NEW YORK AT NIGHT

Joseph Tiraco

Half asleep at my desk, and dawn approaching, midnight oil burning a pool in the blackness, a mellifluous enchantress passed unimpeded through solid chamber walls, intruding her acuity as if from thin air. Empyreal descants filled the room shattering the solitary silence for several electrifying seconds, while an experience that could be called a mind meld unbraced my equilibrium, inducing an effusion of mental excitement. Often, she comes in nebulous night as I stare vacantly into space, this whimsical sprite who whispers the most extraordinary tidbits in my ear. Lucubrating in the dim of this starry morn, her voice jarred my inner-most being, extruding fleeting thoughts from my head, ripping words from my brain, sending impulses through appendage to jotting fingers moving in leaden strokes across a glaring white page.

Some might say, anyone who hears voices in the dark must be crazy. So what? A little madness isn't necessarily a bad thing, especially for an artist. Schopenhauer believed that madness was the main ingredient in fine art; as indispensable as the rabbit in rabbit stew. He combed lunatic asylums in search of genius - and believed he found it in abundance. And wasn't it Aristotle who observed that, "Men distinguished in philosophy, politics, poetry or art appear to be all of a melancholy temperament." What's so aberrant about a few voices in the night? In my business, (Like Voltaire, "my trade is to say what I think.") it might be an asset.

The world was wrapped in sable darkness and I was coloring a poster announcing a meeting to discuss the megastore invasion of Forest Hills; performing mechanical tasks and allowing my mind to dwell on the issue at hand. Quite unintentionally, the introspective mind-wanderings drifted into deep water, and somehow, the current state of society ala Durant's erudite biographies floated to the surface. His line up of philosophers and artists marched around in my head like little kids in galoshes stomping in mud puddles. The vertiginous phrases splattered and splashed and roiled in the mind imbruing every thought.

This great city is about to undergo a complete zoning revision, actuated by an esurient self-aggrandizement of the ruling clique at the expense of their charges, all wrapped in the thinnest of political pretext. Megastore developers, weary of communities rejecting their grand designs as if they planned to build leper colonies, covet large tracts of land now off-limits to them, so they shamelessly shower favors upon politicians and make known their desire to erase the current laws that balance private greed and community self determination; tossing handfuls of greenbacks at the mayor and city council members who suddenly realize in feinted horror that we are suffering a dangerous "Mall Gap" and falling painfully behind that dreaded enemy, Long Island. ("I sing the song of him whose bread I eat.") And now New York's communities are asked to sacrifice their sacred rights on the alter of "City Patriotism", even though Long Island's communities, thoroughly fed up with mall-mongers, have gone to court and received injunctions to stop constructions brought about by odious political double-dealing.

In Forest Hills, the megastore proposals are grossly inappropriate, and the political methods being employed to impose this anathema will bring about environmental disaster. The megastores would be built in a residential area. The infrastructure to support the stores does not exist. There is no mass-transit system in the area. Thirty acres of megastores, which is what we are talking about in Forest Hills, will draw, from twenty-five to sixty thousand people a day - depending on the season - which is more then ten million people a year. The mountains of merchandise to stock the stores will require a never-ending chain of trucks that will have to compete with increased traffic amounting to tens of thousands of cars daily and a continuous stream of city busses transporting millions of people annually to the site; all jammed onto city streets which are right now - even by the developers own measurements - over saturated. This is like trying to force a hundred times more pressure into a boiler then it's designed to hold. The result is not hard to figure out: D I S A S T E R ! And like any disaster, people will flee the area. When politicians of both political persuasions jump into bed with fat-cat speculators, it's the public that usually gets screwed.

