Friday, September 4, 2009

A Day at the Races, a Night on the Camp Grounds


I’m off to the races tomorrow, to Saratoga Springs, New York. I don’t follow the sport, but my travels are taking me to the Amtrak station in Saratoga, and so I’m just popping over to see the time-honored end of the season at the track. It seems I’m stumbling into a piece of racing history. A horse name Rachel Alexander may go into the record books:

“What a gal!

She’s soundly beaten the boys (twice), completely overwhelmed her peers, and Saturday at Saratoga Race Course, 3-year-old Rachel Alexandra lines up against the older fellas for the first time as she looks to re-write racing history yet again and stake her claim to Horse of the Year honors in the Grade 1, $750,000 Woodward Stakes.

The Brooklyn Bridge had only been open a few years and Grover Cleveland was president of the United States when Lady Primrose won the 1887 Manhattan, then a 1¼-mile race on dirt, as the last 3-year-old filly to beat older males in a Grade 1 dirt route race in New York.”


The stop is enroute to a weekend at Brandt Lake in the Adirondacks. Friends got married here 5 years ago, and the lakeside gourmet cookout and midnight bonfires were so fabulous that we’re all getting together again for the food!

Labor Day is so late this year that it feels like it will be October when I go back to work next week. It’s autumn in New York; it’s good to live it again.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Dressing for Success, But on Whose Terms?

In 1992 D.A.Pennebaker was granted unprecedented access to the strategy sessions of the Clinton campaign led by communications director George Stephanopoulos and lead strategist James Carville. From that came The War Room, a timely, important documentary, capturing a historical moment when media would be the centerpiece of a campaign strategy, rather than the issues themselves. The producer of the film was R.J. Cutler.

Flash forward to 2007. Cutler himself now gains unprecedented access to . . . the hallways of Vogue to look at how Anna Wintour bullies her staff into producing the phone-book sized September issue. Hmm. Does this fall from the important to the frivolous say something about Cutler, or does a country get the docs that it deserves?

I saw September Issue at a screening that included many of the junior staff of the magazine. They screeched in knowing delight at the bon mots of the Vogue players—Grace Coddington, Andre Leon Talley, and the queen herself.

The film is slick and diverting, without revealing much about Wintour. Cutler edited it to have an odd opening gambit: Anna on camera saying that “people” mock fashion because they are afraid of it. I don’t know too many people who bother mocking fashion---indifference is the more likely reaction. But this anecdote establishes Anna as the kid in school who was most afraid of being laughed at. And isn’t it those childhood fears that are at the root of many power-mad bosses?

Cutler’s portrait of Wintour is not unflattering; it couldn’t be, since she certainly signed-off on the final cut, but there are unflattering moments. For instance, Anna’s 60-year old worked-on skin looks amazing, until the camera sits on her hands and neck in the car, the age indicators that peels and knives can’t repair.

The film is most interesting in presenting the creative director Grace Coddington. The Welsh one-time model started at Vogue on the very same day as Anna. Grace has a lot of power at the magazine, but Anna can overturn anything she says or does, and she does. An entire photo shoot of twenties styles, for example, which Grace directed and which was exquisite, Anna throws out. That’s a lot of money blown on a simple power play.

One thing that struck me about Cutler’s film is how joyless this “fabulous” world of Vogue is. Grace comes the closest to seeming to enjoy the artistry of her creations, but then it’s slashed by Wintour. Reality is a bitch.


Vogue September 2009
This film piqued my curiosity about the current Vogue enough to send me to the magazine stand for the first time in 20 years. The September issue hasn’t changed discernibly in all that time (except for the celebrities over models on the cover). The ads go on for 240 pages before the articles begin. Many of the ads are artful and beguiling, selling sensibility and lifestyle more than specific items of clothing. Other ads feature the ghouls, that strange place that fashion goes when it rejects all beauty norms and goes for bizarre hair and frightening maquillage.

There are still the extreme thin bodies. And that is still dangerous to girls, women of all ages.

Is this world of high fashion— that is reality for a few and a fantasy for many—noxious? Does it seduce women into dangerous ideas of self image, and toward financial ruin trying to buy this year’s $1,000 purse? The fictional account of Anna’s world spoke more directly to this theme. The Devil Wears Prada offers more of a look at the effect of the billion dollar a year fashion industry on individuals than the documentary does.

