Prospect: A Year in the Park

Meeting the men of the Vale

Photographs by Thomas Roma/Steven Kasher Gallery from "In the Vale of Cashmere."

It's not a very well-kept secret that the lovely, secluded and currently neglected Vale of Cashmere has long been a furtive meeting spot for men seeking men. Today's New York Times introduces a book of hauntingly evocative photographs by Thomas Roma, In the Vale of Cashmere.

Roma explains: "I photographed the landscape between 2008 and 2011 and introduced myself to the men I encountered. I’d ask them if I could make a portrait for a possible book, explaining that the long exposure I had to use, between 1 and 6 seconds, meant they’d have to stay very still. Many declined, but many said yes, and I was grateful every time they did.

The resulting photographs are about a time and place — a meeting place, where black, Latino and other gay and bisexual men have long sought one another out to fulfill their wish for community and to satisfy sexual desire."

There's no knowing how the future renovation of the Vale area, now in its early planning stages, will affect these assignations. The Vale's seclusion, sadly, has also made it an occasional haven for possible hate crimes against gay men, and parks in general are not the right places for sex--especially when it involves leaving behind the disgusting detritus once targeted by the Litter Mob in Prospect Park's historic woodlands. But these photos bear witness to the poignancy and human dignity of their subjects. I wish them health, safety, and love--elusive prizes on a walk through the Vale.

Photographs by Thomas Roma/Steven Kasher Gallery from "In the Vale of Cashmere."

 

Distracted but never forgotten

Shaking off the torpor of this endless winter, I tagged along with Kevin Walsh yesterday on his 77th "Forgotten New York" walking tour; when Kevin does my park, I've got to be there to kibbitz and learn something new. We began at Grand Army Plaza, where the cherry blossoms frame the Quadriga if you look just right. I thought "Quadriga" meant something about the shape of the monument; Kevin said it's the type of chariot. That's why he wrote the book.

We emerged from the Meadowport Arch to the vast expanse of the Long Meadow--the longest unbroken greensward in New York City, which I had not known. (Kevin, however, learned from me that the official shepherd of the meadow's Victorian-era flock of sheep was criticized in the New York Times for drunkenness.)

Kevin's tours are full of fascinating facts; I get distracted easily, though, by the movie montages that swirl past:

Some "Inside Llewyn Davis" by the meadow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A bit of "Gleaming the Cube" near the Marylanders' monument.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And in the Nethermead, a Waldorf school outing "Far from the Madding Crowd."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We visited the Third Street panthers...but I was drawn in by the heartbreaking memorial to this youngster killed by a car.

 

Further down Prospect Park West, at the Ninth Street entrance, we admired Lafayette, but I was intrigued by the fine polish on his sword, courtesy of untold numbers of fingertips.

 

We marveled at the Camperdown Elm...while I was thrilled to capture a Common Yellowthroat among its contorted branches.

 

Through the fence, we peered into the hidden Quaker Cemetery, where Montgomery Clift is buried...and I puzzled over some ambitious stick structures just outside its confines. (No one seemed to be in residence, neither earthwork artist nor homeless person nor beaver.)

 

Many thanks to our intrepid tour guide, who generously shares his encyclopedic knowledge of New York's mysteries with his fortunate Forgotten Fans. 

Random parkitude

Some recent links of interest:

The Brooklyn Based site offers a perceptive-sounding review of the skating experience at the new Lakeside rink, with some good practical tips on gaming the inevitable weekend crowds. Writer Kate Hooker found the ice "spectacular," although she had less kind words for their rental skates and locker set-up.

 

 

 

 

 

"The Remains of the Night: Sex, Trash, and Nature in the City" is a thoughtful account by Elizabeth Royte of her participation in the brief, glorious Prospect Park "Litter Mob." I never got around to pitching in with the Mob, an ad-hoc project helmed by activist and blogger Marie Viljoen. whose self-appointed task was to pick up the nastiest leavings of the cruising crowd in Prospect Park's secluded Midwood (and, it was hoped, shame the Parks Department into stepping up their own efforts). 

