Author Archives: WS50

Casting Shadows and a Set of Pipes

27 Thursday Jun 2013

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Ang's Laundry

Ang’s Laundry

BY JULIE SEYLER

One morning I brought my camera with me as I walked crosstown. It was about 7:20, and the sun played havoc with the shaded facade of this building on 22nd Street. The black spikes in the iron fence are vertical, the white floor of the fire escape is horizontal, the windows are on a diagonal. The photo is a carousel of movement. But the close-up changed the mood. The photo is no longer about sharp edges and frantic energy.

Above Ang's Laundry

Above Ang’s Laundry.

I spotted these pipes above a parking garage on 20th Street. They are so organically woven, they seem to be channeling Fernand Leger.

Big Pipes

Big Pipes.

These standpipes made me think of Egyptian dancers – heads to the left; bodies facing front.

Egyptian dancers.

Egyptian dancers.

I came back to where I started, felled again by the dance of sunlight against a building on 20th Street.

Portico

Portico.

A Pictorial, and Bittersweet Memories, of Summers Past

25 Tuesday Jun 2013

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Summer.

Summer. All photos by Julie Seyler.

BY JULIE SEYLER

For me, the coming of summer triggers walks down lanes dotted with memories; picture postcards of the past.

I step back to the summer of 1970. Endless days spent sitting on the beach with friends, and hanging out in the snack bar at Loch Arbor Beach listening to, “I Love You More Today Than Yesterday,” playing Hearts or Spades. Nights that began with a walk from the Casino, at one end of the boardwalk in Asbury, and ended with pinball at Convention Hall, at the other end, until one of our parents would arrive to take us home.

And even earlier than that, I remember bike rides to Allenhurst Pharmacy for hot fudge sundaes, and trips to the Palace to ride the bumper cars, the ferris wheel and the carousel. I would try to grab the gold ring as the horses spun up and down and round and round. Way before the riots took down Asbury Park, the Palace, which was Tillie’s home before the Wonder Bar saved her, was an extravagant indoor amusement park.

And earlier than that, it was about catching fireflies. An empty jelly jar in hand, I was out for the hunt.

Flash 50 years forward – I never see fireflies anywhere; the Allenhurst Pharmacy gave way to a dress shop 30 years ago. But the Casino has been rebuilt from a battered shell, and Convention Hall continues to shine forever true.

The Casino

The Casino, today, rising.

Convention Hall.

Convention Hall. Steadfast.

And, of course some things refuse to change. Summer weekends I am sitting on Allehurst beach, albeit no longer playing cards, but still hanging with my card-partners from way back then.

still sitting on the beach

Still sitting on the beach with the same old crowd.

I’ve Seen the Writing on the (Bathroom) Wall

24 Monday Jun 2013

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Philosophy in the Loo.

Philosophy in the Loo. By Julie Seyler.

BY BOB SMITH

Bathroom graffiti was an art form in the ’70s, and nowhere was it more varied and interesting than in the men’s rooms at Rutgers University. Of course, there were the crude illustrations of exaggerated phalluses, assorted orifices, and the two, conjoined, drawn with varying degrees of skill. But it was the wordplay that got me. I recall a wry trilogy of quotes:

“To be is to do.” Socrates
“To do is to be.” Sartre
“Do be do be do.” Sinatra

Today, online, they sell t-shirts that display those quotes.

Or a couplet, beginning with this plaintive cry in a looping, extravagant script: “My mother made me a homosexual!”

To which some wag replied: “Cool. If I send her the wool, do you think she’ll make me one too?”

There were also pithy declarations: “Patty Schasty does the nasty.”  

Which could be viewed as a slur. or an endorsement, depending on your point of view. Ms. Schasty’s purported phone number accompanied the post, but I didn’t take it down. I wonder if anyone ever calls those numbers? It’s like a country song about loneliness – your phone number’s on the bathroom wall but you still can’t get a date.

Once I saw a listing of 40 slang terms for female genitalia, all in different handwriting. They ranged from disgustingly misogynistic to poetic, and after a week had spawned a companion list, equally extensive, covering the male organ. Puerile?  Absolutely. But fascinating, too, to see how much mental energy people expend on the subject.

