me and my American boys.

Their work provides a roadmap for our society. Rosetta stones decoding what it was to be American-born in the 30s and 40s. Creative consciences for when we'd veered off course. Commenters on hypocrisies peddled by politicians. And unabashed patriots whose Americanism defines them.

They are also wordsmiths unlike any others, Kilauea-like in productivity.

And so onto Bob who turns 77 today. I felt in the mood to celebrate him rightly.

I'm not asking you to like his voice. But it deserves a second listen. I'm not asking you to understand why he's not surrendered his personal life to the relentless tabloid consumer. But it merits respect and contemplation in an Instagram world, where Kardashians rule. I'm not asking you to sweep aside his 1960s self in favor of his post-Time Out of Mind full-bodied smoothness. But you could consider it. Nor would I insist you revisit the wrongly-reviled Gospel era. His born-again phase has already been born again with critics exalting it. If you live long enough, you see everything. And "Trouble No More" has been at long last deemed worth the trouble.

Bob Dylan contains multitudes, but he couldn't be what he is without his epic rise during his New York years.

Marguerite Yourcenar wrote that "the true birthplace is that wherein for the first time one looks intelligently upon oneself."  What makes Bob one of us is that his true birthplace is New York City.

This I know.

At his post-9-11 concert at Madison Square Garden, we -- all 19,000 of us -- were broken, shellshocked sleepwalkers. No matter which song Dylan chose the night of November 19, 2001, he found a way to comment on what the city had just been through, how we felt about NYC, how senseless the attack was, how we mourned the victims. His lyrics are that encompassing. But the songwriter also chose his setlist carefully. "Waiting for the Light to Shine," "Lonesome Day Blues," "Searching for a Soldier's Grave," and finally "Things Have Changed." There were lines like the following pouring out of those songs, resonating against the 9-11 backdrop:

"Folk lose their possessions, the folks are leaving town." "I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin'." "If the bible is right, the world will explode." "Some things are too hot to touch, the human mind can only stand so much." "There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke."

With Ground Zero still smoldering and the spate of anthrax attacks fresh on everyone's mind, things were quite raw. And that night at the Garden, it was his references to our hometown and Dylan's own demeanor that were tenderest. With Larry Campbell and Charlie Sexton alongside him and the rest of one great Dylan touring band, he launched into "Tom Thumb's Blues" with its "I'm going back to New York City, I do believe I've had enough" earning a collective roar. And then nearing the end of his performance, in acknowledgment of the roomful of pain, Dylan pronounced: 'No one needs to tell me how I feel about New York City.'

This provoked a catharsis because Dylan had just made it very personal, a rare glimpse of the flesh and bones behind the song and dance man. There are other wonderful memories of that night, but I'll keep it about New York for now. And New York Town's 77 year-old son.

In his honor on this day, I give you below Bob Dylan in a New York state of mind.

(Email subscribers: you'll have to click on the blog post title to see the videos on our site).

"Hard Times in New York Town," 1962

"Talkin' New York," live at Town Hall, 1963

"Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues," 1965-66

"It's All Over Now, Baby Blue," 1965 - One interpretation says this was Dylan slamming the door on the city's folk and protest singer scene. That of course could be disputed. I'm including it because it's hard to top.

"Visions of Johanna," 1966 - a slowed down live version from a Sheffield concert. The song references the D train.

I include these last two not for New York reference, per se, though the one immediately above is Bob's star-studded 30th Anniversary Concert at Madison Square Garden.  I'm posting these two renditions of "My Back Pages" as a birthday mantra: "Ah, but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now...."

Happy Birthday from New York Town.

By Caitlin Hawke

This is really a Throwback Thursday post, but I am putting it up a bit early because it is pegged to an event today, Wednesday, May 23, that I wanted you to know about. But first the facts.

Yes, in the photo above, that is famed tightrope walker and master of mystery Philippe Petit walking a line to St. John the Divine on September 29, 1982, to fete the construction of a new tower. If you look closely at the grainy newspaper image below from the Columbia Spectator, you  can just about make out a trowel on his belt that he was symbolically delivering across Amsterdam Avenue -- 150 feet in the air -- to the cathedral and its Bishop. A flourish to inaugurate construction of the south tower of the cathedral's west elevation.

So, the photo above depicts an authorized -- orchestrated! -- walk to the cathedral. You don't have to imagine it because there's film of it (if you are receiving this message by email, make sure to click on the blog post title to view the video on our website). And indeed the trowel is looped on his belt as he makes his way across an unbelievably taught rope in his deacon purple stockings, pausing once to kneel on the wire and once to do a stork pose, then bowing deeply over the edge of St. John's roofline to the applauding crowd. One incredulous spectator shakes her arms over her head saying "Oh boy am I glad that's over!"

Great, yes. But let's just say it was not Petit's first walk at SJTD. That was in 1980, and he went stealth that time as was his wont.

Many a New Yorker knows Petit was a guerilla walker extraordinaire. In 1974, his clandestine operation and magnificent stroll between the two unfinished World Trade Center towers on a 131-foot cable suspended 1,300 feet above the construction site by his merry cabal was first one for the law enforcers; and then one for the history books; and finally one for the spiritual coda of those two towers whose fate we all remember too, too well. I've included two snaps at the bottom of that walk, one where he has an ear-to-ear smile, presumably elated or high on height. And the other of him lying down on the rope. He also danced on the wire that day in '74. Giddy, lollygagging about, and perhaps toying with the powers that be who had no way to get to him. That walk was an act of hubris, insanity, and majesty rolled into one.

In short, so great was Petit that his 1980 tightrope walk, which was inside St. John the Divine, led officials there to name him as one of the first Cathedral Artists-in-Residence. Better to have him with you than against you, you might suppose they reasoned. But actually, the Dean of the cathedral was all for the interior walk. He just couldn't get his board to sign off on it, presumably for liability reasons. Petit, characteristically undeterred, went ahead with the 1980 nave walk. The cops cuffed him on his way down from the wire that day for trespassing; but the Dean, James Parks Morton, intervened and thinking quickly informed the police that Petit couldn't be trespassing because he was, um, an artist in residence, right, that's the ticket.

To this day, the funambulist retains his resident artist title. And he's walked a wire many a time since including once after the terrible fire that broke out in the gift shop to help heal and herald a new beginning.

In a 1999 New Yorker piece by Calvin Tomkins, Petit was quoted as saying:

“When you think about it, wire walking is very close to what religion is. ‘Religion’ is from the Latin religare, which means to link something, people or places. And to know, before you take your first step on a wire, that you are going to do the last one—this is a kind of faith.”

Dean Morton told Tomkins that Petit was "one of the most religious people [I know]....Sometimes very unusual people turn out to be the most religious....I think of this as God’s joke.”

I do believe he believes. Just not in terrestrial authorities.

I love that he has this connection to our neighborhood. Since 9-11, Petit to me is an anthropomorphic poem. He's our living link to the towers he owned for a mid-seventies day. Religare.

In Bloomingdale, we live in the shadow of SJTD, the largest Gothic cathedral in the world, or if you prefer, one of the five largest church buildings in the world. You'll agree that its secrets -- like the Petit tales -- and its history are poorly known.

One place to rectify that is with the romp of a Bowery Boys podcast episode devoted to the cathedral -- I'm embedding the audio below. (If you are receiving this by email, please click on the title of the blog post to view the video on our website.) And if you can go to SJTD tonight, May 23, for $125 you can celebrate with the Bowery Boys the 125th anniversary of the ground breaking.

