August 29 marked both the fourth anniversary of Hurricane Katrina’s destructive blow to the Gulf States and the fifty-first anniversary of the day Katherine Jackson gave birth to her fifth boy child, Michael Joseph in Gary, Indiana. Both occasions were acknowledged in spirited, loving communion in Prospect Park’s lush Nethermead.
Spike Lee’s latest joint, the five-hour party in the park proved the tremulous naysayers’ coded concerns unfounded. There was no riotous mischief making to justify the “pens” set up for crowd control. It was celebratory, but chill: “relax your mind, lay back and groove with mine.”
Like Mikes abounded, young and old, in varying degrees of Jacksonian regalia, taking the spotlight in several spontaneous ring shouts as the music took over. Playing only the late star’s songs, DJ Spinna spun a web of sweet delirium for the peaceful mass of diversity while host Spike shared the stage with guests from BK Borough Prez, Marty Markowitz to Reverend Al to funnyman Tracy Morgan. Kevin Powell was on hand to remind us to remember Katrina and honor the memories of her victims.
Though the forecast predicted a deluge of a different sort, thunderstorms, people streamed into the verdant clearing, rain gear in tow, (my girl, theHotness.com founder, Nicole Moore and I both rocked the Wellies) determined to be there no matter what. After we’d been there a short while the overcast sky yielded a gentle rain and up went the canopies in anticipation of more, but it simply faded into a light mist. Nicole likened it to an “anointing” before the clouds parted and gave way to the clearest blue.
As the celebration wound down, there was something infinitely moving about a meadow full of people singing in unison, Man in the Mirror, with its Ghandian theme of change beginning within. The preponderant presence of dragonflies, symbols of transformation, only highlighted the beauty of the moment.
Finally, as serendipity would have it, Nicole introduced me to her friend, Fanon, the cool brother dancing in the shot below, and son of a lovely woman I’d lost touch with. Through the powerful connectivity of facebook she reconnected with me when she saw us both in an album of photos from that day. Just perfect, the rich buttercream on a scrumptious cake.
A few snaps from the phone camera.
The Lime Wire Music Blog’s Video account on You Tube
One of the highlights of summer in Brooklyn for nearly a decade has been attendance at the feel-good, Sunday afternoon-til-dark family picnic, doggie meet-and-greet, drum circle, twirl-n-skate house music fest that is Soul Summit. In the shadow of the looming monument atop Fort Greene Park’s highest point, rotating DJ’s kick it Garage-style for those old enough to remember to share just how it’s done with those who are not. Picnic spreads are as likely to feature vegan fare as hot wings and the music alone can take you higher. It’s all love.
I was only able to make one, the last in this summer’s series and I’m so glad I did. I needed to shake a tail feather and release the stuff of a hectic schedule. I mixed and mingled with friends, enjoying the family reunion vibe. We danced into a sweaty frenzy, so hard, perhaps we invoked the rain gods who pelted us with equal fervor. At first the crowd dispersed, seeking partial shelter under the leafy canopy of trees lining the perimeter of the “dance floor.” The plug was pulled, literally, on the music in deference to nature and her ability to smite by lightning. Many threw up their umbrellas, bounded out into the open and returned to rainy revelry amid the rhythms of the storm. We danced, ecstatically waterlogged and determined to outlive the monsoon. Eventually the DJs were pumping the tunes once more. Neither rain nor heat nor humid night would stay these couriers from the mass transmission of their anointed sounds.
Publicist Lea Byrd and her darling daughter
Stylist David De La Cruz and friends (including a glorious Thai Ridgeback)
My schedule has become increasingly hectic and I’ve posted to pendulum with neither the recency nor frequency that I typically enjoy. It has been a month since I last blogged and two since I posted about one of my beloved Brooklyn moments. I had one such moment last night that compels me to take a sec and share it.
I’d originally planned to have a Brooklyn encounter of a different kind, the Purple Rain sing-a-long in Prospect Park, when womanhood warranted close proximity to a clean lavatory and a hot water bottle. I was headed home.
