From the Vault: "Legitimacy and the Arts" (Originally Published November 23rd 2008)

[This one generated  a boat load of comments when it originally appeared and a healthy debate ensued.  To me, personally, it was astonishing to see how many people agreed with the comments from the "man on the street" that is quoted near the beginning of this piece.  It was simply my commentary on what makes an artist an artist.  Apparently many people disagreed with me on this at the time which only served to prove my point, as far as I saw it, anyway.]


Along Las Ramblas in Barcelona one could catch a myriad of different performers, artists and musicians doing what they love to do; most of them looking for a little extra money from both tourists and locals alike.  You will see mimes, flamenco guitar players, painters, sketch artists, dancers and maybe an occasional poet who would be reciting his/her verse for anyone willing to listen.  These artists compete with flower salesman and newspaper kiosks and just about anything else that’s for sale, really, especially during the festival known as San Jordi, which is something akin to our Valentine’s Day, where there are literally hundreds of book stalls and tables lined up from one end to the other; some selling books by other authors, some selling their own books.  What was interesting to me about all of this was the fact that no matter who it was out on the street, each and every one of them were taken seriously.  Almost everyone walking by saw them for what they were:  artists.  It didn’t seem to matter to anyone that they weren’t “famous” nor did it matter that they were all virtually unknown to the world at large.  They were all appreciated for what they were doing, famous or not.  

In Paris, particularly in Montmartre, you have the same sort of thing going on.  Near the Sacre Couer, there is a small square surrounded by cafés, restaurants and shops - some local, some geared towards the tourist crowd - all capitalizing on Montmartre’s history and cultural significance.  In the middle of the square you see much of the same thing you see on Las Ramblas: musicians, painters, mimes and other performers, all talented individuals, each one doing what they love and hoping to also make some extra money doing what they love to do.  You will see a small group of people surrounding a painter, watching him paint the local scenery and also see groups of people surrounding the musicians, listening intently to what they do and appreciating it for what it is.  There is no care as to whether or not they are “famous” or if they are a “celebrity.”  They are giving people something special to add to the atmosphere and people enjoy it and seem to be respectful towards what they are doing.  

Here in New York City, you have very much the same thing going on, pretty much all the time.  In Washington Square Park and especially on the streets of SoHo, artists set up shop to sell their wares to either locals or tourists, many of them very talented but none of them “famous” as we’ve all come to understand it.  It is mainly geared towards tourists, sure, but also to other native New Yorkers who may be appreciative of their talents.  But recently there has been a drive to remove these people from the streets.  The newer residents of the area are becoming increasingly agitated by the amount of people clogging the sidewalks and many of them are beginning to view these artists and their work as nothing more than an “eyesore” as some have recently stated.  In one local newspaper, one man was quoted as saying that these artists should “stop interfering with pedestrians and get a  “real” job.  If they were really “artists” they would be in a gallery or a museum, not blocking everyone’s way on the sidewalk.”  An interesting point of view and by far not uncommon as of late.  What struck me as interesting about this man’s comment was not so much his annoyance of him having to navigate down West Broadway or Prince Street but the fact that he viewed these artists as illegitimate because they weren’t showcased in a gallery or a museum; or at least that’s what his comment implies.  I’ve heard this sort of thing from other people as well over the years.  There seems to be a sentiment among many people that unless one is making all kinds of money or is somehow “famous” for what they do, then what they are doing is not “legitimate.”  In other words, they are not “real artists”, as the man in the article had stated.  

Although you will probably find people who think this way the world over, I find it particularly prevalent in American culture.  It seems that American culture does not recognize an artist unless they are either making a living from their art or if they are famous for their art.  If one is not then they are not artists, it seems.  One is looked upon as either an “aspiring artist” or at worst, a “pretender”, that is, until there is a handsome paycheck or some notoriety involved.  I always wondered why this this is.  Why is it harder to be accepted as an artist in this culture if you are not making money from it?  Is the paycheck and the notoriety the determining factor that defines what an artist is?  

Over the years I have met plenty of talented artists who are far from making a living from what they do.  Are they not “really artists” because of this?  If not, then what are they exactly?  And why is there this reluctance to recognize one as such?  All across the board, whatever the medium is, there are thousands upon thousands of very talented people out there who you will most likely never hear about.  Are all these thousands not “legitimate artists” in their own rite?  Do those in the business end of the arts really determine who is legitimate and who isn’t?  Is their word truly final?  