 

Speaking of the redoubtable Ms. Viljoen, she has written a gorgeous and engaging book, 66 Square Feet: A Delicious Life, One Woman, One Terrace, 92 Recipes, that includes some of her foraging adventures in Prospect Park. She also continues to blog at 66 Square Feet, from her new perch in Harlem.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo: Todd Heisler, New York Times

Finally, the New York Times did a nice sampling of obscure monuments in parks around the city; they featured one on Grand Army Plaza that I haven't investigated yet, of Scpttish-born gynecologist Alexander J.C. Skene. "Dedicated in 1905, his monument, in Grand Army Plaza at the entrance to Prospect Park, is an august affair, with a large bronze bust set against a tall slab of white Vermont marble," reports the Times.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The article also mentions the Concert Grove's monument to Irish poet Thomas Moore, with some delicious details I'd never read elsewhere: He loathed Americans, and was mistaken by President Thomas Jefferson for a child on account of being vertically challenged (something you'd never guess from his towering bust). My own expedition to Moore's statue on St. Patrick's Day back in 2008 yielded Asian-American brides and phony hippies, as recounted here.

Gold, standard

At today's Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket, a soft November sun turned so much to molten gold. It was like a child's picture-book version of Thanksgiving bounty.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peppers, incredibly, are still abundant, although one has to pick to avoid those with soft wrinkly cheeks; eggplant and zucchini from southern Jersey were also remarkably good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I gave the summer veg one last chance, deciding to wait on things like this golden cauliflower that peeked from its bonnet of leaves. These and the other cruciferous guys will be around a good while longer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Apples are still at peak. The Honeycrisp variety is more expensive, but has an extra flavor note that I think of as "gingersnap."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On hand today were Emily and Melissa Elsen, the enterprising young ladies behind Four & Twenty Blackbirds, a superb pie establishment I have haunted down near the Gowanus. Their new cookbook, The Four & Twenty Blackbirds Pie Book, looks phenomenal and has the magic instructions for making Salted Honey Pie, my current addiction. I enjoyed a wonderful conversation about all things Pie (although I stopped short of an exposition of my theory of the Pieness of Pie). and assured them that the book will shoot to the very top of my Christmas list.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The backdrop for today's market was a scrim of gold, russet, and a bit of green. This tree is one of the park's brand-new youngsters, a sapling with the mighty task of replacing some of the countless trees lost to Sandy and Irene. It sheds its leaves onto the history-rich soil of Prospect Park for the very first time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

GREENMARKET DOG OF THE DAY

Moses is a 7-year-old English bulldog who was born in Pennsylvania. His human says Moses likes chilling on soft blankets. I would love to join him in that.

 

The big time

It's been awhile--okay, since July--since I updated P:AYITP; I hate blogger apologies (with their presumption that a yearning world has been on edge since one's last entry), but blame gardening for eating up my outdoor time and Facebook for draining off the yen to share.

This past week, however, it was just about irresistible to get back in the game; our once-derelict park is, it seems, like much of Brooklyn, "hot." On a roll. Climbing the A-list.

First up, there's a book out, Prospect Park: Olmsted and Vaux's Brooklyn Masterpiece, by David P. Colley and Elizabeth Keegin Colley. It's a big, handsome, official-looking volume--one I want to own; I'm looking forward to reading it and telling you about it soon. The author/photographer team (and park queen mother Tupper Thomas) talked about it last month at the Brooklyn Public Library, and they clearly love and respect their subject.

A contentious topic that bubbled up in the Q&A after that polite event was Lakeside, the stupendously expensive and expansive new skating rink and shore restoration project. When the rest of the park still makes a poor mouth for maintenance and things like education programs at the Audubon Center, it's inevitable that some of us wonder about priorities. The New York Times, however, does not wonder; they just ran a "Critic's Notebook" paean to the mammoth project as it lumbers toward completion. (If you follow this blog, you got a preview a year ago, here.)

