Prospect: A Year in the Park

Everything, illuminated

An ideal summer's evening for the return of the New York Philharmonic to Prospect Park. Tchaikovsky floated over a happy crowd; we got there just as things started, and camped near the periphery.

 

Every year, it seems, people bring more babies and toddlers. For much of the second half of the bill, Respighi was pianissimo and kiddies were fortissimo. At this distance, one is forgiving.

 

 

 

 

 

Vendors were selling glowsticks and glowing mohawk-headpieces. Some of them seemed to emit a screeching sound. At least they weren't vuvuzelas.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Daughter curled up on the picnic blanket and dozed under a pile of sweaters through The Pines of Rome. She awakened to remark that, now that she was 17, she was no longer a child, then settled back to sleep until the fireworks began.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I assured Daughter that no one should get too grown up, ever. As the last starbursts sunk into the night sky, everyone went "ooh" and "ahh" and applauded and cheered gleefully, as if none of us had ever seen fireworks before.

 

 

Sizzle

Things were heating up on Saturday at the Grand Army Plaza greenmarket: Peppers are coming in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This life-size milking cow showed up to promote the Dutchess County Fair. I love big fiberglass animals.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Zucchini usually come in green or yellow, long or patty-pan, but Evolutionary Organics has piebald globey ones this year.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The morning's haul: tomatoes (beefsteak and yellow cherry), peaches, collards, garlic, arugula, mesclun, and a $6 Jersey canteloupe. Slaughtered, it provided three generous servings, so at $2 per serving that's not so bad for melon bliss. Still, it amazes me how fast we burn through cash in pursuit of seasonal delights. 

 

 

By dusk, things were heating up musically: We stopped in at the bandshell's Celebrate Brooklyn concert to hear Red Baraat, a brassy Bhangra band we'd loved at the Botanic Garden's Chili Pepper Festival. Talk about infectious beats; a few folks couldn't resist rocking out. We left before the venerable Dr. John took the stage.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tonight's Greenmarket dinner: Pasta panzanella from Giuliano Bugialli's pasta book. The only thing cooked is the spaghetti; you put hot pasta on a bed of fresh arugula, and spoon over a mix of chopped raw tomato, onion and garlic marinated simply in olive oil, with basil over the top. Great for a hot night.

Smashing the rink

 

Thanks to the PLOG blog for taking some historic footage of Abe Lincoln gazing impassively as the ill-starred Wollman Rink bites the dust in Prospect Park yesterday.

Many of us had some grand times skating outside on the curiously skewed rink (you sort of had to skate uphill one half and downhill the other), surrounded by woods and sky. But the dismal structure and its mechanicals violated Vaux and Olmsted's original plan of a lovely Concert Grove.

 

 

 

 

 

(So did Lincoln, actually, and he'll be moved back eventually to Grand Army Plaza. At right: Here he is in his original locale, circa 1890; presumably that Moorish be-nubbined thingie in the mid-ground is a fountain; the tower to the left is a long-demolished water tower, if memory serves. I wonder who the little girls grew up to be?)

 

 

 

 

 

The original original plan had an island on which musicians would play. A romantic notion, although apparently the acoustics weren't very good. Moses obliterated the bandstand island in 1960 for the wretched rink building.

 

 

 

 

 

Now if only the new plan called for rebuilding the original "Concert Grove House." This postcard view, circa 1900 or so, shows an elegant slate-roofed manse tucked behind lush landscaping; apparently it was built in 1874 to house comfort facilities for ladies and gentlemen and a fine restaurant. It was torn down after a fire in 1949, alas!

Images: Prospect Park archives

 

Tornado? What tornado?

Grand Army Plaza got hammered by last Thursday's roving twisters and microburst, but all was blessed and sunny at today's Greenmarket. A zydeco-flavored band played before a backdrop of police tape and downed branches.

 

Just inside the park, kids and parents put tree wreckage to imaginative use.

 

A teepee of sticks is a fascinating place, and here nature has provided what the neighboring botanic garden had to pay an artist to produce.

Meanwhile, the harvest has fully unfurled its flag. We dragged home the makings for a huge ratatouille, and more of this summer's exquisite corn.

Today's Greenmarket guest was a vivacious author and blogger, Karen Seiger, with her nifty new book, Markets of New York City. Not just farmers, but craft, flea, holiday, and food; the book is sharply designed, and the author also took all the pictures. Asked if she's a photographer, she replied, "I am now!" That's the spirit! The book would make a great gift for an urbane shopaholic; to buy it, go here.

GREENMARKET DOG OF THE DAY

Moose, a Golden Retriever, met my eyes and then leaned his head against my knee adoringly. His babysitter reports that he loves eating and, well, loving folks up.

Expotition season

That's Pooh, not Palin. But it is time to refudiate our grievances and head off for summer adventures, like these day campers did last Wednesday. If you are not leaving town for mid-summer, pack a picnic and try a part of Prospect Park you've never explored before.

The park abounds in quirky activities--this weekend alone, there will be flax harvesting at the homestead and, speaking of do-it-yourselfing, "a DIY World's Fair of music and art" at the Bandshell (featuring folks named Cucu Diamantes, Les Nubians, Los Hanky Pankys, and Monsta X).