The sudden availability of a thirty acre land parcel bordering a major city park in a prime neighborhood like Forest Hills is an extremely rare occurrence. City parks are the perfect place to establish cultural institutions: the Brooklyn Museum at Prospect Park with its magnificent Egyptology collection; the New York Botanical Garden and the Zoological Society at Bronx Park; the Metropolitan Museum and twenty-eight other world class cultural institutions surround Central Park in Manhattan; and none - zero - at Forest Park in Queens. Forest Hills, itself being a rare treasure designed by artist Frederick Law Olmsted (landscaper of Central Park) as America's first major planned community, and built with funds provided by the Russell Sage Foundation, has many unique qualifications that would make it the perfect host for a major cultural institution - including thirty prime acres of private property up for grabs. Thirty sprawling acres to plan boldly, mold into any shape, develop exciting innovations, build to stun the world, and because it is private property, expand, expand, and expand some more without any worry of bureaucratic interference, all set against a backdrop of great natural beauty - Forest Park's five hundred and thirty six wooded acres,. to ready in plenty of time for the next New York World's Fair. Tourists are an extremely desirable group of customers and nations, states, cities, communities and individual establishments ferociously vie for their business. The arts are a virtual magnet, drawing well healed, well educated, well behaved, well dressed tourists from every. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . what's that doll?. . . . .you just came back from where? . . . . yes. . . . yes. . . . .ahhhh. . . . .of course. . . . . .why didn't I think of. . . . .hmmm. . . . . . . .how about that. . . . . . wonderful. . . . .I'll tell them. . . . . wowww . . . . .. . . . well OK . . . . .here goes. . . .

The city of Florence, Italy, has announced, it will no longer accept visitors unless they have official permission to enter. From now on, they shall accept only 150 bus loads of tourists a day. The rest? Well, they'll have to strive harder to succeed. The rest of the world is competing like hungry sharks for the tourist trade, and Florence is turning them away in droves. How did they get into the amazing position of being able to demand to see your balance sheet and income statement, resume and family genealogy table before allowing your humble feet to tread their hollowed streets? Six hundred years ago, a family patriarch named Cosimo de' Medici rose to prominence in the banking business. He loved his family, Florence, philosophy, and his gardens, in that order. He burned candles before a painting of the Madonna and a bust of Plato, making no distinction between the two. Cosimo, in his personal life lived simply, in his public life spent lavishly, mostly to adorn his beloved Florence, " and hid his charity, like his power, in gracious anonymity." Other wealthy men of his time collected holy relics, Cosimo collected ancient Greek manuscripts and statuary. On his deathbed, they read passages to him from the Old testament and Plato's Death Of Socrates. His grandson Lorenzo inherited not only Cosimo's genes, wealth and power, but also his frugality and love of the arts. Lorenzo always wore black, very expensive garments, but always black. After dinner, he enjoyed playing the lute and singing, though usually in an empty room because his singing voice was atrocious and his lute playing wasn't much better, though it did not deter him one bit. He tried his hand at painting, sculpting, composing, and a dozen other arts. But his real skill laid in making money, and his true genius, in spending it. Like his grandfather, he collected manuscripts and statuary, but added to them live artists. He founded schools for their education, paid their apprentice fees, offered them commissions as they developed and waited patiently for them to flower - and flower they did. Florence became their gallery, the church of Rome, their spirit, and the beauty they wrought settled in the human soul. Florence, City of Flowers, became the garland of civilization. "If we embrace in our judgement not only Cosimo, but his descendants Lorenzo the Magnificent, Leo X, and Clement VII, (Let's not forget Catherine, Queen of France) we may admit that in the patronage of learning and art the Medici have never been equaled by any other family in the known history of mankind" (Will Durant, of course.)

American business leader, Bank of America founder, and philanthropist Armando Peter Giannini lent money to film makers when no one else would. He financed young Walt Disney and helped him produce Snow White, which contained an astonishing two million hand drawn cells. Walt ran into severe financial difficulties when his full length animated feature, Fantasia failed at the box office. It was released just days after Pearl Harbor and the public was in no mood for cartoons. Called before the Bank of America's board of directors to explain why he could no longer meet his financial obligations, the long faced and dejected Disney laid his studio's keys on the table, fully expecting that everything he owned would be repossessed. Instead, Giannini told Walt the Bank of America would refinance his company and in addition, they would lend him the money to build his wild eyed dream, a theme park called Disneyland. Stunned and tearful, Walt picked up his keys and walked silently out of the room. Giannini had offered to pay his shareholders, out of his own pocket, any losses the bank might sustain from transactions with Disney. When asked why, he simply said, "I like his work."