Probably tickets are sold out for the birthday bash. But tell me you weren't tempted!

Replete with peacocks, Greek revival remnants of the Leake and Watts Orphan Asylum of 1843, and the little rope-walking giant, the cathedral is a neighborhood gem, a work in progress, ours to cherish, and ours to divine.

The link above is to the Bowery Boys podcast #262: Secrets of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. You may not love their style, but stick with it for lots of great historical information.

By Caitlin Hawke

A little more than three years ago, I wrote about a beautiful neighbor on this blog: Kumiko Imamura. A woman who worked as hard as anyone I've known, and always had a warm hello or good-bye and a smile.

Really, her smile started in her eyes - the smize - and then made its way across her whole face, like sun up at Sun-Chan. 

The quintessence of a hostess, she and her husband Tokishige own Sun-Chan, and Kumiko's way is to welcome you in, tuck you into her apron, make sure you have a hot cup of green tea, and take care of you while you were "hers" -- in her care at her hearth. 

If you've been to Sun-Chan, you know her hearth was, in fact, an inferno.  So this genuine hospitality was all in spite of standing long hours in the yakitori's scorching heat with constant motion around her coming from her loyal staff in a very tight space.

I wrote about her robata here and it's all still true, except it's not:

It's not true any more because tonight, I learned that we've lost this beautiful woman.

In Japanese, depending on how it's written, her name means beauty, forever, child.... To paraphrase James Joyce: She was Kumiko by name and kumiko by nature. And her loss is immense.

She weathered a terrible bout last year with the restaurant losing its gas, and she rebounded from the anguish of the saga with her arms spread wide to welcome her customers back. It's too cruel a twist that she's now gone.

In mourning, the staff and her husband Tokishige have closed the restaurant this week to bid her farewell. I understand there may be a service at the New York Buddhist Church in roughly six or seven days. If you would like details should I learn them, please leave a comment below and I'll be in touch.

I hope Tokishige and Rie and all the Sun-Chan extended restaurant family know that Kumiko is a neighbor who will be missed dearly and that Sun-Chan's community mourns alongside them all.

I won't soon forget this Queen of Queens.

With warmest thoughts of Kumiko and deep sympathies to her loved ones.

By Caitlin Hawke

Did you get yours? The Spring 2018 Block Association newsletter is hot off the press. If you want to jump the gun, you’ll find a copy here.

I’ve lived in the catchment going on half of forever. And still that evening when I put my key to the hole and push open my door to discover the crisp quarterly lying in wait, I drop everything to read it on the spot. Old faithful.

If you are a Block Association member, have you ever wondered how this sweet read wends its way to you? It took me a long time to learn that Ken Henwood was the delivery man for my building, and he’s virtually my next-door neighbor. So, let’s ballpark it at 80 times that Ken has crouched in front of my apartment and glided the quarterly under my door. I am aghast that I’ve never actually thanked him for doing this!  (Ken, thank you!)

If you live in the catchment, you, too, probably have a courier ferrying “old faithful” to your door or building entryway. And you, too, probably dig in as soon as you get it.

We’re coming up on the newsletter’s 47th birthday. The first issue — entitled “Neighborhood News” — rolled off a typewriter on May 20, 1971, thanks to original editor and publisher Richard De Thuin who, sadly, passed away recently. You can read that whole issue right here.

More or less, the newsletter has been chugging along ever since. So here now is a chance to consider the 102-103 Streets Block Association Newsletter and what happens behind the scenes to get it to your door.

The best place to begin is with Hedy Campbell. You may know her name from the many roles she’s had within the Block Association since moving here in 1984. Shortly after arriving, she went to a Block Association board meeting and has stuck around ever since. Over the three and a half decades, she’s organized Halloween parades, solstice caroling nights, Spring planting days, and more.

About eight years ago, the West End Historic Preservation’s effort to landmark the avenue inspired her to think about the people who live in those buildings and the stories they could tell. This led to the launch of the Block Association’s Residents of Long Standing Hall of Fame with 27 inductees and counting — a great feat that we owe to Hedy’s ingenuity and her appreciation for neighborhood and neighbors.

She’s also inadvertently responsible for this blog. Hedy gingerly approached me to manage and update the website when the prior webmaster stepped down. My first response was that I couldn’t imagine taking on more work given my time commitment to BAiP. But how could I say no to her (anyone else ever had that reaction?). That was four years and nearly 300 posts ago!

The hat Hedy’s worn longest is newsletter editor. She took over the duties at the beginning of 1987, succeeding a long line of editors: Richard De Thuin, Mary Louise Taylor, Evelyn Brodwin, Marilyn Ehlers, Connie Fredericks, Ginger Lief and Kathy Giannou. Between 1987 and now, Hedy has had a couple of breaks when Jock Davenport and David Reich each did stints as editor. (My apologies to any past editors I’ve neglected to mention!).

I caught up with Hedy to ask about her 20+ years at the helm. What follows is our recent Q&A.

In the coming weeks, to honor the longevity of our newsletter I’ll be featuring all kinds of pieces “from the vault."  Many of these archival pieces are thanks to Ginger Lief and Ken Henwood who've preserved the back catalog. I'm very grateful to both of them, and to Ginger in particular -- the human "wayback machine." 

So, stick around since there's lots more memory lane to come! And if you are a fan of the newsletter, tell Hedy and her team in the comments below.


Q&A with Hedy Campbell, newsletter editor

Caitlin:  To orient us, what roles have you held within the Block Association over the years?
Hedy: My board positions have been co-chair; chair; treasurer; recording secretary; newsletter editor and co-editor. I ran the Halloween parade for many years. And I’ve run caroling for many years. (Anthony Bellov used to run it but some years ago maxed out. He was happy to continue as the musical brains of the operation as long as somebody else did the organizational stuff.) And for more years than not, I’ve been in charge of yard sale refreshments.

Caitlin: Can you tell me a little about your history with the newsletter?  I know it started in 1971 but tell me about when you entered the picture.
Hedy:  For some years starting in 1987 it was just me and my typewriter and our goal was a monthly distribution, which was a goal I couldn’t consistently meet. I don’t remember when we decided to go quarterly, which actually made brilliant sense because we’ve always asked for dues quarterly. Alan Leverenz was the first designer I worked with. Jock Davenport took over from me as editor for some years. David Reich took it over from him, then I became co-editor with David, then I became editor again.

Caitlin: And here we are. Do you know how much people appreciate the fruits of your labor?
Hedy: Not really. We get occasional comments from readers, mainly written on the flaps of contribution envelopes.

Caitlin: Well believe me, we do. So, how does each issue actually magically appear under my door every three months?
Hedy: The issue gets submitted digitally to Best Copy — the Mom & Pop (or more precisely Pop & Son) copy shop on the northeast corner of 101st Street and Broadway. They print it, insert the loose sheet manually, and fold the print run. Block Association member Eliza Lansdale gets it from them. She counts out newsletters and envelopes and runs around the neighborhood delivering them to sub-distributors and building captains who then distribute them further. For instance, she gives a couple of hundred issues to a high-school student who lives in my building. That person subdivides the batch and delivers to the small buildings on West 102nd Street between Broadway and West End Avenue. The big buildings like the Broadmoor and the Master get batches delivered to their building captains.