 

The Times was dazzled by the trendy architecture, comparing its bold design to that of the Rockefeller Center rink, and sneered at the "musty lockers and dubious hot dogs" of the ugly old Robert Moses-era rink, now demolished. Musty and dubious they were, but one thing worries me about this new eco-friendly skating paradise landing in my end of the park: What will it cost to get in? One forgave the old rink its miserable inadequacies because it was cheap; on days off from school, big families would pile up to enter. Will the gorgeous new showpiece charge Rock-Center-level admission? That'll keep out the riff-raff, I guess. Like me. The opening is now slated for December, so we'll find out soon.

And speaking of exclusive, this Friday promises a bizarre new chapter in the park's history: its first complete closure for the arrival of a (presumably airborne) U.S. president. "Prospect Park will be closed on Friday, October 25 from 12 – 6pm due to security associated with the President's visit.  We apologize for any inconvenience." says the announcement. (POTUS is visiting a nearby high school in Crown Heights.) Even in Barak-loving Brooklyn, there's been a frisson of resentment online. Just call it ObamaMooga.

Planting time in New Amsterdam

Those are sprouts of rye poking up in the little farm behind the Lefferts Historic House, Prospect Park's transplanted Dutch farmhouse. It is, basically, my dream house. It was built around 1783 a few blocks away (and moved here in 1913). The Lefferts family burned its predecessor to the ground--burned down their own house--in 1776, just before the Battle of Brooklyn, so that the British couldn't get it. And we think we're tough when we sit in a park with a sign and a bongo!

The house and garden are full of simple but immensely appealing interactive stuff for the kids.

 

Farm chores as play...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

... and the timeless appeal of Flatbush's fertile soil.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An early Dutch version of Wii.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I caught a fascinating lecture by food historian Peter G. Rose about early Dutch cooking and foodstuffs. We owe them for pretzels, cookies, and pancakes...the debt can never be repaid. I also bought Ms. Rose's book, Food, Drink and Celebrations of the Hudson Valley Dutch; it is an early pebble in a coming avalance of research for a Top-Secret Flatbush-Related Project.

 

This hearth, built outdoors for demonstrations, wasn't baking up any pretzels today, but it gives an idea of just how gutsy cooks had to be back in the days of old Dutch Vlacke Bos (Flatbush). The builders incorporated a brick from the Lefferts House, probably one made in the nearby kiln or "stone bakery" (steenbakkery) near a clay pit at present-day Rogers Avenue and Lefferts Street. Built to last.

Solstice lookout

Sunset, the day of the solstice; the sun was vanishing behind the buildings of Windsor Terrace by 3:30 p.m. I wanted, Druid-like, to capture its last rays, so I headed up Lookout Hill, the tallest point in Prospect Park.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lookout Hill is one of those spots in the park that one is warned against visiting alone, but when leafless, it seems exposed as well as remote. Condom wrappers and other nasty bits attest to its seclusion, but even in waning daylight I felt fairly safe with the occasional jogger...and an intrepid mom and kids who were using the hill as a family Stairmaster.

 

 

 

 

 

The flattish, circular top of Lookout Hill would be a great place for a Wiccan ceremony to worship the distant sun, but for a while I was completely alone. To the south, I could see...good grief, was that the Coney Island parachute jump? It was. Turning a few degress to my left, I looked down on the lake and away to the erstwhile fields of Flatbush where we live.

 

 

 

 

 

As I left the park, the festive decor glowed in the shadows.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BARKING MAD THANKS!

...to all who have ordered a copy of Park Bark: At Play with the Dogs of Brooklyn, my photo homage book to the canines of Prospect Park and their owners.   Go here for easy PayPal ordering...and remember, Valentine's Day is coming up fast!