One incident was particularly disturbing. I was in the basement bathroom of the main library one afternoon, using the facilities and enjoying the artwork on the stall wall.   To my right, above the roll of toilet paper, was the notation, “Right here Wednesday 4 p.m. good time had by all!”  As I toyed with whether that was a historical note or an invitation to a future meeting, someone noisily entered the adjacent stall. I realized with a jolt that this was Wednesday. I checked my watch – 3:55.

As my new neighbor went about the usual business, I wondered: is this anyone’s idea of a romantic setting? I made ready to exit, but as I hastily pawed at the roll of paper I hit the separating wall twice, making noises that a hopeful suitor might easily interpret as an eager knock.  My heart sank – there seemed to be a corresponding rush to paper on the other side.

I quickly exited the stall, strode to the sink with eyes downcast, and began washing my hands. The occupant of the adjacent stall appeared alongside me, and began to do the same. I considered furtively glancing to my right to see if he was checking me out but realized that if he were, and if he saw me do that, wouldn’t he think I was checking him out? Is that the drill?  Furtive glance followed by knowing wink followed by an invitation to my stall or yours?  Yikes!

Luckily, he finished washing his hands, and simply walked out, clearly not seeking a rendezvous. I left quickly too, afraid the true author of the scrawled invitation might show up slightly late, searching for love. I had washed my hands thoroughly, but I still felt slightly soiled.

The Bed: Once Made for Frolic, Now It’s About Sleep

21 Friday Jun 2013

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The non-Tracey Emin Bed or the Bed at 50

The non-Tracey Emin Bed

BY JULIE SEYLER

Tracey Emin emerged on the art scene about 20 years ago. She became renowned for her 1995 installation work of a tent embroidered with the names of the 102 people she “slept” with, as well as other installations, such as her bed in its unedited glory surrounded by totems of her life in her 20s. To me, “My Bed” represents the chaotic frenzy, boundaryless partying, and hormonal passion that drives us when we are young. But the artist that was identified as one of the Young British Artists is turning 50. She was recently interviewed in The New York Times, and in response to a question about 50 being the new 30 she said:

Who’s saying that? When you’re 20 or 30, looking ahead, you see these benchmarks for relationships, career, ambition, sexuality, and they went off into infinity. When you get to 50, you look at what’s ahead of you, and there’s an end. It goes into a nothingness; a void.

This struck me as a somewhat dark, but fairly accurate observation of what hits the psyche at some point during one’s 50s; another of the “crossing the rubicon” thoughts that hover about as we transition from being “young” to the next stage. So, the bed – once a repository of day/night revelry now plays a primarily functional role. Let there be a full night’s sleep.

Memories of a Golf Caddy

20 Thursday Jun 2013

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Frank Terranella caddies.

Frank Terranella: Caddy. Art by Julie Seyler.

By FRANK TERRANELLA

I’ve always found that June is the prime golf month in the New York area. In May, courses are still not done recovering from the winter. In July, the grass begins to burn out, and the tees and greens begin to show the wear and tear of hordes of weekend golfers.

I grew up with golf. In fact, I spent every summer from when I was 14 until I was 22 caddying at a New Jersey country club. I was never a good golfer, but I enjoyed caddying.  You got to accompany people out having a good time. I can assure you it beats the hell out of accompanying them to court as I did later in life as a lawyer. Sure, the work was sometimes hard when the mercury hit 90, and the golf bags you were carrying were the size of a Buick, but you really can’t beat a job where you are paid for essentially taking a walk in the country.

Caddies came in two varieties – the schoolboys and the adults. The adult caddies, many of whom were on the right side of 50, ranged from family men who caddied on their days off, to winos who often tried to win enough at the caddyshack card game so they didn’t have to walk the course at all. More often than not, we would see these guys out on the course in late afternoon sun struggling to climb the 14th hole.

Golf carts have been around for decades, and they were in full use back when I was caddying. But the country club where I worked had a rule that was typical of the time – they required members to hire a caddy, even if they rented a cart. The caddy would just carry putters, advise the golfer on distances, and keep track of hit golf balls. This bit of featherbedding had the salutary effect of providing many jobs, not just for teens, but also for men who caddied to supplement their incomes. Notice I say “men,” because women, even if they could physically handle the job (and many could), would not be hired as caddies at most country clubs back then.