If you want to look at it from that point of view, consider this:  Franz Kafka is now respected as one of the giants of literature but he did not publish a single word until after he was dead.  Walt Whitman’s now extremely famous and influential “Leaves of Grass” was self-published - the original and each revised edition - and he only became part of the literary canon long after he passed on.  Vincent Van Gogh sold only one painting in his lifetime (and that was, reportedly, to his brother Theo).  Spanish poets Federico Garcia Lorca and Miguel Hernández’s first books were released as “private editions” (i.e. self-published).  Henry Miller’s “Tropic of Cancer” was published only by being paid for by Anaïs Nin.  The initial publisher of that book - Obelisk Press in Paris - did not spend one thin dime on that publication because they didn’t think it would sell at the time.  James Joyce’s “Ulysses” was published only through the patronage of the owner of Shakespeare and Company in Paris, essentially a self-published work.  Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl” was published by his friend’s start up publishing venture City Lights and would have most likely remained obscure had it not been for the outrage over its alleged “indecency.”  In music, the Velvet Underground, who went on to influence a whole generation of rock bands hardly sold a single record when they were originally released and many bands that are now very well known, their records were self-released and had never been signed to any record company.  These are just a few examples.  If we go by today’s standards on what makes an artist “legitimate”, are these artists then not?  None of these artists went through the standard channels of their day.  

Of course over time these artists made their mark one way or another but in their time they were all virtually unknown to all but a handful of people who had an interest in what was going on culturally; and today there are plenty of others just like them and maybe one day those “unknowns” will be recognized for what they do.  But are they less legitimate now because no one knows them or because they are not making any real money?  I think not but obviously many out there will disagree.  

Somewhere in this country - somewhere in this world, in fact - someone most likely has the next masterpiece sitting in their desk drawer or hidden in the back of their closet somewhere or had to put their work out on their own but it will most likely never be recognized because it wasn’t done through “legitimate” channels.  Remember, Paris Hilton as a book deal and according to the logic of some, she’s a more “legitimate” writer because of that - more real than Franz Kafka would have been considered had he lived today.  There is a world filled with talented people that you will most likely never hear about and this is truly a shame.  It’s a shame because some self-appointed guardian of culture gets to select and anoint those who will be considered “legitimate.”  But I guess it’s the nature of the beast but as far as I’m concerned there are many people out there worthy of attention, whether they are known or not.  They are always legitimate in my eyes.  An artist does what he does regardless of the accolades and the approval of others.  As to whether or not any of these artists are any good at it is of course open to debate and personal preferences and taste.  

The question you have to ask yourself is this:  If a painter paints but never shows his work, is he not a painter?  If a writer writes but never seeks publication, is he still not a writer?  If a musician plays his instrument only for his own enjoyment, is he still not a musician?  In the end, a painter paints, a writer writes, a musician plays, an actor acts, a dancer dances.  Period.  Why is this such a hard thing to understand in our culture? 

Sanctuaries

I was very young, perhaps twelve years old.  At that time I had already been an avid reader, mostly biographies on sports figures, Hardy Boys books, tons of comic books, some historical things, among other things I’ve forgotten about I’m sure.  Books were and have always been something I’ve lost myself in and  I’ve always written stories since the time I was a little kid - although a lot of the time it took a backseat to music until I turned thirty.  I can remember on days whenever my friends weren’t around, I’d make a trip over to the local bookstore we had in the neighborhood at the time.  It was called the Paperbound Bookshop, and it was just over on the other side of the Long Island Expressway, right across the street from the exit of the ramp which took pedestrians over to the other side.  It was one of those old school bookstores, jam packed with books, floor to ceiling and I’ve spent many hours in there just browsing, looking for something new to read.  It was that bookstore that I discovered J.R.R. Tolkein’s “Lord of the Rings” saga, and other Sci-Fi and Mystery books I read a lot of when I was that age.  I remember the owner was this professorial looking guy, sort of a cross between Carl Sagan and Jean-Paul Sartre, with his corduroy blazer (complete with elbow patches), horn rimmed glasses and ever present pipe.  He was always nice to me, always looking to help and recommend new things to this inquisitive little kid who was always walking into his shop.  Sadly, by the very early 1980s, the store closed down and turned into a health food store - one of the very first in the area, run by this group of hippies who often lived in the loft up above the store.  I was sad to see it go.  Little bookstores such as those weren’t all that common where I grew up.  

