… grows in Brooklyn

With the strong summer sun sneaking away into autumn, I grabbed Time Out magazine and flippd through it looking for something to do. As if the editors were aware of the situation, I found an article “Things To Do Before Summer Ends”. There on the list was a place I had heard about, but never been to, The Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. I grabbed Jenn McGowan, who grabbed her daughter & friend and off we went deep into the bowels of Brooklyn.

Ok, “deep in the bowels” isn’t that accurate, but it was in Brooklyn, nestled on the side of Prospect Park. It was the first trip there for all of us, and I was amazed how I had never been to this beautiful spot in my city. Jenn and I walked around clicking away as the girls tried to find the prettiest flower for her to shoot, and the ugliest for me. (Kept them busy, didn’t it?)

We wandered the manicured gardens, which were blooming in some spots, past bloom in others. We watched the turtles in the Japaneses pond bask in the sun, and would chuckle at the rare siren or car horn in the distance. For awhile we felt we were as far from downtown Brooklyn as one could get, strolling along in a floral paradise.

The lily pads in the reflecting pools were brimming with dragonflys which danced from flower to flower. The girls raided the gift shops, and even I got a “starving artist” pin. We walked through the greenhouses, each dedicated to “dessert”, “rainforest” and “temperate”.

I’ve commented in the past that I often view taking of flowers are boring, and my mind hasn’t changed. However, no one could ever deny the absolute beauty of a delicate flower. No one could ever not be amazed at the unique detail that gets poured by mother earth into every single petal on every single flower that blooms.

We left the gardens amazed at the beauty we had just witnessed, and I was happy I found another treasure of New York City.

Ehrich Weisz

Ehrich Weisz & his mother moved to the US from Hungry as a young boy in 1878. They joined Ehrich’s father, who by now had changed the family name to Weiss, in Appleton Wisconsin. Ehrich grew up there as an average child, though there are stories of him opening locks to the kitchen cabinets to gain access to pies & sweets. As he grew, Ehrich developed great agility. Using this talent, he found his way into the spotlight, first on a trapeze, calling himself “Ehrich, the Prince of the Air.”

He took the rails at age 12, wandering around, probably performing, but eventually wound up rejoining his family, who had moved here, to New York City. He continued performing, but started working his new found talent of magic into his act. Eventually he changed his name and Harry Houdini was born.

I’ve always been captivated by magic. One of my most vivid memories was when a family friend came over and performed some magic tricks for me. He put multi colored silk scarves into a empty box of detergent, and pulled them out white. Afterwards he gave me the box, and I kept it for years. To this day I love magic specials on TV, expect the guy who shows you how it’s done. Somethings things, I guess, I don’t want to know.

As you can imagine, living in NYC’s cemetery belt, there are lots of famous graves around. Even though I spend a lot of time in the graveyards around me, I don’t focus too much on individual graves. I’ve even gone to lengths to not include the names, I dunno, I just feel awkward about it.

I always knew Houdini was buried in the neighborhood, but I was never sure where. I googled around, found the name of the cemetery and was surprised to see it was one that I had been in a few times. The site I found didn’t give the exact location, just a hint “It’s by the entrance, you can’t miss it, you see it as soon as you drive in.” Well, I must drive with my eyes closed, because I made three of four trips there specifically to look for Houdini’s final resting place and never saw it.

I guess the master escape artist was escaping one last time.

One warm spring day I went back, not so much to look for it, but just to enjoy the day out. I parked my car, wandered along the silent rows and climbed to the crest of a hill. I looked around, from there you could even see the skyline of Manhattan. I looked at the busy road in front of the cemetery and my eyes followed it along. Suddenly I saw it… what I had been missing … another gate! It dawned on me now, that the entrance that was being referred to was no longer and entrance, but a chained up service gate. I hurried down the hill, and in a few minutes I was there.

Houdini’s tomb was exactly as I had read it looked like. It bore both his stage name, as well as his real name. A woman in stone wept at the base. Walls stretched out from both sides of it embracing the smaller name markers of those who lay in plot. Harry’s had some stones on it, and someone had left behind a key.

I took some photos, breaking my usual practice, but I figured a man who lived and loved the spotlight so much wouldn’t mind.

(thanks to BK Hagar for reminding me to write this up…lol)

HDRs in Brooklyn

Strolled around Williamsburg today. I dunno, maybe it was that I stayed up to the wee hours last night reading the blog of the HDR master Louis Trocciola but I just kept seeing all the great color and detail around me.

Now I’m in no way trying to copy his work, even if I tried I couldn’t get close. Visit his blog, and look at his images and let me know when you jaw finally closes. I’ve also been learning a lot at my favorite photo stomping ground Your Photo Forum from the HDR masters there, Jake Easley and Lincoln Palmer. Their stuff will blow you away. They’re both great guys too, and I’ve gotten lots of help and advice from them.

For now anyway, I’m still trying to find my way in this art form. Not every image will work as an HDR, and if nothing else, I’m getting better at taking a photo and making a mental note to run it through Photomatix when I get home.

Here’s what I saw today…

Door

Sky Above The Bridge

Vote Truck

Colors In The Cold

It would ultimately turn out to be the coldest day of 2008 and the year had barley just begun. I didn’t have work, though I didn’t bother telling anyone that, so I decided to drive around and enjoy the quiet for a bit, and of course, see if I could find some photos.

I drove through parts of Queens, into Brooklyn, not really sure where I was headed. I eventually wound up in Greenpoint, and drove up and down street after street looking around. It was afternoon, the sun was low in the sky and like I said, it was freezing outside, only complete morons would be out in the fresh air.

So of course I parked my car and walked into the East River State Park on Kent Street. Surprisingly, I found some other people there. A bunch of teenage boys did tricks with their skate boards and looked at me with a sort of disdain that I had somehow violated their sanctuary. I traveled past them to the short of the East River.

Across the river the city was engrossed in the afternoon rush, millions of people thrust themselves into subways and buses to get back into the safety and warmth of their homes. But here in the park, the waves of the river just washed slowly against the shore. Seagulls found their dinners in the rocks and remains of the pier. A perfect example of the peace and tranquility that could be found inside the noisiest and vigorous city on the planet.

I sat and enjoyed it for a while, until, despite the fact I was bundled from head to toe, the cold began to creep into my bones and I needed to move to get warm again. I took some shots of the shore, the birds, the waves. The sun sank lower and lit the skyline of Manhattan in a brilliant light. A walked a little further and notice the reminisce of an old pier jutting into the water, and old forgotten relic of days gone past which some one had decided to “redecorate”.

After I photographed it and moved on I had noticed more and more of the graffiti, especially once I left the park, walking past the skateboarders who seemed thankful for my exit. Some of it was colorful, some of it was plain. Some was artistic, others was just downright offensive. I turned and walked down a deserted street. Along one side of the street ran an abandoned factory, it’s floor after floor of broken windows . This too was embellished by a street artist.

I continued down the street which dead ended at the river. At one time it looked as if a pier had run out from the street into the water, but now only a few beams remained. It had become now a jumbled, tangled mess of garbage, twisted steel and old forgotten wooden beams. A fence had been put up to keep out trespassers, and of course it had a large hole in it, so I ventured in. BY now the sun had really begun to set, the cold had become even colder, and I was no longer feeling as brave as I did when I wasn’t on a deserted street in Brooklyn with night quickly approaching. I snapped one photo, before getting back to the safer side of the fence.

As I drove around the streets, night had fallen and the colors I had seen earlier had all melted into the yellowish hue of the city street lamps. I threw some Miles Davis into the CD player and drove into the night, eager to discover what I could find there.