Take one park and call me in the morning

Just as we prepare to hole up for the winter with our holiday haul of video games (or, for some who shall remain very nameless, our cats), comes a heartbreaking article in the New York Times on "nature deficit disorder" and the burden of "diseases of indoor living" tied to inactivity and obesity. Are there no health clubs? asks the Scrooge-Zeitgeist. For children already being swallowed by overweight, are there no gym classes? (Alas, they've probably cancelled recess to cram for another standardized test.) And for those bodies diseased and broken down from years of indolence, are there no hospitals and nursing homes?

 

A new wave of health visionaries take a different tack: Get the hell outside and play. And for those of us blessed to have one nearby: GO. TO. THE. PARK. Too obvious? Think again. Some doctors, reports Jane Brody, "have begun writing specific prescriptions for outdoor activity, providing patients with maps, guidelines and programs of gradually increased activity based on their abilities."

 

 

 

 

 

 

The doctors I've met barely have time to scribble the name of a drug on their prescribing pad, but never mind. What a concept. Such prescriptions are necessary, said Daphne Miller, MD, a family doc in San Francisco, because many people "are unfamiliar with the outdoors--they're scared to walk through a park, and they don't know what to do when they get there."

 

 

 

 

This is incredible, pathetic—and true. Of course, a few decades ago, being scared to walk through Prospect Park was probably a wise choice for enhancing one's mortality odds. But today, when the city's parks are so much safer, it's no longer an excuse. And what of "not knowing what to do when they get there"? Don't laugh. I worked for years as a docent at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. Classes of inner-city schoolchildren would recoil at the sight of lush green lawns ("that's nasty and dirty, Teacher! I'm not sitting there!") and scream in terror at a squirrel ("a rat! a rat! It's gonna bite me!") I am not making this up. Teenagers on field trips would drag their feet through the forest path and the rose garden and make a beeline for the benches, where they would pummel and harass one another while complaining of exhaustion after a 10-minute walk. This was before the age of kiddie cell phones; now they could just ignore their surroundings and text each other.

 

But I've also seen the outdoors work its magic. Produce one big plastic ball from the 99-cent store and you've got an exercise session. Crush one fragrant leaf and pass it around, and you've got aromatherapy for the ADHD contingent. Roll over a log to uncover a pillbug and you can motivate the next quarter-hour of a nature walk. Promise them ice cream and they'll climb a mountain.

 

 

 

And as for us grown-ups, well, half the battle can be crossing the street, literally. That's why I started this blog—to motivate myself to visit Prospect Park every day because I lived across the street and was still too lazy to go. As for "what to do when you get there," first off, don't be intimidated by the wiry joggers and Lycra-clad bike racers. Just walk around. Go to the park's website or stop by the Audubon Center for a map. Try a path you've never taken before. Drag your kids along. Bring a ball. Smell stuff. Get out of breath for awhile.

Then go for ice cream...because there's more to life than "doing it for your health."

Mums goeth before a fall

Hope you had a glorious holiday weekend. Mine began, as usual, at the Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket, where the cushion mums were stacked in delirious ranks. Autumn-mania-wise, all the dominoes toppled last Saturday. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mums lead to pumpkins. Already, small children are obsessing over the right size, shape and stem morphology. (Note color-spectrum extension via cherry tomato in the background, very nice!)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pumpkins lead to Indian corn. Or perhaps, on this Columbus Day weekend, it should be called Original Owners' Corn.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Corn leads to zany gourds. Ah, such infinite wartiness!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I bought a preposterous load of veggies, plus fragrant Concord grapes for my annual grape pie. Speaking of baking, an engaging lady named Jennie Schacht was cooking up a heavenly apple-compote with vanilla ice cream to promote her new book, Farmers' Market Desserts. (It is now officially on my Christmas list.)

What were the favorite sinful recipes of the farmers at our New York greenmarkets? According to Ms. Schacht, most of them insist their fruits are so good, they just eat them plain. Wrong answer.   

 

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.