With Paperbound gone, that left Discount Books - a small, used bookstore that sold not only books but comic books - and it was here that my friends and I began going, becoming friendly with the owner, a semi-hippie, who often tried to pawn off the more rare and expensive comics on us, as if we had that kind of money to spend.  Mainly we ravaged the used bins, grabbing up comic books at 5, 10, or 25 cents a pop.  But eventually, by 1980 or so, that store went under as well.  So that pretty much left the chain stores like Barnes & Noble (which wasn’t yet the Superstore that most people are familiar with), B-Dalton or Waldenbooks.  These stores were good, of course, but it was never the same as those little shops, where service was more personal and where you often engaged with the owners, getting recommendations (and every now and then a “break” on the price.)  

When I reached my teenage years, I began heading down to Greenwich Village and the Lower East Side exploring all the wonderful bookstores they had there - St. Mark’s Books, being one of them, back when it was actually on St.Mark’s Place.  I pretty much spent a hell of a lot of my time in bookstores and record stores, and these places became my sanctuary, a place to “feed the head” so to speak.  I didn’t go to libraries much, mainly because they never had anything I wanted - or hardly ever, anyway.  So these little out of the way booksellers - some of which were cramped, dusty, dilapidated basements in close to condemned buildings on the Lower East Side - became my refuge; a place where I can just explore, get inspired and discover new things.  Another of these very old school bookstores was Ann Street Books, which I found during the mid-1980s, in a second floor walk-up on (naturally) Ann Street in lower Manhattan (just around the corner from J&R Music World.)  This store was literally teetering on the edge of collapse, the building slanting way over to the right.  It amazed me that all those books didn’t collapse the floor beneath them.  You could tell that this store had one been an old tenement apartment and it wasn’t hard to imagine some old immigrant family living there.  The owner was a nice guy - an emaciated man with a patchy beard and a cataract over one eye and he was often very helpful and he too would recommend a lot of interesting things to me.  But this store is gone too - as well as the entire building, which was torn down to make way for a “luxury condo.”  

Little by little these stores began to disappear and not because of people’s lack of interest in books or reading but because of real estate interests.  By the 1990s, they were dropping like flies.  Some of the old school stores are still around but you could pretty much count them on one hand; and to this day, whenever the mood strikes me, I make what I call “the rounds”, an all day excursion where I plan on coming home with a bag full of books to add to the ever increasing pile.  These existing little stores still serve as sanctuaries but the atmosphere is quite different.  With a few exceptions, many of these stores are usually staffed with pretentious, arrogant, smug, self-important assholes who can’t help but either just be rude, or refrain from commenting on your purchases - and not in a way that is engaging and conversational, but usually judgmental.  There are some stores that I stopped frequenting because of this and if there is one other reason why some of these stores go under, this is it.  No one likes to feel they’re getting a character judgment over whatever they decide to read; and in a time where small booksellers are trying hard to remain afloat (especially in the “luxury” obsessed New York City), it would be of great service to themselves to reign in the assholes that they employ or curb the attitude of the owners.  More than once I’ve seen customers walk out due to the outright rudeness of the proprietors.  

But for those that remain, they will remain those sanctuaries that they always were for me - places that exist because of the love of the book, the love of reading and not solely motivated by commerce and the bottom line that you see in the larger chain stores.  Since the advent of Amazon and the eBook, it’s hard to say what’s going to happen to these places (and even the larger chains - look at what just happened to Borders) but so long as there are lovers of the book as an object, not only as something simply to read and pass the time, they should still be around.  And so long as they are, they will continue to be my sanctuary from the can of bees that is New York City. 

From the Vault: "Reds" (Originally Published August 1st 2011)

In the spring of 1982, New York’s “Alphabet City” was not the place you’d want to be at night.  Unlike today, with its plethora of restaurants, coffee shops, bars and bistros, it was the portrait of Urban Blight.  Burnt out buildings, squats, drug addicts, homeless people - a place that trendies of today would probably have been horrified to see.  I was fifteen during that spring - going on sixteen that coming summer - and here is where one of the better known Punk Rock clubs was.  A7.  Right off the south west corner of Tompkins Square Park - a park that you simply did not go into at night - it was one of the few places teenagers like myself could go and be around like-minded kids, catch some great Punk Rock bands and of course, indulge in beer or whatever else was floating around.  They never checked IDs then.  So long as you had the two to three dollars to get in, that’s all they cared about.  