That’s a lot of money, a lot of jobs. And there’s the silver lining, as the 18th century philosopher/economist Mandeville captured in his poem, The Fable of the Bees, or Private Vices, Publick Benefits:

“whilst Luxury
Employ’d a Million of the Poor,
And odious Pride a Million more.
Envy itself, and Vanity
Were Minister of Industry;
Their darling Folly, Fickleness
In Diet, Furnityre, and Dress
That strange ridic’lous Vice, was made
The very Wheel, that turn’d the Trade.”

(Everything I ever learned worth knowing I learned from Paul Fussell.)

When In Doubt, Wear Red
Wise words from Bill Blass. At its best, Vogue inspires personal style without inflicting hardship or pain. And that’s what’s important to more people, personal style, not impersonal fashion.

For a sartorial fix these days I go to The Sartorialist, a great blog by Scott Schuman. He photographs actual people on the streets of New York or Milan or Paris wearing smart, exquisite, inspired outfits. It’s really not a question of money, although sometimes an accessory is from the high end stratosphere. Mostly it’s just excellent, imaginative combinations of textures, colors, patterns, and good grooming. When I see these ensembles, it makes me want to try, just a little harder, the next time I get dressed.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

"Tis you, 'tis you, must go and I must bide"



There seems to be something sad and deadly about the last days before Labor Day. Princess Diana died on August 31, Mother Teresa on Sept. 5, and now Ted Kennedy on August 26 (which happens to be Mother Teresa’s birthday.)

For generations we Americans have watched in awe the strangest “reality show” that is the Kennedy's story. The scope of their tale alone is compelling: Joe senior and Rose connecting back to the beginning of the last century, his rise through her family’s power in Boston, though slighted and snubbed by the city’s Brahmins.

The effect of World War 11 on the clan: Joe Sr. and his appeasement, defeatist stance as Ambassador to the Court of St. James that ended his own political career; Joseph Jr. dying in a plane explosion during the war, and the effervescent Kathleen “Kick” Kennedy dying in a plane crash in 1948 in France.

The postwar reign and murder of John F. Kennedy. And then Bobby.

These threads of history conspired to move Ted into a leadership position personally and publicly. Whereas JFK was too good looking and RFK too earnest for most people to identify closely with, Ted was the brother that was easiest to understand. He had all the issues of being the youngest in a large, overtly competitive family. He had a comparatively lightweight intellect. He had a reckless side fueled by alcohol, which hurt his family, and in that extremeness that haunted the Kennedys, took the life of a young woman.

How does one man cope with this much pain? This much destiny?

The stories of Ted Kennedy this week focus on the idea of redemption. How Ted’s tireless work in the Senate to deliver tangible help to the working class, to the voiceless was the salvation of his political life, just as his stabilizing second marriage to Victoria probably saved his very life.

Redemption. The perfect concept for Edward Kennedy. Joe Jr.’s entire motivation in life was to be included in the power structure that had kept out Irish Catholics. You don’t get the impression that Joe was a personally religious man, but his own identity was completely informed by both his national roots and faith. He could have tried to assail the power elite by downplaying this twin albatross around his neck, but he did the opposite. He instilled in his family the deepest feeling of “us versus them,” and that they as a family would wield power on their own, proud terms. Very Irish.

The Church will bury this last son of the American royal family. If he believes its teaching, he will be reunited with Rose and Joseph, Joe Jr., Jack, Rosemary, Kick, Eunice, Patricia, Robert. And Mary Jo Kopechne. Dies irae.

Pie Jesu Domine, dona eis requiem.

Lord, all pitying, Jesus blest, grant them thine eternal rest. Amen.

They did not play "Danny Boy" at Kennedy's funeral, but it plays it my head whenever I think of that ritual for him.
Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling 
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying
'Tis you,'tis you, must go and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer's in the meadow
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow
'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow

Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.

And if you come, when all the flowers are dying
And I am dead, as dead I well may be
You'll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.

And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me
And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be
For you will bend, and tell me that you love me
And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.

Monday, August 24, 2009

A Little Sheltered Night Music

I’ve been watching the new USA character series, Royal Pains. It’s a piece of fluff about a New York City doctor transplanted to the Hamptons, but what I like about it is how it captures SUMMER. I don’t have a summer house so I daydream a bit in that hour, and try to soak up the colors and texture of the series.

This weekend the daydream took actual form when I visited a family friend on Shelter Island, the “other” NY summer community off of the North Folk of the East End of Long Island.

Shelter Island. For many tv fans the allusion resonates with, “No exes at weddings,” the great wisdom from How I Met Your Mother and Stella’s dream wedding on Shelter Island. Ted and Stella do not get married, and so she is not “the one,” but it is notable for tv to be so site specific, and that the friends make the drive from the city, and get on the ferry (screen grab here!), to Shelter.