Caitlin: Why a print newsletter in this day and age?  Do you foresee a day when it will go electronic?
Hedy: In addition to disseminating information, the print newsletter is our vehicle for envelope distribution, which is still primarily how we receive membership contributions from residents. But residents should know that on our website, they can contribute by credit card any time.

Caitlin: In its slightly anachronistic way, I suspect that a paper copy makes people stop and really take the time to read the news and neighborhood vignettes. How much does it cost to produce?
Hedy: Each issue costs about $800. The contribution envelopes cost about $150. We print 2100 copies. And that’s attractive to our advertisers because I estimate that 2-3 people read each issue, so our reach is around 4000-5000 people. The ads generate income to defray the cost of publication, and thankfully we have all the ads we need. Jane Hopkins has done such a good job! In publishing, a 50:50 ratio of ads to articles is the approximate goal, and we’re roughly there.

Caitlin: OK, we've got the distribution but what about the content -- what's your process there?
Hedy:  Four times a year, about six weeks in advance of publication, I send out an email to contributors in which the article lineup, assignments, and deadline are specified. That email is based both on what we historically print in a particular issue (such as the recurring annual events) as well as any current issues of importance (the gingko tree assault, for example). A group of faithful writers submit their articles, which are then lightly edited; this takes several hours, and I am grateful now to be working with Amy Edelman who has come out the gate very strong in this copy-editing role!  Ads that Jane Hopkins collects and all the articles are sent to the designer, Bradley Spear, who then does a preliminary layout. I review the layout and provide feedback about placement and prioritization. Brad makes changes and returns revised layouts for review. With some luck, only minor tinkering remains. Some issues (like the last one of 2017) require more back and forth until the layout is set. Content is proofread, and corrections are provided to Brad who makes corrections and returns a final proof for review. Brad sends the graphic file to Best Copy for printing. And then we start the delivery process above.

Caitlin: What we in the community get out of the newsletter is intangible: first and foremost, its very existence fosters a sense of community. What do you get out of your involvement with the newsletter?
Hedy: I get to shape the content of what is the primary public face of the organization. I believe that the organization’s role in the community is an important one, and therefore making its functions and initiatives known to residents in a way that reflects our efforts accurately and positively is critical. Although there are many residents who are here and have been here for many years, there’s also a lot of turnover. Providing a sense of perspective, which I can do because I’ve been here a long time, is part of what we want to communicate.

Caitlin: It seems you’ve been looking to train someone to take over for quite a while. Do you think you’ll ever succeed, and if not will this 47-year-old institution of a newsletter vanish?
Hedy: It’s possible. There could come a time when I just have to say that’s it. But for as long as I have an associate who will take care of the nuts and bolts of editing and proofreading, I’m happy to oversee it, keeping an eye on the issues of importance to the organization and assigning articles accordingly.

Caitlin: I know that Ginger Leif, a former editor from the earliest days, performed a colossal labor of love by archiving print issues going back to the very first issue (Thank you, Ginger!). These are now part of the Bloomingdale Neighborhood History Group’s files at the Bloomingdale library branch. Have you ever looked at that collection and felt part of the long continuum of time – that we are all impermanent?
Hedy: I haven’t been over to see the archive. I have my personal collection, so I’m aware how fat the folder has grown. I do feel part of the continuum of the neighborhood, especially as I got to know Cherie Tredanari and Ted and Aysa Berger, who were founders of the organization. I feel as if I accepted a baton from them (Cherie ran Halloween, I took it over from her). And I’m concerned, as I know you are, that the next generation of baton recipients doesn’t seem to have identified itself. With the trend toward two working parents, there just isn’t as much time for volunteerism, and since there’s no pressing issue in the neighborhood for residents to rally around (such as crime or drug dealing, as there once was), I don’t think there’s a sense of urgency to get involved. Although I’m very aware that we’re all very temporary, I prefer to focus on what sort of imprint, if only a subtle one, I can leave while I’m here.

Caitlin:  I keep thinking that connecting via technology has supplanted the need for hyperlocal community. But as technology becomes more and more dehumanizing, people will turn back to the local bricks and mortar community right under their noses. There’s so much benefit in it. That’s the lesson I learned from both the Block Association and BAiP. Which reminds me!  Without the newsletter, BAiP would not have taken off as quickly as it did nine years ago. Because of their communications networks two block associations were able to get word out efficiently to all neighbors in five square blocks about BAiP’s creation. The infrastructure of the block associations and their newsletters jumpstarted BAiP. We need to put that on the balance sheet of under "newsletter successes."
Hedy: I couldn't agree more!

Caitlin: I think it’s pretty obvious that we share the love of living in Bloomingdale.
Hedy: Oh, yes, I’ve loved living here. It’s quiet without being isolated. We aren’t swarmed with foot traffic en route to an attraction or institution. People, if they’re inclined, get to know one another, whether because they do the alternate side shuffle, have children, walk a dog, or hang out at the diner. I used to say, especially when Oppenheimer and the Green Farm were here, that I could walk from my building to 96th Street to shop for Thanksgiving and return with everything I needed even though I’d left my wallet at home. I think it’s still pretty true, but maybe not as much.

Caitlin: A village.
That’s a good place to stop because I know that the Annual Meeting on March 22 will focus on the street-level retail crisis. It sure would be nice if every landlord would make a good faith effort to have the shops on our streets occupied by commercial tenants and usher back in the law of supply and demand, and perhaps a new era of local retail. Thank goodness for the shops we still have -- and for their support of the newsletter. And thank you and your team for bringing it to us four times a year.  There's plainly a great amount of volunteer sweat equity and TLC involved.

By Caitlin Hawke

A little over a year and a half back, thanks to this blog, I received a message from New York Times journalist and editor, Daniel J. Wakin. Virtually a lifelong Bloomingdaler with the exception of two stints abroad for the Times, Dan told me he had a book in the works about our neighborhood that he was researching. I was captivated by his conceit: to bring to life the seven buildings along Riverside Drive between W. 105th and 106th Streets by telling the tales of the people who lived there.

I knew the block well as I had my first and only prime lease in one of these "Seven Beauties" as Dan calls them. So I quickly connected Dan to Gil Tauber and Jim Mackin, two pillars of the Bloomingdale Neighborhood History Group (for more on BNHG, see below).

From one of his walking tours, I knew Gil had traced Nina Simone to 336 Riverside (though additional information has been elusive in confirming her residency). Many people know that Duke Ellington lived for a time at 333 Riverside with his sister Ruth and his music company was based there as well. His son Mercer lived next door at 334. This explains the origins of Duke Ellington Boulevard, aka W. 106th Street.

So while some of the characters of this beautiful block were known to me (Julia Marlowe, Marion Davies, Saul Bellow), I'd never heard of Bennie the Bum -- Bernard McMahon -- a bootlegger who worked with Legs Diamond and holed up right here at 334 Riverside Drive with a maimed knee after a $428,000 cash heist from an armored car at the Rubel Ice Company. Given the title of Dan's book, I will leave to your imagination what becomes of Bennie.  But let's just say he never had much use for boots again.

I wrote a little about Dan's book "The Man With the Sawed-Off Leg and Other Tales of a New York City Block" here, and Dan kindly agreed to sit down with me for an interview just as his book was set to publish on January 23. What follows is my exchange with this son of Bloomingdale. What I didn't know was how in sync I would feel with Dan's love of the layers of our streets.  In some parts of the interview, had I not known he was describing our neighborhood, I would have recognized it all the same.