The Punk Rock - or “Hardcore” scene - was fairly new at that point.  There was a whole network taking place at the time, not only in music, but in art and literature as well.  It was a time when a lot of artists were emerging that no one wanted to pay attention to.  People improvised - starting up their own record labels, small presses and makeshift galleries in abandoned store fronts or in their own apartments.  It was a time when very well known artists like Jean-Michel Basquiat were still just graffiti artists and played in their own bands as well.  It was a very exciting time.  It was for me, at least.  I had finally found a place where I could be myself without worrying about getting bottles thrown at me or getting jumped by the other “normal” teenagers from the Queens neighborhood in which I was born and raised.  It also allowed me to be exposed to a great many things that were bubbling under the surface at the time, things that would eventually rise from the underground and go mainstream and big business a decade later.  

It was also a highly politically charged scene.  Very anti-Reagan, very left-wing.  There were a lot of Communists and Anarchists around, each with their own newspapers and they would hang around as well, looking for recruits, fellow travelers, and of course a little money to keep their publications afloat.  I wasn’t at all interested in any of that, of course.  I hardly knew a damn thing about politics at the time.  I just wasn’t interested.  My “political awakening” would come a little later but there is no doubt that this scene had an effect on it.  At the time, I only cared about the music, seeing the bands, and just being around like-minded individuals - those who felt marginalized, outcast - freaks.  The most political I got were the lyrics of the Dead Kennedys and the novels of George Orwell.  I was in a band then called Distorted Youth.  One night we had a show at A7 and this particular night turned out to be a highly political one for some reason.  The Communists were out in full force, handing out their newspapers and pamphlets and a skinhead band from Washington D.C happened to be playing that night, bringing with them their more “patriotic” fans.  It was tense from the beginning.   

We were hanging around outside between sets.  The club was just too small to stay inside all the time.  The space had enough room for about forty people never mind the one or two hundred that would come down to the shows on any given Friday night.  We had a few six packs of Budweiser and we hung around outside Tompkins Square Park drinking, smoking and just hanging around with the other Punk Rock kids, talking shit, talking about music and the occasional anti-Reagan rant.  Natural prey for the Communists that huddled around, doing their best to recruit as many people as they could for the upcoming May Day protest they have every year in Union Square.  I was always one very interested in these things, even if I didn’t believe in any of it.  

I happened to catch the eye of a young woman with large glasses and a beret, a Che Guevara and a Chairman Mao button affixed to her ratty army shirt.  She held a bundle of newspapers under her arm.  I suppose she saw me looking at her which of course served as an invitation for her to come over and talk to me.  She couldn’t have been older than twenty-one, twenty-two, not unattractive and very personable.  

“Here,” she said, handing me one of the newspapers from the bundle under her arm.  “I think you’ll find this interesting.” 

I took it and looked at it.  It was the newspaper from the Revolutionary Communist Party.  

“You’re a commie?” I asked, naïvely, and to be honest, a little shocked that she would be so open about it.  What did I know?  I was just this fifteen year old kid from Flushing.  

“I’m a Marxist,” she said.  “A Maoist, actually.  The RCP is a Maoist organization.” 

“What’s the difference?” I asked.  

“There’s a big difference,” she said.  

I looked at the headline: something about Reagan’s desire to stop the revolution in Nicaragua and possibly bringing the world to the brink of war.  I wasn’t a big fan of Reagan.  He scared me at the time.  I honestly thought he would bring on World War III with all his “tough talk” against the Russians.  We all feared it.  

“Reagan is a war criminal,” she said, “and he needs to be stopped.  Do you realize what’s been going on in Nicaragua?  It’s criminal!” 

I merely shrugged.  I had heard a little something about it on the news but I was more interested in music and reading, hanging out with my friends.  I didn’t know squat about politics.

“I’m not a fan of Reagan,” I said, “but I’m not a commie, either.” 

“That’s such an insulting term,” she said, a little miffed, looking at me through her oversized round glasses.  

“Thanks but no thanks,” I said.  “This just isn’t my cup of tea.” 

“But you’re into Punk Rock!” she exclaimed.  

“So?  I’m only here for the music.  Like I said, I don’t particularly care for Reagan but communism?  How is that going to help anyone?”

She looked at me again, wide eyed behind her huge owl-like glasses.  “Don’t you want to live in a classless society?  Don’t you want to live in a society where the rich and the corporations aren’t controlling everything?  A society where there’s an end to imperialism and exploitation?” 

What the hell is she talking about?  She may as well have been speaking Chinese, I thought.  

“Sorry,” I said.  “It’s just not my thing.  But I’ll keep the paper though.” 