Perhaps it was the nearby waterfront, but last night’s full moon and the tides beckoned my Piscean soul to Dumbo where I decided to alight just long enough to show some love to friends, the two Richards, Gary and Maitland, photographers showing in the First Thursday Gallery Walk. My plan to hit it and quit it was derailed by the familial feeling of sun people warmth. The pain subsided. All was at ease.
I was struck by the loveliness of the men I encountered, and though they are all easy on the eye, what truly moved me was the beauty of their goodness, their progressiveness, their joy in celebrating each other; black and brown creatives doing the thing: Niya Bascom, Barney Bishop, Malik Cumbo, Francks Francois Décéus, Ebon Heath, Rich Gary, Rich Maitland, Phil Shung, Leo Vasquez and Todd Wilson. Though I’ve known most of them individually for quite a long time, there was something infinitely beautiful, magical about seeing them all, en masse and in their element.
So Messrs Gary and Maitland, thank you for bringing the richness on a warm Summer night.
About a month ago, tax monkey off our collective backs, a break in a long stretch of inclement weather and a small break in my increasingly hectic schedule, I, at the behest of longtime friend and staunch advocate of the Bedford-Stuyvesant community, the artist TRUE, decided to check into his Macon Manor, a lovely short stay rental in the heart of the Stuyvesant Heights historic district. TRUE lives in the garden apartment and welcome guests on the top three floors of his 102 year-old, art-filled brownstone. Arriving at three I grabbed a cold drink of water from the in-room cooler, took in the view of the landscaped garden and perused the well stocked library of books, games and DVDs. After a brief chat with a friendly Australian traveler who’d checked into the floor below, I settled into quiet, enjoying refreshing cross breezes in the floor-through apartment and a well-deserved nap — afternoon delight.
Afternoon light floods the living room.
Some of the in-suite artwork.
I awoke just in time to stroll the three or four blocks to Olivino, the newer sister location to Clinton Hill’s similarly named wine shop for a tasting. The gregarious co-owner, Tony Walker and his friendly, knowledgeable staff, welcomed a multi-culti mix of customers to join the oenophilic assembly. It was lighthearted, unpretentious and a pleasant blend of both longtime residents and newbies.
Olivino partner, Tony is flanked by Bed-Stuy newcomers from Japan and Sweden.
After nibbling assorted breads, cheeses & olives and sampling the evening’s tasting wines, I was sated and ready for a lazy return to the ultra comfortable bed at 424 Macon. I slept beautifully, really a wonderful night’s sleep and awoke to the sweet trilling of the birds on the tree-lined block and the gentle streaming of sunlight around the corners of the accordion pleated window treatments. I helped myself to the coffee provided in my small kitchen and ambled into the large, airy bathroom to prepare for the day and check out. With space at a premium for most New Yorkers, the apartments (sleeping 7 persons each) offer a wonderful, affordable way to put up out-of-town guests. Travelers from around the globe can get a taste of Bed-Stuy in a convenient location (near the A Express at Utica Ave).
The spare, zen-like bedroom features two super comfy queen beds.
True with a young friend.
Delighted by the temperate weather, I tossed on a summery frock and out I went to brunch with my friend Julia, a local resident and unofficial brand evangelist for Peaches, a restaurant on the corner of Lewis and MacDonough. An extension of her dining room, it is her Cheers, she its Norm and she sings its praises mightily. Weekend brunch is clearly poppin’ at this place, but it’s a great spot for dinner or an evening hang at the bar. Though I settled on and thoroughly enjoyed the shrimp po’ boy and coleslaw, I was nonetheless happy to see that in spite of the Southern/Soul food inspiration, there are several offerings to sate the vegetarian diner as well.
Owner Craig chats with Julia about the close-knit nature of the Bed-Stuy community and its local merchants.
Will serves up libation at the bar, while “Peaches” (a family elder for whom the restaurant is named) watches over from the portrait on the left.