The real trek is very scenic, driving out to Greenport, past the Long Island wineries to the ferry service. Then the short ride over to the island, putting me on the water, reminding me of my schooner days, something I don’t revisit very often.

Shelter Island is hilly and dense and lush. It is rural, with less of a defined central town than its South Folk cousins, and no high-end stores.

And it is the home of The Perlman Music Program, an important summer school for young musicians on the grounds of an old 28-acre resort. It was founded by Toby Perlman, Ithak’s wife, fifteen years ago to give musicians 18 to 30 a supportive, focused environment to development their talent. Itzak is oncampus for the school, along with a stellar group of professionals.

The final student performances are a free gift to the island. This week was the Chamber Music Workshop, an intensive program devoted to that repertoire. The concert featured three different quartets performing three eras of music: Beethoven String Quartet in F major; Ravel also in F major; and Dvorak Piano Quartet in E flat.

The caliber of playing was extraordinary in artists so young from around the world, and the programming was inspired. Beethoven, the epitome of classical in that measured, perfect sense. Ravel, impressionistic Ravel, so French, with complicated meter, such deeply emotional sounds. Written in 1903, it seemed to have influenced many 1940s movie scores. Then the big finish with Dvorak: deeply melodic, echoes of gypsy folksongs, a twist of a waltz, a lovely interplay between the viola, the violin, and the cello, with a cello solo in the second movement that was so melodic you could almost hear words in the deep timbre of the cello sound.

The whole Perlman Music Program operation is beautifully professional. And it’s thrilling to think that these budding musicians are keeping this music form alive as part of their hazy, crazy, daze of summer.

The logo motif of the school is done by another type of artist, a man named Peter Dov Varga who can cut ordinary black construction paper in the most extraordinary ways. I saw his work at a fair on the island, but they were all so amazing I couldn’t chose. He is Peter the Paper Cutter.

This week I go back to daydreaming with Royal Pains, until the real thing comes along. And the "no exes at weddings,"that's just good sense.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Because You're Mine, I Walked the High Line

"No one alluded to Ellen Olenska; but Archer knew that Mrs. Welland was thinking: "It's a mistake for Ellen to be seen, the very day after her arrival, parading up Fifth Avenue at the crowded hour with Julius Beaufort--"
Chapter IV, The Age of Innocence, Edith Wharton

On the Sunday when much of the city was waiting to rejoin the New York of high balls in the third season premiere of Mad Men, I took a tour of the High Line, the new distinct park that opened in June where elevated freight rails were built in the 1930s on the west side. “Park” is not the best descriptive word, promenade is, hence my thoughts easily alighting on Edith Wharton and the Gilded Age, when promenading was an all important part of the workings of society.

Forgotten New York

In the early part of the last century trains brought raw goods to the west side from 34 Street to the St. John’s Park Terminus at Spring Street, with the track going straight through various buildings en route where goods were unloaded.

With the advent of Robert Moses and the interstate sprawl, fewer things were delivered by rail, and in 1980, the last train rolled over the elevated tracks.

For two decades the tracks faded into “forgotten New York,” those disused tunnels and passages and hidden doorways that intrigue urban enthusiasts. Joshua David and Robert Hammond, who lived in the High Line/Meat Packing neighborhood, joined those ranks when they had the idea to turn the 1.3 miles of tracks into a park.

It is some sort of miracle that they went from inception of idea to opening of phase one in just eight years. That’s quite the confluence of money raising, zoning issues, State, Federal, and City regulations redtape, before the enormous architectural/design integration started.

Transformations
I was surprised to learn that turning railroad lines into recreational areas is a national idea. There is a Washington D.C.,-based group called Rails-to-Trails Conservancy that helps states do just that. This meant that when the Friends of the High Line was formed to help finance the project they did not have to invent the wheel. You can join the groovy Friends with a membership to the High Line.

The High Line is a distinct experience on many levels. You enter by walking up stairs at various points, like entering an elevated subway line. Its first point is at Gansevoort, quite the call-back itself to Dutch New York. That entry point has small trees, while most of plantings are flowers and wild grasses, the work of Piet Oudolf in collaboration with James Corner and Field of Operation.

The promenade is a cross between a boardwalk and a 19th cabled-car street. The artistry of the experience is in the recreation of the wild growth that had reclaimed the tracks in its twenty fallow years. Our tour guide, Lisa Switkin, the project manager from 2004 to 2007, and an associate principal at Field Operations, said that everything had to be dismantled from the original track. Which means they had the option of creating an entirely new space. But they chose to create anew the look and feel of nature encroaching on the man-made infrastructure of commerce and staking its claim. They painstakingly relaid the original track and used a track motif for the benches and certain of the floor flourishes.