“Good,” she said.  “Read it and if you find anything interesting, you can come down to the bookstore.  The address is on the back.” 

Revolution Books.  Hmmm...  Yeah, maybe, I thought.  

By this point the skinheads began milling around - dressed all in black, American flags and eagles on their leather jackets.  They kept a close eye on the group of communists passing out their flyers and pamphlets.  

“Don’t pay them any mind,” my friend said.  “They’re fucking commies.” 

“Yeah, I know,” I said with a laugh.  

After a little while, they all gathered together and began their march up St. Marks Place, some waving red banners, others beginning some sort of chant.  There were about eight of them.  We stood by the fence of the park, drinking our beer, watching them.  Soon after, a group of skinheads came walking past.  They looked angry, ready to cause trouble.  

“We’re going to kick some commie ass,” one of them said to us as he walked by, kicking away one of our empty beer bottles.  

We stood there watching, waiting for our turn to take the stage.  

A commotion broke out.  There were bodies flying everywhere on St. Marks Place.  Communists and skinheads beating the crap out of one another.  It got out of hand quickly.  We just stood there watching from our safe distance, drinking our beer.  

“Better put that newspaper in your pocket,” my friend said.  “You don’t want any of these skinhead nuts seeing you with it.” 

“Good point,” I said, folding it and stuffing it in my back pocket.  

The cops arrived - breaking up the fight.  I don’t think they arrested anyone.  They more or less separated the two groups, some of the skinheads making their way back towards the club, chanting “USA! USA!”  So this is what politics is all about, I thought.  

We went inside the club, did our set, then came back out to hang out and drink the rest of our beer in Tompkins Square Park.  It was quiet now, all of the communists were gone and all the skinheads were inside waiting for their band to play.  We were all amused by the commotion that had taken place earlier and we talked about it while drinking the rest of our beer, keeping an eye out for the cops.  The drug addicts made their way through the park either looking for dope or selling it.  We just tried to keep our distance.  

When I got home that night, I tossed the newspaper in the bottom drawer of my dresser - which was the “junk drawer” and went to bed.  As I lied there, I kept running the evening’s incident over and over in my mind, thinking of what that bespectacled young woman had said to me.  It still didn’t mean anything to me.  What the hell did I know about any of it?  Yet somehow, in some way, I knew something was going to be different, I just couldn’t explain to myself how.  It wasn’t long after that I began to explore these political doctrines and tried to gain a better understanding of what it was all about.  But that night, I knew that somehow, despite my reservations of dealing with these types, I wasn’t going to be as naïve as I was before.  I instinctively knew that once I woke up the next morning, the world was going to be just a little bit different.  

Impressions: "La Vita Agra" by Luciano Bianciardi

A wonderful Italian novel from the early 1960s.  It is a brilliant satire on Italy’s “economic miracle” that occurred in the years following World War II.  Some of the themes in this novel were also covered by Bianciardi’s contemporary, Pier Paolo Pasolini, only this book leans more towards the comedic side of these issues.  The hint is already in the title, which in English would translate to “It’s a Hard Life”, a clear satire on the popular Fellini film, “La Dolce Vita” which was released around the same time as this book.  Unlike the protagonist in Fellini’s film, the protagonist here has the opposite experiences, where life for him is a struggle against unsympathetic employers, unsympathetic conventions and poverty.  

The protagonist is fired from his job at a mine after an explosion kills numerous miners, due to, for the most part, neglect on the part of management.  He is intent on getting revenge and plots to blow up the headquarters of the mining company.  He moves to Milan and gets involved with a woman named Anna, a leftist journalist, and takes on a job as a translator.  Little by little, his plans fade away and the more and more he becomes ensconced in the “economic miracle” of the new Milan, his ideals fading away like vapor on glass.   

The entire novel is a satyrical look of the modern age: advertising (particularly sex in advertising), capitalism, consumerism, etc, and it is brilliantly done, Bianciardi’s “tone” as a writer is not to dissimilar from his American counterparts at the time. (Thomas Pynchon comes to mind).  I’m not sure how easy this novel is to find these days (I just happened to stumble on it at The Strand one afternoon) but if you can get your hands on it, I would recommend that you snap it up and read this.  For those who are interested in post-War Italian history, this is one not to be missed.  