If you are interested in encountering these long-gone neighbors of yore, grab Dan's book here. It's a wonderful read for anyone who loves to imagine both what lies behind these beautiful facades and, of course, who came before us.  You'll also find Dan lecturing for Landmark West on February 21.

Enjoy!

An Interview with Bloomingdaler Daniel J. Wakin
Author of "The Man With the Sawed-Off Leg and Other Tales of a New York City Block"

Caitlin Hawke: I know you grew up on W. 106th and then moved away. So, can one go home again?
Dan Wakin: You can if home is an amazing, variegated, vibrant neighborhood in a city that half the world wants to come home to. Can you go home again to your childhood house? Yes, with emotional complications.

I was born in 1961, moved away for college and returned to the neighborhood after graduation. I lived on 109th and Amsterdam then 113th between Amsterdam and Broadway (commuting to Newark, N.J., where I was covering the federal courts). I was then assigned in 1992 as a correspondent to the Rome bureau of The Associated Press, spent six years there and then became news editor for southern Africa, based in Johannesburg. We moved back to my childhood home on W. 106th in 2000.

Caitlin: What appeals to you about the neighborhood and how did you deal with returning to your childhood home to live as adult?
Dan: I like living in a neighborhood that is a place people come home to after work, but is still a truly commercial, vibrant, urban scene with big institutions and diverse populations. It's both cul-de-sac and destination, a zone apart yet a hub of its own. It's a fundamentally unpretentious place that will never successfully put on airs, where comfortable dowdiness and frayed elegance exist side by side with tenement life, strivers and college students. Riverside Park is our back yard and you can see the river, a reminder of our island city status. (Peace, Bronx.) Sadly though, many of the apartments are way beyond the means of middle class people. By neighborhood I'm talking RSD to CPW and 96th to 116th.

I solved the melancholy of nostalgia for my childhood by reveling in the great life my boys were making for themselves as they grew up here.

Caitlin: Yes, I size you up as a fairly nostalgic person. That can be a dirty word in the boom-boom times of NYC real estate. Do you really think of yourself as nostalgic - even for a day that preceded your time on earth such as the times you write about in your book?
Dan: I wouldn't say I'm a nostalgic person. As journalists, we're very un-nostalgic - always looking for the new or the unknown or the unrevealed. But I do have a strain of nostalgia, which helped make this book something of an escape from the day-to-day. And I do feel pangs when a favorite store or building disappears. Then, when I realize how quickly you forget those old places, and the new becomes part of the scenery, I realize I'm not as nostalgic as I thought. Development vs. preservation is one of the major storylines of New York City. I'm not an activist nor an investor, but an observer fascinated by the duet. I also love sunlight and air and historical rootedness. Often when I think about wanting to live in another time on earth, I wallow briefly but then I think back to how lousy it was for large classes of people and then I'm not so nostalgic.

Caitlin: How do you feel about the changing architectural profile of the UWS?  
Dan: This is hard to answer - the development on Columbus Avenue in the high 90s is so different from the high rises popping up in the 70s and 80s, for example. The architectural profile of the UWS has always seemed a glorious corned-beef hash to me. Some glass towers in the mix are not terrible. Though I'd hate to lose all the tax-payers on Broadway.

Caitlin:  What do you miss most in the neighborhood from the time you were growing up?
Dan: Again, hard to answer. I was a kid then, and an adult now. Those are two very different kinds of people. If I can project myself into childhood now, I'd say I'd miss the passel of kids that hung around on the sidewalk after school or during the summer and played street games or demonstrated an enjoyable idleness.

Caitlin: Let's talk a little about your book. I wanted to congratulate you on the publication. It reads to me as very much as an ode to Bloomingdale, and in particular to that beautiful block of Riverside Drive from 105th to 106th Street.
Dan: Thank you!

Caitlin: You gave a standing-room-only talk on January 17 for the Bloomingdale Neighborhood History Group, and something struck me: you showed very few pictures of the bricks and mortar. This book is not an architectural romp through time, it's about the flesh and bones that inhabited these grand buildings over a certain era.
Dan: Yes, good point. I am deeply fascinated by this stark contrast: between permanent structures of brick and stone, eternally there, standing in the same spots from my childhood to my middle age to long after I'm gone, and the countless generations of human beings who have lived, died and disappeared from memory inside those walls. Soft, evanescent flesh vs. hard, permanent bricks. Memories, stories, experiences vs. urban topography with its own meaning.

Caitlin: Yes, what a wonderful idea to dig into the insides of buildings. We tend to fixate on the exteriors since we can access the architectural and construction details more easily. What historical, governmental, archival or other records did you find most useful for the physical history of the buildings?
Dan: The City Register, Department of Buildings web sites, The Real Estate Record (at Columbia University and online) and newspaper electronic archives.

Caitlin: And for the personal histories of the "characters"?
Dan: Private archives, published memoirs, corporate histories, court and government records, census records, city directories.

Caitlin: What was the hardest part of getting to the people who inhabited or passed through your buildings?
Dan: Except for famous names like Duke Ellington and Marion Davies, they were not quite at the level of fame to have much preserved about them or biographies written. Although I was just contacted by a researcher - after my book was published - who said there is an unpublished memoir by Lothar Faber, of the pencil family, that mentions 335 RSD!! Oh well.
 
Caitlin: Yes, you have to eventually go to press. But I know what you'll be reading soon! So what most eluded you or bedeviled you in your research? And what darlings did you have to kill for lack of flesh you were able to recreate?
Dan: Some of the characters were just not super fascinating. I mean, how many of us are? I'm bedeviled by the feeling that if I had just spent more time digging, scrounging, reading, etc., I could have provided a fleshier picture. But you have to cut off the hunt sometime. Biggest footage on the cutting room floor is more detail about the works of the poor artist Michael De Santis, who painted portraits of Columbia professors and died destitute, a boarder at 337 RSD. I left out details of my mini-tour of the sites where his pictures remain, and the paintings that Columbia has in storage, and efforts to restore some of them. My smart editor also had me cut excessive detail about minor criminal characters. The cast of extras just got too large.

Caitlin: So which of the "Seven Beauties" is your favorite on the outside?  And which had the best characters on the inside?
Dan: River Mansion at 337 Riverside Drive. I feel a real connection from my childhood, because I grew up a few doors away from it. In some weird way, I connected it with Miss Havisham's house from "Great Expectations," a book I loved growing up. It's also the most interesting building of the bunch, with the stark contrast between the limestone ornamentation and red brick.

Caitlin: I agree and having lived right next to it, I often imagined how beautiful it must be inside. So who were the best characters in your research?
Dan: Marion Davies who lived at 331 Riverside was a live wire. Michael De Santis, the artist, in 337 Riverside makes me feel melancholy. And the gangsters of 334, of course, are the juiciest.

Some of the "characters" who have lived in the Seven Beauties on Riverside Drive:
Actresses Julia Marlowe and Marion Davies and Nobelist Saul Bellow (Credit: R. Meek)

Caitlin: And of all the people you researched, who do you most wish you could hang out at Henry's with for a beer and an interview?
Dan: That would be Jokichi Takamine, the Japanese scientist who overcame opposition from rivals and anti-Japanese sentiment and isolated adrenaline. How could he fire his mother-in-law, who helped set him up in the U.S., as president of his company? How did he feel living three doors away from the mistress of the man [newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst] whose newspapers so atrociously whipped up fears of the "yellow peril?" Is it true he denied partial credit for his adrenaline discovery to his long-suffering assistant?