And of course there will be the Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket every Saturday morning, where the signage is very DIY (and organic).

 

 

If you miss it, did you know there's a small but very serviceable Wednesday Greenmarket at Bartell Pritchard Circle (across from the movie theater)? Stroll on over and play peek-a-boo with the Yukon Golds.

"When you wake up in the morning, Pooh," said Piglet at last, "what's the first thing you say to yourself?"

"What's for breakfast?" said Pooh. "What do you say, Piglet?"

"I say, I wonder what's going to happen exciting today?" said Piglet.

Pooh nodded thoughtfully.

"It's the same thing," he said."

--A.A. Milne, Winnie the Pooh

Play it, it's yours

And so, farewell to June. In front of the Lefferts Historic House, phlox is blooming and little green apples are fattening up.

Near the Carousel, not calliope music, but the unmistakable strains of Bach, filled the summer air. A helmeted cyclist noodled away at Invention #8, his trusty Cannondale by his side. This is part of a public project of 60 street pianos called "Play Me, I'm Yours";  to read more, go here. They're right, it is cooler than the fiberglass cows, and it's over July 5, so I'm glad I caught it.

Very enchanted April

It was an uncannily perfect Brooklyn Sunday. First, we caught a Buster Keaton silent, with brilliant live piano accompaniment, at the Dweck Center of the Brooklyn Public Library at Grand Army Plaza. Then, blinking in daylight, I walked home through Prospect Park. From the Lincoln Road entrance over to the Peristyle on Parkside Avenue, spring was absurdly well-sprung, starting with a pond-sized swath of violets.

I met a photographer acquaintance and her noble Dalmatian, Apollo, who is a little shy. We compared cameras and talked about dogs.

The smell of barbecue was in the air near the Drummers' Grove, along with a few other smoky top notes.

As I headed for home, more delightful "diversity on steroids":

A few yards apart under the haze of sprouting leaves, a Muslim picnic...

...and Orthodox catch...

 

...as a Spanish-speaking family's little ones enjoyed some tree-climbing. Also nearby, the Haitian guys were playing their fiercely intense domino games.

Park Slope may get this year's silly "best neighborhood" award, but my end of the park is much cooler. 

It's hard out here for a snowman

Most so-called "video art" is jumbled, unengaging rubbish by hip narcissists. And some mere "YouTube" videos rise unexpectedly to genuine art. Take 9 minutes of your day to relish this exquisite time-lapse portrait of humanity in Prospect Park. It is tender and breathtaking, and if this isn't the art of moving pictures, nothing is. Although it is set charmingly to one of my favorite classical guitar pieces (or perhaps mandolin), I recommend seeing it the first time through with the sound off. Kudos to creator Li Perez-Rey, who tells us how she did it in a comment below.

Which moment is your favorite? (Mine: Angry Guy Alone in Deep Night.)

The Snowman from Li Perez-Rey on Vimeo.

Never can say goodbye

Happy birthday wherever you are, Michael Jackson! Today's memorial bash on the park's Nethermead, a Spike Lee joint, was a mellow and exuberant party by the time we got there at 4 p.m. or so. The light rain had ended, and a vast crowd grooved to Jackson hits spun by a superb DJ. 

    

However tragically he spun out of orbit, Michael clearly inspired a lot of love...and self-expression. The crowd was full of folks wearing their hearts on their sleeves, or chests. T-shirt tributes ranged from somber to sparkly.

        

 

Personal style homages ranged from the sublime...

to the ridiculous.

A lot of folks brought their little ones, who perched on shoulders to see the Jumbotron and the swaying crowd.

It reminded me of a Kinks concert we saw years ago:  at least two, if not three, generations all getting into the music.

Of course, a few were too young to appreciate "Beat It" or "Thriller" or even "Rockin' Robin." For lots more photos, see coverage by fellow blogger Brooklyn Vegan.

And, as always when there's free music in Brooklyn, there were Lone Dance Maniacs, for whom MIchael, a sui generis dance genius, is a fitting patron saint. I will spare you the old lady in purple tights and flowing gray hair who was performing her own private eurythmics. But the fellow below gets my "Don't Dream It...Be It" award of the day.

 

Caught in the devil's bargain?

According to this report, there is serious talk of using Prospect Park's Long Meadow this summer to stage a concert in celebration of the 40th anniversary of that tediously revered mudfest now known as Woodstock. Apparently, when it comes time to "get back to the garden," we've got an even bigger one than Central Park.

Oh, goodie! At left: Just a reminder of what that might look like. (It gets worse: The promoter threatens to bring on the taxidermied remains of Crosby, Stills, Nash and No-Longer-Young.)  I suppose the very-worst-case scenario is not a redux of naked, overdosing neo-hippies, but a sea of tie-dyed Boomers sucking back vitamin-enhanced bottled water and organic yummies and groovin' before their horrified young...

We are stardust
Billion year old carbon
We are golden
Caught in the devil's bargain
And we've got to get our selves
Back to the garden

                   "Woodstock' Joni Mitchell  © Siquomb Publishing Company

Images: Top: from Peacefence.com, where you can get a pendant made from the "actual 1969 Woodstock Festival Fence," raising some interesting earned-income possibilities for our Parks Department...
Bottom: David Crosby Fans