Rating:  * * * * 1/2 

From the Vault: "Legend Americana" (Originally Published July 29th 2011)

Spring 2010: San Antonio, Texas.  We are there for work reasons.  It’s the first time I’d ever been to Texas.  It was the second time for my friend.  We were staying in a fairly generic hotel about a half hour from downtown.  There is nothing around but flatland, a highway an a couple of shopping centers.  It was hot, well into the 80s.  Our work related stuff didn’t take up much of our time, thank God, so that enabled us to get out and explore the city.  We had a car - courtesy of the job - and apparently plenty of time on our hands so we wanted to utilize it as much as possible.  

We spent a lot of time downtown, checking out San Antonio’s famed River Walk - a beautiful stretch of stores, restaurants, and cafés, all nestled against the San Antonio river, which snakes its way through the city and beyond from what I can tell.  It’s a fairly new construction and in a way, it sort of brings to mind Amsterdam, although I’d never been there either.  There are tours one could take up the river in a boat, where they can learn a lot about the history of the city.  We didn’t take this tour, preferring just to walk it as far as it would allow us.  And we walked it far, all the way down to where the stores disappear and you come upon rows of apartments and condos.  We probably could have kept going but the heat was getting to be a little too much, and of course we had to walk all the way back to where we parked the car - a good eight blocks away from where we first descended the stairs from the streets above.  

Above the River Walk is downtown San Antonio proper, with its many historical sites which naturally fascinated a history buff like me.  The Spanish Governor’s mansion and an old church, reported to be one of the first Catholic churches in the new world, built by the Spanish when San Antonio was Mexico.  We took it all in, then decided to head back to the hotel to get out of the heat and just have time for ourselves, individually, before heading out again for something to eat.  While in my room, I caught up on some personal things, answered some messages, uploaded some photos I had taken while drinking a rancid cup of instant coffee courtesy of Starbucks.  It was then I got the email about a place called “The Ghost Tracks.”  I followed the link:  

It’s an urban legend now.  The story is that sometime back in the 1930s or 1940s, a school bus full of children stalled on some railroad tracks.  A speeding train plowed into it, killing everyone aboard.  According to the legend, any car that comes to a stop on these tracks feel the hands of the dead children “pushing” their car off the tracks.  The idea is to put the car into neutral and wait and sooner or later, they will begin to push your car.  After reading this, I knew we had to go check it out.  

Not far from the San Juan Mission - which we took in before heading out to the railroad tracks - the area is pretty much deserted, far off the beaten track.  There is really nothing around but open land, overgrown grass and weeds, and very few homes.  It took some doing to actually find the location but once we did, we were thrilled and excited to test out this urban legend.  

The first thing we did was to make sure that the railroad wasn’t an active one.  There are no gates or signals at this intersection.  Just an old, black and white, X shaped railroad crossing sign.  We got out of the car and stepped onto the tracks and looked both ways for any indication of an oncoming train.  Better to be safe than sorry.  Then we got back into the car, drove the car up onto the tracks and killed the engine.  Sure enough, the car began to move - right across the tracks to the other side.  Could the legend actually be true?  

Not so fast.  As someone who is let’s say a little “skeptical” about the paranormal, I knew there had to be a good reason why this had happened.  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the reason.  

On the other side of the tracks there is a slope, which heads downward to the road on the other side.  The road rides along a wooded area.  As we sat in the car, looking back through the window, we clearly saw the slope leading back up to the tracks.  Mystery solved.  There weren't any ghosts.  It was gravity.  We couldn’t stop laughing.  

Others who have been to this site swear that its true, some of them taking the now obligatory “powder test.”  It has been said that if you sprinkle baby powder on the trunk of your car, you are supposed to see the handprints of all the children that had “pushed” your car off the tracks.  Many have done it and swear that it’s true.  We didn’t have any baby powder so we didn’t do it.  We thought about sprinkling dirt on the trunk instead but being that it wasn’t our car, we thought it was better that we didn’t.  Besides, the downward slope on the other side of the tracks was enough for me to chalk it all up to urban legend.  

However there was one odd thing that happened.  The sudden appearance of mosquitos.  They seemed to come out of nowhere, biting the hell out of us, badly enough that we decided to just forget this nonsense and get back to our original plan: find a place to eat.  

“Well that was a complete wash,” I said to my friend. 

“Just goes to show you that people will believe whatever they want to believe,” he said.  

We drove on, trying to kill the mosquitos that had made their way into the car.  