Let me also say that meeting one of the great musical figures in American culture - Duke Ellington - would be incredible. And I'm sure Henry's would have been particularly delighted to have him there.

Caitlin: Yes!  The ghost of Birdland would approve, too.  So as we near the end of our interview, I wondered if you would reflect.  Your book focuses on a pretty tiny slice of New York City. Does it tell us anything about the city as a whole?

Dan: I think it does. You could dig deep into lots of individual blocks in New York and find some pretty interesting stories. But the mix of people in these particular townhouses really does get at the essence of what makes the city so great. Here you have manufacturers from a century ago who made stuff we still use today living next to actors, writers, builders, inventors and a gang hideout. They all came to this place to make a buck or make a mark, and did it living shoulder to shoulder. Surely their paths crossed directly, and sometimes without them even knowing it. That amazing mix is really the essence of New York. And we living in this town are all part of that mix, and can rightfully claim that history as our history. Gangsters? Inventors? Famous actors? Heiresses? Indigent artists? They're all just our neighbors.

Caitlin: With this book and your NYT byline, you've now left a trail of electronic breadcrumbs for a future researcher to write about at least one of inhabitants of your building. Can you give me some stories that a researcher could never find about your family, growing up on W. 106th, the mark you hope you'll have left?
Dan: At this point, I'll retreat to the journalist's stance and say I'd rather tell the story than be part of the story. But thanks for asking!

Caitlin: OK, so "Game On!" for the next generation of researchers. Many thanks both for your time and for giving Bloomingdalers this great new source. I don't go by those buildings anymore without thinking of Legs Diamond's boy Bennie the Bum, Bellow, baking powder, and the Duke.



Note: I wrote recently about Dan Wakin's January 17 talk presented by our good neighbors at the Bloomingdale Neighborhood History Group. If you don't yet know the group, you might be interested in their self-described pursuit:  Discovering, preserving and sharing our history. The tend to concentrate on the neighborhood known as Bloomingdale but sometimes they toss in a too-good-to-pass-up talk on some aspect of Upper West Side history. You'll see their upcoming events right on the BNHG home page.

By Caitlin Hawke

Neighbors are taking the loss of an Upper West Side film institution personally.  And I must say, I have a lump in my throat.

Alas, this is the dawn of a gloomy week for culture on upper Broadway: we say farewell (sayonara, adios, adieu, arrivederci) to beloved foreign and indie film mecca Lincoln Plaza Cinemas (LPC) for good on Thursday.  LPC goes out with a bang on January 28 when staff plan a tribute to the nonagenarian owners, the late Dan Talbot and his widow Toby.  

Sadly Dan died on December 29 (of a broken heart, perhaps), soon after the announcement that the cinema's partner/landlord Howard Milstein would not entertain lease negotiations. Petitions were drafted. Pleas were made. Emails went out fast and furious.

I'm susceptible to speculation about the motive for not renewing the lease and about what will happen with the space.  Indeed all kinds of rumors now swirl -- that Lincoln Center's Film Society will take it over in a premeditated deal. (Very likely, if you want to place bets). That it will become part of the Alamo movie-beer empire or something similar. That LPC will move into the Metro. (This last one's not gonna happen. I've come to believe that the not-so-benign neglect of our local landmark is a strategy to let it crumble-in-place.  And Toby Talbot has lost her programming partner-in-crime.  And the Metro is completely gutted inside, which is rumored to have killed a local Alamo deal a few years ago for the Metro.  But it sure is a nice Bloomingdale thought.  As Gary Dennis has so beautifully documented, Bloomingdale used to be a contender in the realm of theater and cinema.  But no more.  I always whisper a little prayer for the landmarked Metro exterior to stand tall as long as possible and maybe some angel will bring it back.  A naive little dream, yes.)

While most of these rumors would receive open-armed welcomes, it's sort of hard to believe that anyone would get into the retro business of art-house films these days with everyone glued to their phones, streaming their lives away. The old-time concept of a dark room full of silent strangers collectively sharing the magic is just about as quaint as hailing a yellow cab will soon be. 

But there are fine examples of models that work (more on that below); and there are fine examples, such as the Talbots for the past 40 plus years, of what the hip would call "tastemakers."  Nonprofits and small cinemas who still keep the fire burning for those who refuse to watch on a postage-stamp screen.  The tributes to Dan and Toby Talbot have been effusive and, as owners of New Yorker films, the New Yorker Theater and LPC, Dan and Toby earned their spots in the film pantheon by being market makers for the foreign and independent film circuit. Columbia University houses his papers and this blog makes for more good reading if you are interested.  So while Hollywood kicks Harvey Weinstein to the curb, let us hold the Talbots on high.  Cinematic history will be very kind to their legacy.

Just one week more. Forget any conflicted feelings you may have for the Plaza. Yes, it was worn from years of non-stop cinephilia. Yes, yes, a bit dowdy. Yes again that it harbored an occasional pickpocket or two.  But think back and tell me with a straight face that Lincoln Plaza Cinemas didn't open your world. Delight and dazzle you. And upon occasion blow your mind?  

For me it would be like choosing a favorite child, there have been too many delicious films screened there to single out just one. Though I do have a photographic recollection of the cloud I wafted out on after seeing the 1999 Paul Thomas Anderson film "Magnolia."  Yikes, nearly twenty years ago. One frigid Saturday night, I emerged from the late screening and streamed up Broadway humming Aimee Mann's beautiful soundtrack on my way home.

Five days left to get in there and pay homage.  And I have just the right rec: neighbor Manfred Kirschheimer's "My Coffee with Jewish Friends."  Known as Manny, this Bloomingdale documentarian is getting his due after decades in the business and an impressive body of work.  MoMA gave him a retrospective last year; their copywriter put it better than I can when qualifying Manny:

"[he] weds the aesthetic exuberance of modernist urban chroniclers like Walt Whitman, Joseph Stella, and Charles Mingus to the leftist populism of Studs Terkel and Jane Jacobs. His documentary (and quasi-fictional) films are intricate montages of sound and image that thrum with hard bop or proto-hip-hop energy. They are fanfares and requiems for New York’s immigrant working class and demimonde, its art and artists, buildings and builders, haves and have nots."

"My Coffee with Jewish Friends" is a klatch on film.  And Manny makes you a fly on an old-time Upper West Side kitchen wall.  The film is playing every day though Thursday at LPC.

And if after "Coffee" you're jonesing for more Manny, visit the Metrograph.  Just this past Friday, Manny spoke there at the opening of the run of his 2006 film "Tall: The American Skyscraper and Louis Sullivan." "Tall" is also around through Thursday.

Above I mentioned cinema models that could work in the era of smartphones and boom-boom rents: well there is one right there. Perhaps a bit precious on the concessions front, the Metrograph has a calendar that is part old Cinema Village, part Quad and part Film Forum. It's quirky and satisfying programming; and though it's a world away from the Upper West Side, it's well worth a visit--if only to say loud and proud that NYC can and should sustain such art houses.

So vaya con dios, dear Plaza. Fare thee well, Daniel Talbot. Best wishes to the entire LPC family for your next chapter. And to the filmmaking son of Bloomingdale Manfred and our Queen of UWS film Toby, much mazel.

The Metrograph gives me hope.  The good things that the plate tectonics of NYC real estate subduct to the molten mantle do come round again.  Hopefully, we'll know the real ones when we see them and not just follow the next shiny thing.

I am looking at you, Mr. Milstein.

