I think the day started out looking gloomy, cloudy, some wind, but then the weather changed to sun, and then stayed that way. But, by then I was back underground.
I took the 6 train to Union Square, then changed to the L train for the longest ride I've ever been on -- way past Morgan Avenue, and Jefferson -- hurtling along, with only a scarce group left in the car, and counting the stations to Broadway Junction. I thought, this is halfway to the Rockaways.
We emerged into bright light before that -- more stops on the elevated. Then an impressive merging at the junction, with a smooth transition to the J train. I noticed a lot of stained glass windows as part of the subway station decor, but everything looked old, from another era ...
Then on to the J train, hurtling further, deeper, into the dark heart of Queens. Finally to 85th Street Forest Parkway. Rickety old steps down to the street. Got my orientation by asking a local standing there, and went up 85th Street, towards the park. Then it turns out there is an 85th Drive, an 85th Road, 85th Avenue, all snaking around each other. What is a person to do?
There were neat houses, from another era, lining the street, green leafy trees and foliage, gardens in front yards -- the space between the sidewalk and the house. I turned into 85th Road looking for the number in my notes. I stood in front of a house, right where the sidewalk made a curve, I couldn't see the number, but guessed it must be it and just walked up and rang the doorbell.
But not before noticing what I thought I recognized as an old-fashioned "European touch" -- a table on the entry porch and a ragged but clean cotton tablecloth on it, and an old middle-Europa type ceramic jug placed in the middle of the table, with what looked like a small stained glass window higher up on the wall ...
It is the home of the great photographer Sylvia Plachy. Who answered the door. Others were there already, including, surprise!, my friend David G. The inside was packed with furniture and paintings, and rugs, and lots of things that probably had deep personal meaning. It didn't look modern at all. Sylvia graciously offered some water while we waited for us to assemble -- giving a few minutes more for any stragglers (afterall, it was about an hour subway ride to get there .. ).
Then we crossed the street to an old apartment building. The kind you find flung about the outer boroughs, whenever you have rhyme or reason to visit. Large, brick, with a "stylish" entry, a certain dark musty smell and look once you get inside. A rickety elevator up to the 5th floor, and then into a small apartment, light and airy, that Sylvia uses as a studio, and also as a guest room (including for her son, the actor Adrien Brody).
It looked inviting. The bed had a look like someone had just been there. Kind of rumpled. Windows open, curtains moving in the breeze.
A ghostly woman seeming to walk in from the fire escape ...
Sylvia talked to us about her work, almost reluctantly, and with flailing arms and large gestures and brief sentences. She showed us books of her work. She talked about Hungary and coming to New York in the late 50's with her family, being a student, loving photography, becoming staff photographer at the Village Voice, where I remember seeing her work in my early days here.
It was a gorgeous day out. I looked from the window and swear I could see water in the distance. Jamaica Bay, probably. What an enchanting corner of New York City! With an artist, or two, in residence.
The place was full of fine little touches. Little still lifes. I didn't want to intrude too much with picture taking, but everywhere one looked there were little tableaus, in perfect arrangement, evoking spirits, particularly from times past ...
Thank you, Sylvia, for letting us into your world.
Then back out to the street, we scattered, but I walked with David and we found our way back to the subway stop, along all those 85th streets. Including passing a school where schrieking screaming children were pouring out quickly on to the narrow sidewalk. Climbed the stairs to the el and waited for the train. Back to the city, to Union Square, to noise and bustle. And the bright sunshine.
I stopped by the Vera List Center at the New School to catch a panel -- it had been an all day conference, and was now late afternoon -- and Martha Rosler was just talking. The place was really warm inside and the air so stale, I couldn't stay long. I had to get back outside. But not before I remembered coming to New York City back when, with a small grant, to study with the late great esteemed photographer Lisette Model, for a semester at the New School ...
I made my way up to 14th Street and caught the bus ... I thought I'd have a transfer but it took another fare.