From the Vault: "Corrida" (Originally Published July 28th 2011)

My father had Hemingway-esque interests.  He was into and did some boxing, fishing, practiced martial arts for a time, lifted weights and was very much interested in bullfighting.  I don’t think my father ever read a single word of Hemingway.  In fact, I don’t ever recall seeing my father ever reading a book but since he grew up in the 1940s and 1950s, he may have read Hemingway’s books in school for all I know but being that I never heard him even mention his name, it’s safe to assume that he hadn’t.  Whatever the case, the fact that he had these interests - and bore a striking resemblance to the man - often amused me.  I clearly recall him sitting around the television watching the bullfights being broadcast from Mexico on Chanel 41, the Spanish station in New York.  This was around 1974.  They don’t broadcast them anymore but I remember him watching them with great interest, sometimes having me sit with him to watch it.  He had a keen interest in it, so much so, that my cousin once did a painting for him, which hung on our living room wall for years, that is until my mother decided to change the house from a more Spanish decor to the more common “colonial” look it had before she eventually sold it a few years ago.  

Flash forward thirty years.  2003  I am now 37 years old and am about to embark on my first visit to Spain.  Destination: Barcelona.  I am traveling with Linda and her sister’s boyfriend Gabe.  We were to go for a little vacation but also meet up with Linda’s sister and her friend Patricia, who had been in Spain for the past six weeks, taking classes.  I couldn’t wait to go, having had a keen interest in Spanish history, art and music.  Being that I was going to Spain, I knew I had to see a bullfight, of course -- and yes, it was because of Hemingway, mostly.  I freely admit that.  I never really had an “interest” in it, per se, but the corrida was something attached to my childhood, remembering my father watching them with great pleasure over the years.  By this time I had already devoured Hemingway’s books and it was two of his books, “Death in the Afternoon” and “A Dangerous Summer” that piqued my interest in actually seeing a corrida up close and personal as I’m sure it was for most Hemingway fans.  I didn’t care what we did once we got to Spain.  Just being there was enough - but I made it clear that no matter what we do, I would be going to a bullfight.  They didn’t have to join me if they didn’t want to; and since we were only going to be there for one Sunday out of the week we were to be there, there was only one chance to see it.    

When that Sunday arrived, the five of us set out for the Plaza de Toros Monumental on a humid, somewhat rainy afternoon.  The arena is beautiful - constructed in a highly Moorish design.  It looked more like an old mosque than it did an arena.  The streets surrounding it were lined with palm trees.  The arena was in the modern part of town, unlike the old, narrow, labyrinthine streets that were around the hotel we were staying in.  If it weren’t for this huge, Moorish looking arena, the area could have been any other European city.   Along the way, I kept telling Linda that this was the real deal, that I was surprised that she would be willing to see this.  She’s not one for this kind of entertainment.  I wasn’t even sure if I was but I just had to see it.  I wanted to see, more than anything else, if it were anywhere close to how Hemingway had described it in his books: as an art form, the symbolic staging of man confronting death and the rest of it.  At the same time, in the back of my mind, I thought of my father, and wondered what he would have thought if he had been alive to know that I was going to see one.  

We bought our tickets - at 25 euro apiece - to sit in el Sol, that is, the seats that are out in the open and not shaded.  The shaded seats were more expensive.  I had expected the place to be crowded but there were no lines outside.  In fact, it seemed it were only tourists who were coming up to the ticket booths.  The only locals I saw were old men, who looked as if they’d been coming to the corrida most of their lives.   Another thing gave me a clue as to what the modern view of the corrida was.  The graffiti.  It was everywhere: on the arena, on the sidewalks in front of the arena, all basically saying the same thing:  “This is not culture!”  “Down with the corrida!”  “Ban bullfighting forever!”  Times sure have changed, I thought, but I wasn’t at all interested in the politics of the thing.  I just wanted to experience it - whether I wound up liking it or not didn’t matter to me. 

With tickets in hand, we entered the arena and we are immediately hit with the smell of death - a highly pungent smell - blood, decay, entrails.  Blood streaked across the concrete floors that lead to the stairways that lead to your seats.  The stench was so overwhelming, I literally had to hold my breath for a moment.  It was then we saw the huge room where the dead bulls were literally dragged into after each fight.  There was a young man in there, peering out at us through the open door and he quickly closed the door once he saw me taking a peek inside.  Inside, bulls were hanging from chains by their feet.  I later learned that these bulls are butchered, the meat eventually given to the poor.  Nevertheless, that overwhelming smell of death was not a good sign of what was to come and I knew immediately that Linda had made a mistake in coming to see this.  