If you are reading this post in an email, you have to click through to see the video below.

By Caitlin Hawke

As an antidote to recent posts that I titled "Empty Storefronts and the Changing Streetscape," which you can read here and here, here now is a feature that celebrates those Mom & Pop businesses, whether old or new, that are in the trenches making it work in Bloomingdale.  Like this week's little juiceteria, a business needs to maximize the output of its square footage to make a dent in the monthly commercial rent. And this is one explanation for all the food and alcohol that's being purveyed around town.  Volume is another must.  That makes Mom & Pop gun shy to say the least. It's hostile terrain for them.

coming out of the ovens and what's in the planning for upcoming feast days and holidays of all denominations.  Just like she was your next-door neighbor.  Because she is.  She is a Bloomingdaler of longstanding.  And now she's the owner of one of the oldest Mom & Pop purveyors around, though many still think of her as the new kid on the block.  But she's endured.  And that's not nothing!

In one of the earliest posts in the "Hyper-Local Eats" blog feature, Judith Norell's Silver Moon Bakery was a first stop.  You can read that old post here, an ode to her ginger blueberry muffin.

Since I have long admired Judith as an entrepreneur, a businesswoman, a second-careerist, a neighborhood champion and an emblem of the Mom & Pop potential to rebound on our avenues, I wanted to feature her again.  

SMB anchors the charming, unchanged historic building, that is captured over the years in these shots below. Judith was able to open SMB because her then landlord, Georgia Stamoulis, became her partner.  To this day, Georgia remains Judith's partner, but Georgia's brother, Michael Rose (who owns Broadway Cellar) is the current SMB landlord. To Georgia and Michael, we owe a word of thanks for keeping this vibrant bakery right where it belongs, bespoke for their special, low-lying corner of Broadway.

So, in 2018, my wish for us all?  Honor thy Mom & Pop.

If we let down our guard, they'll pave paradise and put up a parking lot (under a modern luxe condo).


Q&A with Judith Norell, proprietor of Silver Moon Bakery

Caitlin: Where does the name come from?
Judith: My original thought was to call it Silent Moon Bakery after a Zen poem about the Buddha who, like the moon in the sky, silently illuminates everything.

Caitlin: Artisanal bread baking is a second and illustrious career for you after your work as a professional harpsichordist that I read about here, here and here.  How long did you think you'd be in the baking game when you started SMB?
Judith: I never calculated.  My choices have usually been approached as “an adventure” -- I do it with my full heart, but, like an adventure, it may succeed and may not.

Caitlin: How has business evolved for you as your reputation has been more and more burnished over the years?
Judith: I don’t really know how to answer that question. We opened, and still are, an artisanal neighborhood bakery, and in spite of any publicity we have received, we rely on our immediate neighbors to keep us open. Personally, being an Upper West Sider for many years, I am familiar and comfortable with the political and social attitude in our neighborhood.  This means – at least in my experience – open criticism when things are not perfect, complaints about “high prices” (although in 17 years, our prices have increased much less than most other food items have. Check out our local supermarkets and compare their prices with those of 15 years ago). I personally have not profited financially from our increased reputation, but have tried to benefit our employees whenever things got a bit better.

Caitlin: What is important to you in business as part of your life view?  
Judith: To try to create a harmonious work atmosphere, and to realize that the most genius person can't do it alone, but relies on everyone working with him or her to be successful. People spend at least a third of their day at work, and it should be as pleasurable or at least benign as possible.  I speak from experience; during my apprenticeship in a bakery, the owner didn't know how to talk to those working for him; he was not a mean man, but like many of his generation, started as an apprentice, which meant abuse by his boss, and that he passed on to others when he had power.  He would never praise, only denigrate or criticize; the first time he did this to me, I was sure I would be fired, but, no, it was just his way. If he didn't say anything, you knew it was great.  He also talked down to many of the immigrants from other societies who worked for him, many of them former teachers, doctors, etc., with more education than he had.  So when I started SMB I vowed that it would be different, no fighting, no shouting or screaming.  (We've had a few incidents but they basically resolved peacefully.)  

Caitlin: What is the main challenge you face as a small business on Broadway?
Judith: Rent, rent, rent.
There is absolutely no protection for businesses from the whims of a landlord regarding commercial property.  In our case, when Silver Moon opened, our neighborhood between W. 96th and W. 110 Streets was a neglected area.  Below 96th Street were many co-ops, and fancier stores.  Above 110th Street was Columbia University and all its potential customers.  Our neighborhood was the black sheep, drug-infested side streets, etc.  Now that has all changed, and the landlords are often doubling the rent. Academy Florist, in the neighborhood for over 100 years, had to move because rent was doubled.  Bank Street Bookstore took over.  Henry’s swallowed an enormous rent increase.

Caitlin: So what is the key to SMB’s sustainability?
Judith: I have always believed in “mom & pop” shops, i.e., small, personal stores where the customers are known and catered to.  Too many business in our society care only about the bottom line.  I started Silver Moon Bakery because I love to bake, and also love to communicate with people.  Our counter staff, our bakers, almost everyone knows our customers, many by name, many by their favorite items, coffees, teas or sweets.  I think that, plus my passion for searching out new products, rather than just being another business, is the main key to our sustainability.  In fact, SMB is my culinary playground.

Caitlin: We are living a period of ever-widening economic disparity. Much has been made of this topic in the context of housing in New York.  And one hears more and more about the loss of Mom & Pop businesses.  You are one of the most successful examples -- and I think of you as a relative newcomer (despite that you've already been here for 17 years!) who seems to have the key to Mom & Pop success. Is that true?
Judith: No! See your question about main challenges.  There are many people who would love to live and work in their own community, even here, on the UWS.  But rents are prohibitively high.  Look at the many vacant stores on Broadway – the landlords are waiting for a bank or a chain drugstore who can afford to amortize by having many branches, little labor or production costs, and a high profit margin.

Caitlin: Could you give readers an insight into how commercial rents work in this city?
Judith: There is no limit to what can be charged on commercial property.  At one period, there was a form of commercial rent control, which expired in 1963. An article in the Fordham University Urban Law Journal discusses this:

Caitlin: Do you have any protection from lease to lease?
Judith: No, there is no protection.

Caitlin: How long is a typical lease?
Judith: It can be anywhere from 8 to 15 years.  Ours was originally 10 years, with a 5 year extension. The current lease is for 7 years.

Caitlin: If your rent were to double from one lease to the next, what would your next move be?
Judith: I don’t know. We cannot afford higher rent, since our profit margin is quite low and the two ways to reduce costs are not acceptable:  I will not reduce the quality of our ingredients, or the pay scale of our employees.  We would probably look for another space, but the cost of moving our ovens and equipment might be so high, it would be unrealistic to move.  In that case, we would have to close.

Caitlin: In addition to being a business owner, you are a longtime neighborhood resident.  What do you think about the climate on Broadway?
Judith: It’s terrible.  Chains typically charge more and pay employees less than neighborhood stores. Compare Suba’s prices with Duane Reade’s -- and Mr. Suba’s employees know their customers. The quality of neighborhood life decreases, becomes more impersonal.  Empty storefronts are depressing and destroy neighborhoods.  

Caitlin: Are there still commercial deals to be had on Amsterdam or above 96th Street?  
Judith: I have noticed the new dining corridor, and hope the small restaurants succeed. So I think Amsterdam Avenue will attract diners, but I don’t think residents west of Amsterdam will readily go there to shop.  When I first looked for a place to have a bakery, the manager of the old Gourmet Garage at 96th and Broadway told me: “people will not travel more than a few blocks at most to shop. But to dine is another matter.”  I never forgot that.