In addition to not hiring women caddies, back in the “Mad Men” days, many country clubs also restricted when women could play golf. The club would usually designate one or two days a week as ladies days. Women could also play on Sunday afternoons, but only if they were accompanied by their husbands. So there were large periods of time when only men were on the course. And of course, all the caddies were male. The members justified this segregation by saying that they wanted to be able to swear without having to worry about offending ladies. The thing was, when we caddied for women, they used just as much foul language when they missed a shot. I think the real reason why men wanted to play without women was because they seemed to take perverse pleasure in unzipping their fly and relieving themselves anywhere along the course. As a caddy, it was my job sometimes to act as lookout and a shield for a shy golfer who didn’t want to be seen heeding the call of nature.

But there was an art to being a good caddy. You had to be out of sight until just the moment when the golfer needed you. You had to offer encouragement after a bad shot. You had to share, with the golfer, your expert knowledge of the course you walked every day. And like all personal service jobs, you had to do it with a smile, even when the golfer cursed you out because a club clattered while he was putting.

After my caddying days ended, I lost touch with golf. Perhaps one of the joys of retirement one day may be to rediscover the game.  But certainly at this time of year, when I smell dew-covered grass on a summer morning, I think back to my youthful days on the links.

Seven Months In (That’s Six Longer Than We Expected)

19 Wednesday Jun 2013

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Champagne to celebrate!

BY JULIE SEYLER

Lois and I launched this blog on November 19, 2012. I was recovering from hip replacement surgery. Our goal was to see if we could keep it up for a month. We did not want unnecessary burdens on our shoulders.

As Lois said: “As long as we’re having fun. When it’s no longer fun, we’ll stop.”

Seven months later: We are still having fun.

So, my seven-month anniversary toast is devoted to the perfect partnership. I am a deep-brow worrier; Lois waltzes through the thunder. Better yet, she never gets tired of telling me that I do not need to worry. The water in my glass is usually a little below the halfway line; hers is flowing over the top. But we manage to crack up over the same things.

So, here’s to you, my friend!

HERE'S TO YOU

Here’s to you.

Mourning the Photo Album

17 Monday Jun 2013

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27 Photo albums

27 Photo albums.

BY JULIE SEYLER

In 1975, I gathered my loose photographs and consigned them to albums. So began my tradition of carefully pasting and labeling photos from Allenhurst Beach to trips to parties into bound notebooks with clear plastic sleeves.

In the 1975 album, I have a photo from a 1968 spin-the-bottle party where friends of mine first kissed. They are still kissing from what I hear. I have photos from Lois’s bridal shower in 1982, when we cruised around the city in a limo screaming at strangers that “She’s the bride!” And I have photos of the old Howard Johnson’s on the Asbury Park Boardwalk. I love that a bookful of memories lies at my beck and call.

At last count there were about 50 photo albums, but alas there will be no more. I abandoned ship in 2008. I fought the digital revolution for as long as I could, but five years ago I succumbed to the cheaper expense, convenience, and ever-evolving quality of a digital camera. I am sad for the days of yore – figuring out how many rolls of film to bring on a trip (would 24 rolls with 36 exposures be sufficient for a three-week journey through north India?),determining whether to get 4″x 6″ prints or 5″ x 7″ prints, anticipating how all those photos would look when they came back from the developer, and mourning the ones that were ruined (there was no such thing as photoshopping the underexposed image back to life), and the sharing of them with friends over a glass of wine, not on Facebook.

12 Photo albums

12 Photo albums.

For a while, I was getting prints of the digitals, and still putting them in photo albums. But when I went to Egypt, I simply stored the 3000 photos on my computer, and diligently created separate file folders for each location, day trip, and architectural style I saw. I never finished the cataloguing, but I have to say I do enjoy perusing them on the computer. The effect of taking me back to a time and place – the whole purpose of the picture – is not diminished by the medium.

Abu Simbel from the plane. Egypt, November, 2009.

Abu Simbel from the plane. Egypt, November, 2009.

There’s No Tiptoeing Around The Hair on Our Heads

13 Thursday Jun 2013

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Hair...a mind of its own. Photocollage by Julie Seyler

Hair…a mind of its own. Photocollage by Julie Seyler

BY JULIE SEYLER AND LOIS DESOCIO

The blog has weighed in on eyebrows, so why not meander onto other post-50 hair issues? Like the way it morphs into a foreign object in strange places (ear and nose hair, mostly on men), or pulls a disappearing act (where’d the hairline go?), or simply re-invents itself from a thick flow of trestly curls into a plate of limp spaghetti strands.

