I like the “then and now” conceit. Simple yet revealing, one takes a picture or a description of a person or a place from some time ago and holds it up for comparison to that person or place today. This seemingly simple assignment can be challenging, especially when images of a place are decades apart. I did something like this a couple of years ago when I re-traced the steps of the funeral scene from The Godfather. I did it again on Wednesday , when I found myself standing in Times Square, holding in front of me a black and white printout of this amazing picture, trying to find the spot at which it was taken. This picture is from my collection of slides. It was taken by a Coloradoan visiting Manhattan’s Times Square in 1942.

Times Square, 1942
The following picture comes close to the spot at which the above was taken, but I will try again because I want to get this right.

Times Square, 2009
The frames of reference here are the white building in the lower left and the tan brick building on the right, seen in my picture behind the modern-day T.G.I. Friday’s sign and in the 1942 picture behind an empty billboard. The exact placement of the first picture would be more to the right, though if memory serves that would have put me right out in the middle of 7th Avenue, dodging vehicular traffic and — more perilously — invective-spewing bicyclists.
There are, obviously, a lot more buildings now, and a lot more taller buildings at that. Times Square looks so small in 1942. The signage where the Ruppert Beer sign used to be now climbs virtually to the sky. Samsung and HSBC appear to have called PEnnsylvania 6-5300 to buy that previously empty billboard and the air space above.
What I find eye-popping about the 1942 Kodachrome slide is its color. Pictures from the 1940s are usually in black and white, and I would think that a certain segment of the American mind assumes that life itself was in black and white up until television and print media were in color.
The venerable Shorpy.com shows this picture of Times Square in 1943, all in black and white and, by certain modern standards, not a little bit dreary because of it. Black and white does sap the superficial out of a subject as gaudy as Times Square, but I prefer black and white story-telling in film and photography. It signifies a departure from reality and asserts that what you see is, in fact, only a story — a work of art distinct from your ordinary life.
My acquisition of the 1942 Times Square photo also coincides with my recent pre-occupation with Telephone Exchange Names. I originally posted a single story with a series of exchange name sightings but the page got too big to deal with. I broke it up into a picture essay to which I will add more exchange names as I spot them. I collected most of the pictures I already have of exchange name sightings around New York, and in place of some of the less usable old pictures I got new shots of the same places while occasionally spotting new (to me) exchange names on the sides of warehouses and manufacturing plants in Queens and Manhattan.
The PEnnsylvania Exchange Name seen in this 1942 picture is, of course, long gone. The number today goes to a law firm by the name of Block, O’Toole, & Murphy. Their number is 212-736-5300, but would formerly have been PEnn6-5300. I think it would be pretty cool to discover that a primitive version of my phone number once stood over the so-called Crossroads of the World.
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I have tried to avoid use of the royal “I” in writing words on paper or on screen. Like use of the verb “to be” it seems like a weakness — resorting to what I think or what specific circumstances I experienced — when the greater story is what happened outside, or at best because of me. It is an adjunct of my social belief that good listeners make the best conversation.
Lately, in the privacy of my head, I have taken this elimination of I to another level by removing the trap of my from accounts of things which seem to belong to me but are ephemeral. I started at this some months ago after a mundane conversation about a grocery store coupon. An older woman commented “I took my coupon to the WalMart…” Her use of “my” stuck out like a thorn. Your coupon? You earned it? Do you enter a WalMart, coupon in hand, with such pride in that scrap of paper that you claim it is yours? The physical coupon itself, that sacrificial interstitial vehicle of commerce that you clipped from a newspaper or printed off a web page is not really yours. It is not WalMart’s. At best it belongs to the manufacturer. If the responsibility of a human being for an item’s existence is the standard of ownership then I expect the real owner of this “woman’s” coupon could be traced to a marketing manager somewhere in the company that produces the product(s) on the coupon. The coupons function as reconnaissance vessels, and while they pass through the fingers and hands of individual consumers and cashiers I think it unclear whether a coupon ever becomes the property of anyone along the way. This philosophical point has likely been addressed elsewhere, but I invoke the dilemma of ownership as an example of a petty weakness in human communication. I own nothing on this earth, even the flesh on these bones will one day be stripped bare, but like most humans I find myself describing “my” this and “my” that in reference to objects and passings that only slip through my fingers like sand. Between sentences here I stop to sip my coffee. My coffee? What makes it mine? Is it because you don’t have it? I could simplify the account by saying “I sip coffee”, or we could disembody it to a universality by saying “Coffee is sipped.” By my standards of the moment I think that a satisfactory account of consuming this coffee must eliminate ownership of the product. This coffee is like that grocery store coupon: an interstitial material presence no more mine than yours, which belongs to me no more than the water I drank from a public water fountain yesterday. And yet at coffee shops and diners I will hear myself refer to “my coffee” or “my sandwich” as I come to believe that this contradistinction of possessiveness is false. Nothing is owned. Nothing is mine. Nothing is yours. I even find myself turning back the notion of my thoughts. “My” ideas are not mine but a composite mash of surrounding concepts, regurgitated back into the pool of thought. Nothing germinates in a genuinely cloistered space that is solely mine, or solely yours. |
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My dreams have had sourness about them this year. A dour, depressed tincture of humiliation and disdain, but the source and the target of the disdain are unclear.
Wandering around a boatyard I happened to see an ex-girlfriend from when I first moved to New York. In reality I used to see her once and again for several years after our dramatic and constipated break-up, but in the boatyard it seemed, despite some familiarity, like we had never even met until this moment. She invited me into her house: a half-sunken boat in the Hudson River at 86th Street. It was not even a boat but a re-purposed truck or RV, most of it submerged in the Hudson with only the top windows above water. I said I did not feel safe in this vessel but she was nonplussed, saying she had lived in this vessel for all of the 15 years since we last met. I felt like the house would sink, and I climbed on to the roof, yelling “Mayday” and lecturing myself and my ex on maritime logistics, how no boat in the water would ignore a Mayday call.
The boat began to sink but in my hive of lies I instead announced that the land was rising. The boat sank into disappearing water, the vessel swallowed by a thick sheet of filthy sputum from the river floor. I climbed out and wandered a dark west side of Manhattan, re-visiting old haunts either out of business or closed to me.
Suffocation pervades these dreams, like claustrophobia from a film-noir mystery. Seemingly contradictory feelings of sharpness and depression press at the walls of my mind, these pointed impression forming wells at the bottom of larger areas. These recessions alter the ability of my mind to interact with itself. Strands of idea trail off in search of another, lingering as half-bloomed weeds in vacant allies.
It can take quite a bit of time to snap out of these dreams.


