Caitlin: What is your understanding of the term gentrification?  Was Silver Moon’s appearance the product of gentrification?  Will gentrification be the demise of businesses like Silver Moon?
Judith: When I moved to 105th Street and West End Avenue, the neighborhood was considered dangerous -- not West End, but the side streets. I actually took a few self-defense lessons before moving in, and learned to walk in the middle of the road when coming home at night.  At that time I shopped at a used childrens’ clothing store on Broadway, bought sashimi from the little Japanese grocery shop on 105th off Broadway, drank café con leche at the Latino restaurant on Broadway & 108th Street [La Rosita], got my videos and dvds from Gary’s Movie Place, and my vegetables from the Korean greengrocer between 105th and 106th Street.  All were small, neighborhood places.  What became SMB was Loretta’s Lingerie, which had red flocked carpeting in the windows.  I moved in because I was a musician, the rents were low and the walls were thick enough so that my practicing wouldn’t disturb others.  Most of the musicians in my building who became successful moved out to more “gentrified” neighborhoods.  

Now, with many old buildings co-oped by the landlords and newer buildings being offered as condominiums, median income has shot up as new tenants came in.  Even rentals are now called, “luxury rental residences” in some cases.  This is my understanding of gentrification – more money flowing into the neighborhood, the quality of life changing, goods becoming more expensive. The mix of working class, artists and middle class which existed when I first moved here, has totally changed.  The druggy side street tenement apartments are now being rented to young, professional couples, and what was once a multi-cultural mix of Latino, Black and Caucasian has disappeared.

Caitlin: What would you like to be doing in five years?
Judith: I would like to travel more, explore the world -- and visit bakers and learn their ways of baking! Listen to music, hike, be with my grandchildren, meditate more and relax.

Caitlin: In 10 years?
Judith: The same!

To join the SMB mailing list, send Judith an email and she'll add you: info@silvermoonbakery.com. 

Remember: December is "Spread the Blove" month.  If you enjoy these blog posts, won't you share this with a nearby friend, family member or neighbor? It's a great way to stay in touch between newsletters of the W. 102nd & 103rd Streets Block Association. So tip off a neighbor who can then receive posts directly to his or her email by just filling in an email address at the bottom of each post.

Love the blog? Spread the blove.

By Caitlin Hawke

I am going to keep it simple today.  December 8th is seared into many a New Yorkers' mind.  I got a chill looking at the front page above. The GOP was prepping a transition to the White House.  There were Russian hijinks on the international stage.  A man was shot in New York City.

John Lennon. Gunned down outside the Dakota.  If you were a New Yorker, you can't forget it. If you weren't yet a New Yorker, you know exactly where you were when you heard the news 37 years ago.  It doesn't matter. We were all New Yorkers that day.

I don't want to get too heavy. But we still need elegies in the face of senseless violence. I am reminded of a statistic I read in the paper: since the song below was written in '68 we've lost more Americans to gun violence than to the battlefields of all the wars in our history. Then again I suppose it's all in how you define "battlefield."

In remembrance of 12/8/80, I offer up an extremely rare gem: Clydie King and her husband Elston Gunn (aka Blind Boy Grunt, aka Robert Zimmerman) covering Dion's 1968 hit "Abraham, Martin and John" by Dick Holler.  A stripped down, harmonic, elegiac duet.  I mean for it to stop us all in our tracks.

On this raw day, thirty seven years late, I give you a power couple and a song I dedicate to the memory of a long lost neighbor.   

Roll on, John.


[If you are reading this post in an email subscription, to load the video you'll need to click on the photo or go directly to the blog page.]

A little prologue before I get to the post today because Thanksgiving is an obvious time to take stock and to enjoy pumpkin -- which I hope you all will.  I am very thankful to live in Bloomingdale and be part of a wonderful community that continually surprises me.  And I am particularly thankful to have a perch from which to celebrate that neighborhood, my muse for purposes of the Block Association blog, where the opinions expressed are my own.

I am also very thankful for this Block Association and to its board and volunteers for doing what they do.  You only had to be in the street on October 31st to appreciate how much joy can come from a volunteer initiative.  If you weren't, you'll get another chance with Solstice Caroling coming right up on December 21st.

To continue to knit the community and share news with neighbors, here on the Block Association blog December will be "Spread the Blove" month.  If you've been enjoying these occasional posts, won't you share this with a nearby friend, family member or neighbor? The blog is a great way to stay in touch all year long with the W. 102nd & 103rd Streets Block Association. So tip off someone nearby. Send them the blog's address or point them to a favorite post. To receive news as it goes online directly to your email, just fill in the "Subscribe" box below. You'll receive a request to verify your subscription.  And voilà!  Just sit back and the next post will arrive to your inbox.

Love the Blog?  Spread the Blove.   Thanks for reading!  And Happy Thanksgiving    ~ Caitlin

By Caitlin Hawke

Most kids around here already know Saxton Freymann's work. For the past many years, Sax has donated a gourdgeous sculpted pumpkin to the Halloween festivities put on by the Block Association each October 31st.  While compiling photos from this year's parade, I kept wondering who this pumpking was.  And then Jane Hopkins -- who does such a wonderful job producing the event -- clued me in.

I decided to ask Sax a few questions and hope you'll enjoy this interview with a talented, generous neighbor. He's also provided some shots of past sculptures.  And for you poodle lovers, my lagniappe is Sax's Broccoli dog.  He's good and good for you.

Enjoy!

Caitlin: You carve a mean pumpkin.  What's the secret? Are eyes the window to a pumpkin's soul?
Sax: When I started doing books based on transforming fruits and vegetables, of course I had to include pumpkins.  My approach is to use the natural form and do as little as possible to nudge it towards something it already resembles.  This of course means that the stem is a nose…with some of my favorites I did not add eyes at all -- they are already implied in the wrinkles of the surface.

Caitlin: I understand you are fairly agnostic when it comes to vegetable carving, you'll carve anything! How did you get into food carving? 
Sax: Many years ago my wife met a book designer and packager named Joost Elffers who wanted to do a book showing interesting things that could be done with food. He had already done a book in Europe along these lines and was looking to develop something more in sync with an American market.  I got some produce, made a variety of things and sent him a bunch of pictures.  That led to Play With Your Food, and the success of that book led to a series of children’s books with Arthur Levine at Scholastic.  

Caitlin: Are you a vegetarian?
Sax: I am omnivorous.
 
Caitlin: So you eat the seeds!
Sax: I try to eat as much of the “waste" from my edible work as I can. When I was doing all the books my family would eat a lot of the day’s work.  When I work with pumpkins, I often do not even cut through to the interior… so they last a bit longer.

Caitlin: How long do they last?
Sax: They generally do not last long, although I remember one that lasted for months! Most of what I do is about the final photographs.

Caitlin: How long does your traditional pumpkin take to carve?
Sax: It varies. I probably spend an hour or so on a pumpkin.  

Caitlin: Jack O' Lantern or Pumpkin?
Sax: Pumpkin!

Caitlin: OK, but do you ever light your pumpkins from inside or is it all about the face?
Sax: My pumpkins are not lanterns. They are much more about the surface and the organic form.