There are thousands of documented scientific, genetic, chemical, hormonal explanations for these unsuspected changes, but they do not cure the shock of the switcheroo. And just as you get accustomed to one specific change, such as adapting to fine hair after a lifetime of dense curls, it becomes even finer – so fine that if you touch it, it ends up in your hand instead of staying nicely in place on the top of your head. Aging is body betrayal on tiptoes.

Here, plucked from The U.S. National Library of Medicine and The National Institutes of Health, is the science that gets to the root of aging hair:

Hair thickness change. Hair is made of many protein strands. A single hair has a normal life between 2 and 6 years. That hair then falls out and is replaced with a new hair. How much hair you have on your body and head is also determined by your genes.

“… nearly everyone has some hair loss with aging. The rate of hair growth also slows.

Hair strands become smaller and have less pigment. So the thick, coarse hair of a young adult eventually becomes thin, fine, light-colored hair. Many hair follicles stop producing new hairs.

Men may start showing signs of baldness by the time they are 30 years old. Many men are nearly bald by age 60. A type of baldness related to the male hormone testosterone is called male-pattern baldness. Hair may be lost at the temples or at the top of the head.

Women can develop a similar type of baldness as they age. This is called female-pattern baldness. Hair becomes less dense and the scalp may become visible.

As you age, your body and facial hair are also lost. But hairs that remain may become coarser. Women may lose body hair. Facial hair may get coarser, especially on the chin and around the lips. Men may grow longer and coarser eyebrow, ear, and nose hair.”

Phooey. It doesn’t have to be that way. Errant nose, ear, chin, and hand! hair can be plucked and snipped, shaved and sheared. But here’s the dirt on the hair on your head: Don’t wash it. You can still shower, of course. But just rinse. And run your fingers through it under the spout. Massage the oils out and throughout. Shun the shampoo part starting on Monday, and by Thursday, you will have the hair you had in your 30s. A little grease adds heft and sheen. There’s a reason that the hair follicles, those sebaceous glands, are full of natural oils. Keep any loose hairs in place by not brushing them. Instead: Scrunch. Tousle. Repeat.

And research supports that, along with good nutrition, exercise will keep hair healthy. So, hit the gym, steer clear of shampoo, and add some sweat to the grit. Skeptics might imagine that this combination would lead to nothing but a bad hair day of “limp spaghetti strands.”  No –  you will, instead, sport “a thick flow of trestly curls.”

Cleaning Out for Moving Day (Except the Wrap, Ribbon, Bows and Corks)

12 Wednesday Jun 2013

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ribbon

BY BOB SMITH

Moving out of a house after 28 years is an involved process. We started by cleaning all the obvious junk out of the basement and the closets, which took us about eight days (spread out over three months of weekends). One pile of stuff was designated “garbage,” another was labeled “give to family,” another “give to charity,” and another pile – ideally, but not always, the smallest – was labeled “keep.”

Except for wrapping paper, ribbon, and bows. Those are always in the “keep” pile at my house. We have carefully packed, and will take with us to our next house more than a dozen partially-used rolls of gift wrap with patterns to cover every conceivable occasion. Probably 80% of our collection is Christmas wrap, because we’re so heavily invested in that particular holiday. But if you need birthday wrap, we have both juvenile and grown-up patterns available. Fancy metallic wrap suitable for anniversaries or everyday giving? Yup – gold, silver and multicolored varieties can be found in our basement. We even have some Halloween wrap that features pumpkins and skulls on a black background pierced by glaring “spooky eyes.”

The rolls of wrap are jammed into shopping bags on a shelf, jumbled together like festive baguettes. Nestled among the bags of wrap are other bags jammed with pre-tied ribbons (the kind with sticky paper stapled to the bottom, often with bits of colored paper still attached from when they were ripped off their original packages), as well as rolls and rolls of string ribbon that you peel off and tie yourself. Some of these come in small spools where the ribbon is looped around itself, just like rolls of kite string. If you tied all our spare ribbon end to end, you could fly a kite on motley string from here to Milwaukee.wrap

But we wouldn’t waste ribbon like that. After all, we might need it someday to garnish a gift we’ve wrapped with one of the multitudinous scraps of paper lurking in our basement.

