Prospect: A Year in the Park

Sudden impact

This is:
(a) a demonstration by PETA to protest the treatment of eels in Chinese seafood restaurants,
(b) the G train full of hipsters or
(c) Streb, the "extreme action" dance company that played the Prospect Park Bandshell last night.

Yes, it's Streb, whose death-defying "actioneers" flung themselves about on a perfect summer evening with a wild mix of daring abandon and precision teamwork. Elizabeth Streb, their choreographer, describes their work as "a mixture of slam dancing, exquisite and amazing human flight, and a wild action sport."  It also includes this rig called the "whizzing gizmo," onto and off of which the company leap like crazed tree frogs.

Oh, and they also perform terrifying feats with two pendulum-like swinging cinder blocks. Real ones.

On closer inspection

Since Daughter started practicing with her new high school's track team, Mom has been killing time in Prospect Park in the vicinity of the Picnic House. Here, some random discoveries, starting with the cobalt-blue hydrangeas in the gardens at the foot of the Litchfield Villa.

More botanical interest: What the hell happened to these tiny green crabapples or cherries or whatever? They were swollen and covered in soft, hairy protuberances that, when crushed, released bright orange Cheeto-like dust. I figured it was some sort of insect colonization, but when I broke one of the solid green fruits open, there was nothing extraordinary inside (like a Cheeto-shaped pupa, say). Identification clues are welcomed in the comments section.

Nearby, a newly planted tree bore these nubbin-like fruits; I think they are pawpaws, a native tree known as "Ozark banana" for its custard-like fruit, upon which both George Washington and members of the Lewis and Clark expedition supposedly snacked. The flowers have a fetid smell, and growers of pawpaw fruit (which is usually shipped frozen if at all) sometimes hang rotten meat nearby to encourage pollinators like carrion flies.

Finally...can you identify this mystery building in the park?













I never saw it before today; it's part of a fenced-off garage and utility complex near the villa, with handsome textured brickwork and a curious mossy patina. According to this guide, "This two-story brick stable and carpentry shop was built in the late 19th century to accommodate parks workers, and does the same today, though the horses have given way to trucks." 

The independents

A Fourth-of-July visit to the Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket brings intriguing encounters with a host of independent-minded types. For instance, the fellow who rode this Danish-made Bullitt cargo bicycle across several European countries before heading to Prospect Park. He insisted it was a cinch to ride with one's stuff stowed down in front.

At the Long Island winery tasting table, the lovely Ann Marie Borghese was handing out samples of an apple-scented rosé produced at Borghese Vineyard out in Cutchogue. Yes, her husband is related to the cosmetics royalty, and yes, she used to be a model.

And at the cooking demo table, chef Jacques Gautier, owner of Palo Santo in Park Slope, was slurping an unctuous homemade mayo onto freshly mandoline-sliced zucchini studded with sliced garlic scapes; it made a nice appetizer spooned onto rounds of fresh baguette. "Couldn't you also use a vinaigrette?" asked a health-conscious observer. "Yes," he replied patiently while adding more mayo, "but it wouldn't be as delicious."

I didn't make it back to the park until about 10 p.m., on the way home from "First Night" at the Brooklyn Museum. Crowds were pouring out of the barbecue area near Parkside and Ocean Avenues, dragging an astounding array of cooking and picnicking gear into waiting cabs, vans, cars, and shopping carts for a weary and satiated trip home.

Downed alien craft removed from park

Alright, so it's just an artwork being hauled away: Goodbye to "Erratic," a glaringly shiny pseudo-boulder that competed for attention with the luscious garden at the foot of the Litchfield Villa. For authentic artistry, I'll take Carmen, the villa's masterful volunteer gardener, over sculptor Roxy Paine. No disrespect to Mr. Paine; some of his other work is striking and beautiful, but this one left me cold. Maybe ironic "statements" about nature just don't hold up that well in bright sunshine next to the real deal.