Caitlin:  Is there such a thing as carve-offs in the pumpkin sculpting world?
Sax: I have seen all sorts of competitive pumpkin carving over the years, featuring work with much more patience than I have. I am a very uncompetitive person, so that’s not for me.

Caitlin: Do you have any pumpkin trivia you'd like to share?
Sax: I don’t know if it still exists, but years ago there was an annual race on Glimmerglass Lake in Cooperstown, New York, in which competitors hollowed out and rowed enormous pumpkins.  It was a remarkable and hilarious spectacle.  

Many thanks to Sax for his indulgence here and for the many years of pumpkins at our tables.  Readers curious to see more of Sax's work will also find his books How Are You Peeling? and Food Play in print.  Also, scroll down for a short video with Sax. (If you are reading this post in your inbox, you need to go to the following link to see the video: www.w102-103blockassn.org/blog.

By Caitlin Hawke

Who can forget where they were when their first solar eclipse occurred?  Memories of admonitions not to look skyward and of instructions on how to make a pinhole viewer on the playground macadam came flooding back these past weeks as eclispe-mania ramped up to fever pitch.  I tried to resist the hype but then I realized there might not be many more to behold.  We have to wait 'til 2024 to top this one in NYC and after that I can't say.

Nostalgia really came home to roost when every radio spot about the upcoming eclipse recalled Carly Simon's immortalization of the 1970 eclipse in her 45-year old and still inscrutable hit "You're So Vain":

That got me leafing through pages and pages on the internet. It's actually sort of fun to look at old eclipse coverage.  I turned up the March 1, 1970, New York Times front page piece that made me chuckle about the math. You might enjoy it, too.

I'm not the only one thinking back to bygone solar blackouts. In an excellent blog post on the Bloomingdale Neighborhood History Group's site, Pam Tice unearthed some local history about the 1925 eclipse, also known as "The West 96 Eclipse."  It seems the edge of total darkness was miscaluated and that, in fact, W. 96th Street was the cut off, not further south as predicted.  Bedeviling azimuths! I recommend reading the post in full here.  While you are on the group's site, take a noodle through it. It's a remarkable achievement to have all this neighborhood information in one place.

And today, August 21, 2017, we get to make new memories, with five-year-olds just starting kindergarten who now have their chance to learn about DIY pinhole viewers on the playground macadam, to return to a bit of much-needed innocence, and to experience the wonderment of our mind-boggling galaxy. 





And now for a hidden track.

Totally of its era and sticking with my 70s lookback, the video below by Manfred Mann serves as a nice outro today.  A lagniappe for readers of a certain age who remember the zeniths and nadirs of the 1970s.

Be careful out there.  Ours is one hot star.

If you are receiving this by email, the video will not load; to view it, you must click on the title of this post -- "Azimuth to Zenith" -- to go to the blog page.

My Throwback Thursday feature today is this five-foot tall beauty entitled "107th and Broadway." The light, shadows, palette, and mood quickly conjure up Edward Hopper. The blazing summer morning light illuminates the facade while Neel's own building across 107th Street casts a dark shadow that resembles a Moai in profile.

You don't see any of the mid-1970s grit and political tumult in this tableau.  In Alice Neel's 1976, New York is small-town quaint with a dose of Hopperian solitude.  With a dark shadow looming.

The reason I am bringing any of this up is that (a.) god, don't you love this painting? And (b.) shouldn't we all get together and go see the retrospective of her work, "Alice Neel, Uptown"!  It is still on until April 22nd at the David Zwirner Gallery.

In case you missed it, the New York Times wrote about the show here in February and posted a slideshow of her portraits here.  Have a look below at her "Still Life" from 1964.  You can just glimpse the northern tip of Straus Park through her front window.

In Ms. Neel, there was greatness in our midst.

 
h/t to neighbor Emily B. who grew up on W. 107th for her knowledge that Alice Neel lived right here among us.

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By Caitlin Hawke

I am no writer, but I know what darlings are. And I know that real writers have to lay waste to a lot of them.

I haven't written enough. So there aren't many darlings lying around. According to my father, my grandfather used to riff on what Blaise Pascal said:  I made this long because I didn't have the leisure to make it short.

In brief, it takes time to make it short. And good.  But I don't have that much time.

And besides, sometimes it feels good to keep your darlings and write long. Or to round them all up into the same place and see what they are like side by side.  Something akin to the way my father has, over the years, printed out large formats of his favorite photos. He places them in a box that sits on a coffee table, gently ignored by sons, daughters, and grandchildren. And yet every once in a while when we have time, we leaf through these darlings of his. Sometimes he puts them into thematic albums. This shot of the Metro Diner appears in his "fronts & sides" album.

The album is sort of like a mixtape.  Carefully chosen. Then juxtaposed.  Then shared. To give someone else pleasure.

Think of it not as a few darlings on the cutting room floor, but more as a few darlings upcycled.


To navigate to the post, click on the image or the link.

​I hope 2017 is off to a good start and that it will be good to all. Fingers crossed!  And now, The Years in Pictures, 2016 Edition.

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And a lagniappe -- or hidden track -- for those aware of my Dylan admiration.  No, not his polka-infused rendition of "Must Be Santa."  But rather a dramatic reading of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's wistful Civil War era Christmas poem reminding us that hate may mock the song of "peace on earth, good-will to men," that "wrong" shall fail, that "right" shall prevail.

Hear that 2017? I am looking at you.

By Caitlin Hawke

This weekend marked the 36th anniversary of John Lennon's assassination outside the Dakota at the age of 40. Had he lived, he would have turned 76 in October. And who can say what else he would have gifted to his family, his friends, and to the world in those decades he never got.

The memory of hearing the news will take you back to precisely where you were the way news of JFK's death seared those in my parents' generation.  I was still up and working on a homework assignment in my childhood kitchen. Part of the report entailed baking Danish cookies. And there I was cramming to get it done when the news came in over the radio. I was stunned and remember processing it with my mother and siblings at the counter. The next day at school, Aisling, a sophisticated classmate -- who struck me as someone who thought for herself -- was devastated.  It wasn't until then that I fully realized this was a cataclysm.

Since I moved to New York in 1988, I've never passed the Dakota without thinking of Lennon.  His ashes were scattered in Central Park after all.

If you have any doubts left, read Dylan's remarks delivered by our Ambassador to Sweden at the Nobel banquet.

I felt inspired to write today in memory of one genius who chose the Upper West Side as his home leaving an eternal mark on our city.  And I had to stop and contemplate another one-time New Yorker who burns bright still.

Roll on and on and on, boys.

Above, I've embedded a video tribute to John Lennon that I found online. It is set to Bob Dylan's "Roll on, John" from the 2012 album Tempest.  If you receive blog posts by email, the video will not appear.  Click here to see the post on the blog and view the video.

 

By Caitlin Hawke

Below, by popular demand, is the 2016 Gallery of Ghouls with major hat tips to neighbor-photographers Ozzie Alfonso and Barbara Boynton whose shots along with a few of mine are all mixed up below.

The annual Halloween Parade and Party comes off each year thanks to Jane Hopkins who coordinates it with a team of dedicated Block Association board members and volunteers.  You'll see many of them disguised as regular neighbors below, but don't let the costumes fool you.  They put in a little elbow grease to make this come together. 

So this is a huge "Thank You!" to the Block Association's volunteers.  Not just for this evening designed for the kid in everyone, but also for all you do throughout the year!  For many of us, community is taking on ever greater importance in a changing city, and it's comforting to know you are all out there.

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