We located our seats, about half way up the arena.  Inside, it looked like any other arena except the seats were not the kind of seats you’d see in an American ball park but rather long concrete slabs.  Each “seat” was numbered with yellow spray paint and a stencil and the rows were so narrow that had the arena been full, there’s a good chance you’d feel someone’s knees directly on your back.  But the arena was far from full.  I was not even half-full and those who were there were like us - tourists and perhaps some other Hemingway fans - who also wanted to experience the corrida for themselves.  I was ready for anything.  

The fanfare began - obviously a very old traditional affair - with the picadors, banderilleros - the torero’s “entourage” coming out and walking around the ring.  Eventually the torero made his entrance, removing his hat and bowing to the scattered applause of whatever there was of a crowd.  After the initial pomp and circumstance, the bull is let into the ring, an absolutely huge animal, nearly three times the size of any of the men in the arena.  This is the point where the bull is “tested,” to see its strength, bravery.  When that is over, the Picador comes out, on horseback, carrying a lance.  Immediately, the bull charges the horse and begins to slam it up against the wall, literally lifting the horse off its feet.  The Picador lunges the lance into the bull’s neck.  Blood begins pouring.  

Linda looks at me, tears forming in her widened eyes.  “I can’t watch this!” she says and immediately gets up, followed by her sister.  I though that was going to be it.  It had barely began.  

“You guys stay here if you want,” Linda’s sister said.  “We’ll be outside.  Just meet us out there when it’s over.” 

So the three of us stayed behind.  

“I want to see the bull shove his horn right up the matador’s ass!” Gabe says, while snapping photos with his camera.  

I continued to watch, trying to disconnect myself from the butchering of this poor animal and just try to observe it as neutrally and as impartial as I could, remembering all the things I read about it in Hemingway’s books.  It wasn’t easy.  

By the time the torero came out, the bull was barely able to stand, wobbling back and forth, blood streaming from it’s neck and back from where the banderilleros had stuck their banderillas.  This is the phase where the torero begins to guide the bull with his cape, the idea being to being the bull as close to his body as possible.  The whole idea is domination of the animal, to control it.  Then comes the moment of truth, where the torero gets ready for the kill.  He lines up his sword and must place it in precisely the right spot in order to kill the bull instantly - and he must do so by going over the horns.  Not exactly a smart thing to do.  The moment came and the bull knocked the matador on his ass and began going towards him.  His “entourage” immediately comes running out, guiding the bull away from the fallen torero so he can get to his feet and try again.  Again, the moment of truth.  In goes the sword and it doesn’t go in, its merely stuck there, wobbling back and forth as the bull desperately tries to rid it from its neck.  The audience begins to boo the torero.  The third time around he finally gets it and you see a stream of blood pour from the bull’s nostrils.  It looks around, confused, then collapses.  The torero bows.  The audience boos.  The reason for the booing is because the kill is supposed to happen quickly, instantly.  This guy merely butchered the animal to death.  

After the torero walked off to a chorus of boos, the bull is hooked up to a carriage which then drags the dead bull around the ring before heading out to where I assume is that room we saw when we first came in.  

We stayed for one other fight - this time, the torero doing a much quicker job of killing the animal.  

“I hope they’re doing all right,” I said to Gabe, referring to Linda and her sister. 

“Are you kidding?  They probably found a churros place down the block and they’re drinking their hot chocolate,” Gabe said.   

None of us said anything as we left the arena to the bemused looks of the ticket agents outside.  We then saw Linda and her sister, walking towards us.  They had indeed found a churros place and spent the past hour there.  

“Did you like that?” Linda asked me.  

“It’s not a question of whether I liked it or not.  I just wanted to experience it,” I said.  

As we headed back to our hotel, I kept thinking about how differently it all seemed up close and personal than it had when I used to watch it with my father on television all those years ago.   When you’re seven years old, blood and guts are a “cool” thing to see, especially if you’re a boy.  It’s quite a different matter as an adult.  I can’t say that I was disturbed by it either.  On one hand it was a brutal display - a literal torturing of this poor animal.  On the other hand, I was trying to watch it for what it was supposed to be.  I was trying to see the “tradition” of it.  I can honestly say I walked away a little indifferent - somewhat bothered by seeing that animal being mutilated, somewhat fascinated by the experience of the thing.  

“Would you ever go to another one?” Linda asked.  

“I don’t know.  Maybe,” I said.  “I’m not sure.” 

“Well, if we are ever in Spain again, next time you’re going alone.” 

Somehow, I didn’t doubt that.

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