Don’t get me wrong. I love nicely wrapped and decorated gifts. But it seems to me we’d all be better off if we recycled that old wrapping paper – not by using it to wrap gifts for years to come, but by tossing it in the municipal recycling bin. We’d help the economy by buying new paper (and ribbon) for every wrapping occasion, and we’d help the environment by letting that valuable paper be made into newer, more exciting and vibrant patterns to delight new generations of gift-givers and recipients everywhere. Best of all, we’d avoid the ever-growing encroachment of clutter in our basement created by all that wrap, ribbon, and bows.

Before you know it, there won’t be any room for my wine cork collection. I’ve been saving them for years because they seem so damn useful. They’re dense and waterproof, with solid structure and character. They’re decorated with writing and artwork, and have colorful stains to remind us of the wine we enjoyed with them. They float.corks

And you can do any number of cool things with them. Sliced in half, lengthwise, and fit into the proper wooden frame, they can be turned into lumpy message boards or wobbly trivets. Thinner pieces cut across the diameter of the corks are ideal for making sturdy, slip-resistant (and maybe a bit uneven) feet for wood cutting boards. Or you can just toss them, whole, into a jumbo decorative jar, and enjoy the ambience and personality that flows from their collective presence in a room.

Someday I’ll make all those things, and more, with that fine collection of corks, and give them away as gifts. I already know how we’ll wrap them.

Me and My Art: The Whole Picture

11 Tuesday Jun 2013

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A Painting from about 1997.

A Painting from about 1997.

BY JULIE SEYLER

Lois and I started this blog because we both love pencils – she loves to write, and I love to draw – drawing being a metaphor for creating a visual image, be it with a pencil, oil paint, watercolor, camera or a brassiere.

Beginning in high school, when I discovered Matisse and VanGogh, through to today, when I see some artist I’ve never heard of, I have been intrigued by art. Not because I always understand it, but because of the mystery. A painting may be beautiful, “The Girl with the Pearl Earring,” realistically astounding, (Rembrandt’s self-portraits) or primally powerful (DeKooning’s Women series), but for me, it is discovering something new, previously unseen, that keeps me looking.

So while I had taken a few art classes in high school (everyone remember Mr. Judikic?), I had not pursued it either as a hobby or a profession. Instead, I went to museums and galleries to experience art. But just before I turned 40, a feeling came over me that I had to do something with my hands. I enrolled in a papier-mache class. Who knew a box, a toilet paper roll, the papier-mache and acrylic paint could be so fascinating? I collected armatures in every size from four-foot-long dresser drawers to two-foot cartons to mini styrofoam balls. My living room was morphing into a studio, and my dining room table was a resting ground for paints, bowls and brushes.

The weddong cake. Papier-mache and acrylic paint.

The wedding cake. Papier-mache and acrylic paint.

Then a friend suggested I take a painting class at the Art Students’ League, and from 1995, for about the next 10 years, I spent Tuesday evenings there. Those first three years were magical, and they ring vividly still today. The first year I had Joanna Pousette-Dart. She was a working artist, and scion of a family of artists. She insisted we learn how to stretch and gesso a canvas. An invaluable tool in these days of the ready-mades. When I mentioned to her that I was going to start with a small canvas, she retorted, “Go big. Once you go big, you’ll never go small again.” I immediately began purchasing five and six foot stretcher bars. Joanna would say things like, “The more you see, the more you see,” and constantly remind us to “Look at the night sky because there are so many colors.”

After Joanna, I took classes with Knox Martin who was also a great teacher in ways far different than Joanna. Despite the massive glass erections that have erupted on the West Side Highway his presence remains and reigns:

Knox Martin on the West Side Highway

Knox Martin on the West Side Highway

My favorite quote of his was, “Monet didn’t deserve to suck VanGogh’s brush.”

At home, on top of the escalating papier-mache sculptures, I had paintings all over the place in various stages of completion. I would get up in the morning, and paint and come home after work and paint. Saturday morning was spent stretching and gessoing and papier-maching and then running around trying to see gallery shows.

The floor with gessoing in process.

The floor with gessoing in process.

My passion for materials led me from acrylics to oils to watercolors, paper, and fabric and beads and thread and anything else that seemed usable. If a painting wasn’t working, I’d cut it up, and make a collage.

Collage made from cut up painting, thread, flowers.

Collage made from cut up painting, thread, flowers.

Lately, it has been impossible to paint. For one thing I seem to need more sleep, but also because the studio now doubles as a storage space. So I draw and do watercolors and mini-collages. But I know all of my ideas are being stored for when the easel can re-emerge.

the studio copy