As we left we bumped into the proprietors, Hillary & Lloyd Porter of the popular, next-door coffee shop/wifi cafe, Bread-Stuy where Hillary whips up scrumptious baked goods; life-of-the party Lloyd makes every visit feel like hanging with a favorite cousin and baby Maclemore has captured the attention of the entire community. Impromptu chess tourneys and DJ sets are not uncommon in front of this “village center.”
Anchoring the other end of the bustling block of Lewis Avenue is Crystal and Walston Bobb-Semple’s Brownstone Books. With its emphasis on titles of African diasporic interest serving the longtime predominately African-American community (their second location, opened last year at the Brooklyn Academy of Music has a largely performing arts-related inventory), Brownstone Books serves the literary interests of young and old with their children’s story hour as well as author readings, lectures and open-mic poetry night. I plan to return to get the August Wilson Century Cycle soon.
Crystal Bobb-Semple and the seminal collection of August Wilson’s Century Cycle stocked at Brownstone Books.
I bopped around a bit, taking in the scene at the four corners of Macon and Lewis: the recent renovations to the Macon Branch of the Brooklyn Public Library; Gallerist Richard Beavers shared his commitment to established as well as emerging artists of the African disapora at his House of Art. Estelle Harris’ recent addition to the SOLA (Shops of Lewis Avenue) mix, Creative Blossomsbrings clean, simple floral arrangements and a gardening center to the neighborhood; and new Mom, Josie Almonte played with her gorgeous daughter while sharing her goal of bring stylish, affordable fashion, accessories and home accents to the nabe with her Little Red Boutique.
Renovated BPL Macon branch.
Currently on display at House of Art: Jennifer Crute’s hard-hitting, “I Pledge.”
With his urban setting and elongated figures, Bua’s “1981″ is reminiscent of the work from the late Ernie Barnes.
Little Red Boutique owner Josie with her little angel.
Kicky Spring shoes.
A sampling of the simple, elegant arrangements from floral designer, Estelle Harris’ Creative Blossoms.
Before heading to my hotly anticipated appointment with friend Rodney Hughes at his fragrance lab (see the post, Talkin’ Shop: Therapeutaté), he introduced me to another offering on the art front. Brooklynite Gallery is a labor of love and creativity from couple Rae and Hope McGrath on Malcolm X Boulevard. I knew Hope back-in-the-day from her fashion production company, Asha and was excited to see what she and her artist hubby have brought to the area east of the SOLA hub. They rehabbed a dilapidated old building in the ‘hood into a sleek, modern gallery which takes advantage of yard space and natural light. The gallery is a celebration of Pop Art with a particular emphasis on Street Art and pushing the boundaries. The gallery website, for example, features new media elements like Brooklynite TV, streaming live video and encouraging live chat.
An iconic photo from National Geographic is re-imagined.
Culture reporter, music critic and local resident Siddhartha Mitter checks out the outdoor display at the gallery.
The office as seen from the backyard gallery.
On Sunday I had grits, eggs and thick slices of smoked turkey bacon at the counter of Ma-n-Pop, a humble diner with an Obama-inspired, patriotic stars-and-stripes decorwhile Beat Street played on the television hanging hospital-style overhead. A cheap, good meal in a real neighborhood joint.
Collard greens and potato salad at Ma-n-Pop
Later I was enchanted to stumble across Macon Hardware, a delightful hodgepodge of greeting cards, laundry carts, live plants, a selection of toy WWF championship belts and an extensive collection of church hats. When I saw a window full of Sunday-best crowns in a hardware store that proudly bore the name Mrs. Peter Hayes on the door, I had to take a peek. Mrs. Hayes, looking lovely in lavender was making a set of keys for a customer amid the nails, bobby pins and general store merch mix. She (and the space) reminded me of childhood Southern summers spent returning glass Coke and Mountain Dew bottles to Washington’s Servicenter in Kenbridge, Virginia where anything you needed could be found in Mr. Washington’s shop. I asked where she was from. “North Carolina, but I’ve been here 62 years, 47 in this building.” I noticed the prominently displayed black and white photo of her late husband and she began to share the story of how they once lived in the Marcy projects which were at that time, housing for military families, but the apartments were reserved for couples with children. They as a young couple were allowed to move in but “when I didn’t have a baby after six months, they said we had to move, but I wasn’t ready to have a baby.” With the gumption she still has today she convinced the powers that be to let them to stay. She has seen them come and go and with development many do go to somewhat nearby Home Depot, but she has a loyal community following (like that of paint specialists, Oz Hardware on Malcolm X) that I hope mightily continues to support her.