Black-eyed Susan are a welcoming dominant flower. Some of the planting will need another year to deliver its maximum effect.



As you walk north you pass open areas and more landscaped ones, and through two tunnels through the buildings where the goods were once unloaded. The one tunnel may be developed into a space for lectures. One open area is the sundeck, with wooden chaise lounges. Where the park turns at 17 street is an amphitheater that overlooks 10 avenue. So nice for the Greeks to make an appearance like that. From various spots you can see the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building. But it’s the views of the old buildings that you can almost touch that are the most special. I need to go back at night, when the walk will have en entirely different feel.


"Because You’re Mine . . .
. . . I’d walk the line.” I couldn’t resist an allusion to the million seller from Johnny Cash (although I actually prefer crazy Jaye P. Morgan’s 1960 version).

What I love about the High Line is that it is for walkers only. No bicycles, no rollerblades. Society no longer has the codes that governed life during the The Gilded Age. A Michigan University academic wrote “Anatomy of a Promenade: The politics of bourgeois sociability in nineteenth-century New York.” There are no such set of codes and signs now, but perhaps as the High Line develops, a promenade culture will as well. It could be intriguing, as long as it's not accompanied by whale-bone corsets.

It could draw on even older customs. Years ago I was walking with a friend and I dropped a handkerchief. He picked it up and said, ‘in the Middle Ages, we would now be engaged.’ Ah, those were the days.


(Painting, Childe Hassam, Promenade)

Sunday, August 16, 2009

Madness Approaches

Frank Rich has an interesting piece that relates the anniversary of Woodstock to 2009's own version of the mud-in: AMC's screening of Mad Men's third season premiere in Times Square, the crossroads of the world. Each generation gets the communal experience it deserves . . .

Tom Watson and I won't be live blogging this year, but lo and behold our blog godfather James Wolcott is taking on the real-time Sterling Cooper reactions himself.

Lance Mannion
has a rogue's gallery of blog buddies now inhabiting the Don Draper universe. Very well done, everyone.

I have not read a single word of preseason hype, so I don't know what year we will find Don in tonight. But I do hope that Matt Weiner has gotten control of all the storyline and storyarc weaknesses that undercut the exquisite moments of season two, so that we really can luxuriate in this sultry summer fare.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Thanks for Staying Such a Long, Long Time


Les Paul was with us for 94 years, adding longevity to his long list of accomplishments. He was one of those once-in-a-lifetime distinct talents who was truly ageless. Which is why I was surprised to read that he first formed the Les Paul Trio in 1936! I knew he played with Armstrong and Crosby, but I thought it was in the fifties, when they were older and he was very young. Not at all, since he was born in 1915.

And he invented his culture-changing guitar in 1940/41. During the war. This is still feeling like a time warp to me. From the New York Times: "Seeking to create electronically sustained notes on the guitar, he attached strings and two pickups to a wooden board with a guitar neck. 'The log,' as he called it, was probably the first solid-body electric guitar and became the most influential one. 'You could go out and eat and come back and the note would still be sounding,' Mr. Paul once said."

Who else was thinking about electric guitars while the big bands were at the apex of their power? Well, that's what the geniuses do.

His guitar innovation was part of an electronic sound that he would help to usher in. On solo guitar he bridged the gap between the work of Eddie Lang and Django Rheinhardt in the thirties and all the lead guitarists of the rock era to come.

One of the best recordings of his solo guitar work is "It's Been a Long, Long Time," with Bing Crosby and the Les Paul Trio from 1945. There is a stunning clarity to the collaborative interpretation of the piece between Crosby's vocals and Paul's playing. Bing was often over-orchestrated with John Scott Trotter, which makes this exposed, pared down arrangement so special to the Crosby fan. He never needed all that overblown sound, just a talent like Les Paul, who harkened back to Crosby's early work with Lang. (And speaking of the big bands, Harry James also had a #1 hit with this Jule Styne/Sammy Cahn song in 1945. What a pivot point between the quickly fading sound of the big bands and the oncoming sound of electric music!)

Paul would go on to many superlative achievements, including the 1947 "Lover (When You're Near Me)," where he played all 8 instruments before the development of multitrack processing. "How High the Moon" is part of the very fabric of the 1950s.

Here's the Bing & Les duet, which someone put on YouTube just last month as the soundtrack to stills of great film lovers. I think Les would have liked this--he always said he just wanted to make people happy.