The beginning of the journey

At three o'clock in the afternoon on the very last day of its life, June underwent a deathbed conversion and, hoping for salvation, poured forth blissful sunshine upon the Long Meadow. (At least until it tossed forth a final storm two hours later.) These day campers set forth into the fresh new summer, having been instructed to form "two neat lines" as they were unleashed upon the greensward. As if!

Night shift

On yet another dark day (what happened yesterday, the sun got scared of overexposure?), we present another talented photographer for whom Prospect Park is both subject and muse: Brian Christopher Sargent of Five Borough Films.









His strangely lit shots of the park at night capture the curious, other-worldly feeling of experiencing a public place at a time when no one else is ever there. Check out his gorgeous slide show of these haunting images here, and have a great weekend in our soggy park.

Sunday in the park with Dad

If it ever...ever...ever stops raining, grab your Dad and take him to the park! This wonderful shot (late 40s? Very early 50s?) looks like the Prospect Park Zoo, and hails from the Brooklyn Public Library's nifty Brooklyn collection archives. The skeptical miens of tots and adults suggest a staged shot (with mothers perhaps corralled nearby, eager to twitch collars and pull up socks for the camera). Ah, those were the days, before men dressed like teenagers and wore their babies in pouches!

Happy Father's Day to all AYITP-visiting dads!

Swanlets!

Mama Swan was paddling around Duck Island with a brood of fuzzy grey cygnets today, while Dad Swan acted as her "wing man" against the aggressive pack of Canada geese moseying around nearby.

 

Dad Swan sailed right up to me, hissed, and tried to bite me, just for having had the nerve to take pictures of the kids. Like you'd think I was some weirdo planning to post the shots on the Web or something.

All together now: Awwww.

Pilgrim rose

After a night of pounding rain, the roses growing wild near the Long Meadow released their perfume onto the wet air.

It also smelled a bit like wet dog, especially near Dog Beach, where a clueless young woman stood by as her doofy, dripping mutt leaped all over me. No "down, boy" or even an apology as I wiped the mud off; such dolts as these give ammunition to the anti-off-leash crusaders. Not the dog's fault, of course; he just suffered from an excess of unchecked happy dogness. I was reminded of the cretinously entitled parents who unleash their toddlers to hurl Cheerios around white-tablecloth restaurants and then imply that you "hate children" if you complain...

Anyway, the roses soothed my peevishness, especially since I missed Rose Night at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden last night. Here is a bonus rose from yesterday (with Pollinating Action Figure Bonus!) on the garden path behind the Audubon Center.

And here is Emily:

Nobody knows this little Rose –
It might a pilgrim be
Did I not take it from the ways
And lift it up to thee.
Only a Bee will miss it –
Only a Butterfly,
Hastening from far journey –
On its breast to lie –
Only a Bird will wonder –
Only a Breeze will sigh –
Ah Little Rose — how easy
For such as thee to die!

                —Emily Dickinson

Green mansions

June breaks my heart with its ineffable lush mystery. As I set out for my first park walk this June, the sun shone, but the sky darkened as I ventured into the meadows and woods along the East Drive. 

 

In this bridal month, everything is a symphony of green and lacy white. But as the sun disappeared, I became more aware of the intense quiet, broken only by torrents of birdsong. (Are there more robins this year than ever?) The "Rose Garden," bereft of roses, was empty of people (and its pools still empty of water). But it did hold these honey-scented flowers on a tall shrub (anyone care to identify?)

By the time I reached the Vale of Cashmere nestled in its sunken grove, I had picked up a fat walking stick from the undergrowth for show. The pool there is already turning to muck and the lovely jets of water weren't on...not a good sign. Why are these lovely spaces, in a green-starved city, allowed to languish? Perhaps because they are too well hidden; we all claim to want seclusion, but as city dwellers, we are wont to speak softly in such places while carrying a big stick.

The air of verdant menace extended to this overgrown path near Battle Pass. It's identified on a sign nearby as "Tunnel Arch Bridge," but I just call it "M. Night Shyamalan Underpass."

I emerged from my solitary explorations onto the drive just as a rain shower began. Perhaps it's a legacy of growing up in this city in the Seventies and Eighties that I felt I had pushed my luck, gotten away with something.