Mrs. Hayes, a photo of her late husband and the proprietor signage on the door of Macon Hardware.
Staff member Jace Rivera with Desmond Prince, owner of Oz Hardware.
I wrapped up my Bed-Stuy sojourn by strolling with friends to the nearby Weeksville Heritage Center, bordering Crown Heights for a free concert on the historic grounds by the awesomely talented DC native, Alice Smith. Giving body and incredible cool in the blazing heat, Alice performed a phenomenal acoustic set backed only by a guitar and sheltered by a yellow canopy which mimicked the sun.
There are many other treasures in this Central Brooklyn community: Solomon’s Porch restaurant, the new wine bar, Therapy, Hibiscus Day Spa, the positive vibes and healthful cuisine of Food 4 Thought Cafe, professional framing at the Lewis Gallery and the famed Italianate villa-cum-bed and breakfast inn, Akwaaba Mansionamong them. Coming soon will be the area’s answer to the Brooklyn Flea, SOLA Public Market; another wine bar with organic nibbles, Liquid Oz; what promises with its wood-burning oven to be a delicious hotspot for Neapolitan-style thin-crust pizza, Saraghina; upscale grocer, Butternut Market and from the mastermind of Cake Bliss,Margo Lewis, Dahlia’s, a Courtney Sloan-designed restaurant featuring healthy fare.
Though my trek was within the 11233 and 11216 zip codes, Bed-Stuy is a vast neighborhood bordering Bushwick, Brownsville, Clinton Hill, Crown Heights,East New York, and Williamsburg. Don’t sleep on the historical, architectural, cultural and gastronomical gems in this vibrant community.
(Thanks to Julia Chance for providing some of the photos)
Akwaaba Mansion 347 Macdonough Street 718.455.5958
Bread Stuy 401 Lewis Avenue 718.771.0633
Brooklynite Gallery 334 Malcolm X Blvd. 347.405.5976
Brownstone Books 409 Lewis Avenue 718.953.7328
Creative Blossoms 370 Lewis Avenue 347.240.9720
Food 4 Thought 445 Marcus Garvey Blvd 718.443.4160
Hibiscus Day Spa 558 Halsey Street 718.573.0831
House of Art 373 Lewis Avenue 347.663.8195
Lewis Gallery 225 Decatur Street 718.624.8372
Little Red Boutique 374 Lewis Avenue 718.443.1170
Ma-n-Pop Soul Food 349 Lewis Avenue 718.596.9933
Macon Branch, Brooklyn Public Library 361 Lewis Avenue 718.573.5606
I remember riding in the Torino, my mom’s best friend at the wheel, the women in the front all cigarettes and Afros, the kids in the back all Afro puffs and yarn-tied pigtails. Car door locks looked like silver golf tees, asking the cat at Esso for directions was the GPS of the day and spinning the radio dial to WOL introduced some DC babies to the wonders of Stevie.
The man born Stevland Hardaway Judkins has etched beautiful memories in the hearts of generations of music fans; created an anthem for and fueled the movement toward federal acknowldegement of MLK’s birth; been lovingly parodied by Eddie Murphy and is celebrated yearly at Wonder-Full, a roving musical tribute to Mr. Stevie Wonder. Mix masters DJ Spinna and Bobbito Garcia spin only music either recorded or written (for example Rufus’ Tell Me Something Good) by Stevie, in a hotly anticipated event with the spirit-raising intensity of a Southern tent revival.
Happily, this year’s soiree was within walking distance of my home at Clinton Hill’s BK Studios. I went with last week my ace, writer Julia Chance as she covered the scene for WNYC. She documented with photos, gathered stories and still managed to get her dance on. I know I did. By 3am I was a hot mess, and I mean that in the best possible way.
I communed with some of the dearest people in my life at the home of my favorite stylist (besides well, moi) Rick Ramsey in Bed-Stuy on election night. We ate Ricky’s delicious smoked turkey and corn chowder and awaited the returns. Our intimate gathering erupted in high-decibel shouts and abundantly flowing tears, especially from me, when the decision was called.
Soon after, a few of us made our way down to Fort Greene, where the party was in full effect on Lafayette & South Portland and on DeKalb between Carlton and Adelphi. Unmitigated joy!
The last week of October marked the end of a grueling 2-month shooting schedule on a project that promises to be an exciting one and I look forward to seeing the fruits of our concerted efforts early next year. I am, however, glad to get a chance to catch my breath, decompress, and yes return to blogging.
By day’s end on October 31, I was exhausted and without regard for cleverly carved jack-o’lanterns, tricks nor treats. All I wanted was a meal and a good night’s sleep. So, whilst enjoying comfort food at Trout Fish Shack (though I miss the scrumptious stuffed turkey burgers of its predecessor, Gravy) in Boerum Hill I decided to check into Nu Hotel, a recent addition to Brooklyn’s changing landscape. Located just blocks away on the corner of Smith Street and Atlantic Avenue, it beckoned me, “come, rest.”
A quick trip to nearby Rite Aid for toiletries would be all I’d need before attaining Nirvana. A lone child’s Speed Racer getup, complete with helmet/mask, white pants and trompe l’oeil “jacket” dangled forlornly above the nail polish remover. A sucker for the lonely, and with my dormant love of Halloween reawakened by the parade of revelers traversing Smith Street, I sized up the ensemble, figured it would fit–in a highwater kind-of-way– and rescued it from the purgatory of garish drugstore lighting.
I opened the door of the clean, spare and surprisingly spacious (especially for a boutique hotel) room 401 and entered a welcoming, white-walled, modernist dream. Crisp white linens, fluffy down comforter and a sprawling king bed provided the best night’s sleep I’d had in a long time and a perch for mindless channel surfing of the flat-screen TV.
I awoke lazily the next morning and met a friend for a lovely brunch at Jolie Restaurant Français just across Atlantic Avenue. I kept it local and low-key for the rest of the day, grabbing some tasty morsels from the menu of small plates at The JakeWalk on Smith and DeGraw before heading back to workout in the gym at Nu. I stopped in the small lobby lounge and discussed the mixing possibilities of St. Germain, an Elderflower liqueur whose elegant belle époque bottle reminds me of my late grandmother’s vanity tray. He says gin, I went with vodka, retreated to my room and capped off the evening in an Alpine blur.
The next day I joined the congregants of the Church of the New York Marathon lining Fourth Avenue to cheer on the thundering hordes of runners who never fail to make me well up on the first Sunday of November. I couldn’t have asked for better weather for my impromptu staycation in my beloved burg or a better time than I had. It was much-needed balm.
Walking along Schenectady Saturday evening on my way to see the aptly named Hypnotic Brass Ensemble perform at the Weeksville Heritage Center, I heard symphonic horn blare and the left-right pound of the snare reverberating along the Avenue. Could that be HBE? “No,” I thought. The feeling was more Drumline than Second City and I found myself momentarily lost in high school reverie, resisting an incredibly strong urge to high-step and twirl a baton, or at least, my umbrella. The source of sound finally came into view, a marching band practicing with chops to rival Grambling’s. There’s nothing like a Black marching band, and here was one in Central Brooklyn, prelude to the absolute delight that was to come.
When I arrived at Weeksville, the set was already in full swing, the small but enthusiastic group of spectators dancing their way to Nirvana. The eight Chicago-bred siblings (backed by a drummer) who comprise HBE, all sons of former Sun Ra Arkestra trumpeter, Phil Cohran, blow with a fluency that attests to the fact that each has been playing since the age of four or five.
YouTube video: Erin R. Stevens
Given the proximity of the Kingsborough Houses–with a largely African-American population and courtyard art-installation known as “The Wall” (a sculptural frieze by Harlem Renaissance sculptor Richmond Barthé) and the historical significance of the carefully preserved Historic Hunterfly Road Houses, the sight of nine young Black men in a line-up that exalts rather than vilifies them, the performance was glorious relief from the pervasive media notions of beleaguered Blackness.
Elissa Blount Moorhead, Director of Programming and Exhibitions at Weeksville commented that the ancestors had been roused. I think she’s right, and they, right proud.
Harlem’s loss is Brooklyn’s gain. Detail from Richmond Barthé’s“Green Pastures: The Walls of Jericho.” Photo: Frederick V. Nielsen
The 80-ft frieze was inspired by a 1930 African-American play called The Green Pastures and was created under the auspices of the WPA for installation at the Harlem River Houses in 1937. It was however, installed at the Kingsborough Houses when they opened in 1941 in Brooklyn.
The Wall, circa 1944. From The New York City Housing Authority Collection of the LaGuardia and Wagner Archives
Note on Weeksville: In this urban oasis straddling Bed-Stuy and Crown Heights, I’ve seen stellar performances by Olu Dara and a fiercely-shod Imani Uzuri. I’ve recently missed those by Sparlha Swa, Game Rebellion and an amazing-by-all-accounts string set by Tamar Kali. These performances are free and though Weeksville has generous corporate and foundation support, their exciting plans for growth can be served by individual donations as well. Visit the website, www.weeksvillesociety.org to learn more about Weeksville history, legacy and projections for the future.
For the past seven years, each July 14 (or the Sunday closest to it), Francophiles from all over flock to a small stretch of Smith Street in Boerum Hill to party like it’s 1789. At the behest of local bistros Bar Tabacand Robin des Bois, Smith between Bergen and Pacific Streets is cordoned off, tons of sand poured into wooden grids to create the petanque playground known as a boulodrome, merguez is prepared and Lillet, Ricard and Stella Artois flow like water in this Gallic bacchanal celebrating the storming of the Bastille Prison and the birth of modern France.
In the spirit
Le baby-foot
Michael Arenella’s Dreamland Orchestra set up camp on Dean Street, just outside Tabac sporting jaunty straw boaters, a Tyrolean trilby, even a pith helmet — gotta love those sousaphone players — for an afternoon of live music evoking Django Reinhardt, Buddy Bolden and a little Ricky Ricardo swagger, thrown in for good measure.
Michael Arenella
The Dreamland Orchestra
Sousaphone and classical guitar
The mini skate park staged at the corner of Pacific Street had onlookers ooh and ahhing the boarders’ prowess and the boule-tossing commenced just feet away in what has become the largestpétanque tourney (80 teams) in the US.
Francophonic murmurs abound and spirits are high. Brooklyn loves a party. I raise my Lillet Rouge in salute. “vive la France moderne!”
Brooklyn’s answer to Mardi Gras melds the lore of the sea with campy good humor and sideshow freakishness. The annual Coney Island USA Mermaid Parade is yet another thing I love about this borough. I went with my seven year-old friend and fellow Piscean Aria, for her first-ever walk in a parade.
As we queued up for the promenade down Surf Avenue, this lovely woman gifted Aria with a beautiful Murex shell.
Inspired by the Superheroes exhibit she helped create at The Met, this woman imagined Wonder Woman in mermaid form.
A little seaside zanyness…
Heels on wheels.
Jason and his Neptunaut.
My favorite of the day, besides the sweet-faced Aria, was the gloriously airbrushed couple who strode elegantly through the admiring crowds.