Art is immortal and its lore expands with time. For example, say you were to drag the Mediterranean and raise two ancient ships. The first, an emperor's treasure ship, laden with the booty of its day: property deeds, stock certificates, gold certificates, bank deposit slips (yes the Romans had banks and brokers and an extremely sophisticated financial system.) The second ship was a garbage scow, containing scrap marble, old statues, say, Phidias' rejects from the Parthenon's construction on their way somewhere to be pounded into marble dust for some insignificant purpose. The first ship's cargo, even if the contents were packed in air-tight clay jars, is essentially worthless, though the amphorae would probably fetch a handsome price. The contents of the garbage scow would probably bring enough to purchase an estate the size of East and West Hampton combined with enough left over to fund the space program. It all might sound a bit exaggerated, however, a similar story actually occurred not too long ago. Some fisherman, from a sleepy Mediterranean fishing village, totally inaccessible since time immemorial except by sea, brought up an old bronze statue that had snagged their net. The art world gasped. Curators from every corner of the Earth arrived to examine the find, and labeled it the finest "Poseidon" in existence - though they agreed, it was probably scrap on its way to recycling. The Italian government declared it a national treasure so the statue could not leave the country. The small village was now world famous - no one could find it on a map, but it was famous. The fisherman, puffed up with pride, decided the statue would stay in the village. The new town industry would be tourism. And the tourists flocked to this inaccessible spot, hiring boats and climbing mountains. The world was literally beating a path to their doorstep. The government, in crisis because the tourists were complaining of hardships, considered blasting a tunnel through the mountains. About then, an emissary from Florence showed up in the village and made an offer they couldn't refuse. Florence would pay them a vast amount of money to merely rent their Poseidon for a new exhibition, or so they said. When the exhibition ended, reassured the Florentines, the statue would be returned, and the money could be used to build new trappings for the tourist industry, a museum to house the statue, a hotel, etc. As the statue was being hauled away, the fisherman's wives shouted "stupido" at the town's officials who had agreed to the deal - which roughly means, "if you think you're getting elected again, you're crazy." Sure enough, when the exposition ended, lots of money came, but no statue. The fisherman demanded Poseidon or they would come in force to take it back. The message from Florence was terse: phonetically pronounced, "fun-goo-la" and accompanied by a rapid arm gesture, which all together roughly means, "over my dead body." Rome sided with the Florentines. The fishermen donned their red shirts and threatened to rise up against the government, but they couldn't convince the rest of the nation to raise up with them - except, of course for a few art lovers who dressed sympathetically in red, and wrote stormy sonnets. The matter was taken to court, and there it will stay forever - like the furor over Dante's body which has been going on between Florence and Ravenna for the past six-hundred years, and shows no sign of abating anytime soon.

Dante, exiled from Florence, lived the last years of his life in Ravenna and even though all was forgiven, he repeatedly refused to return home. After his death, September 14, 1321, the Florentines came for his body. But mountain folk, by nature more skeptical then fishing folk, issued the same curt, "over my dead body" Italian conundrum to the Florentines. But for such an attraction to go unrealized was unthinkable. An empty tomb was built for Dante's body in the church of Santa Croce; the Florentines hoped the tourists might be dazzled by the tomb's splendor and wouldn't notice that the poet is still in Ravenna. When it comes to art, the Florentines do strange things. Gioacchino Rossini, the opera composer, lived in Paris for many years. When he died, the Florentines demanded his body. His widow, being French, and a crusty old reformed courtesan, replied with the very same, "Over my dead body" phrase we have heard before, only this time, in French. So they waited. When she died and the grave was opened, Mrs. Rossini went in and Mr. Rossini came out. His body was spirited off to Florence before anyone knew it was missing. To soothe the sting of being grave-napped to become an eternal tourist attraction, the Florentines laid Rossini to rest - at last and finally we hope - next to Michelangelo; and what artist could ask for more? So hide your statues and never ever rent them to anyone for just a few days. If strangers ask where your husband is buried, lie! If funny looking guys in sunglasses show up at your grandfather's funeral with their own hearse offering a free burial, tell them, phonetically, "Over my dead body." One never knows when the Florentines might be lurking about. Such are the hazards of art.

What has all this to do with thirty acres in Forest Hills? Everything. This property is a community treasure and like anything of value, the strong, clever and wealthy believe it's theirs for the taking. As to the community currently in possession, they're treated like simple fisherman, hence the very clever phrase, "As of Right" has been devised; who ever heard of it up to about a year ago, now suddenly, it's the paradigm of all civil law, proving beyond a doubt, assuredly and without question or debate, builders have all the rights and communities have none, and that any recourse we consider is totally useless; as futile as a chicken's squeal when its neck is cut. So relax and just let it happen. "Over my dead body."

There is nothing new about the business of tourism. The Athenians of 500BC kept Theseus' ship in a museum and built a tomb for his bones which they gathered up from abroad. Tourists came from every corner of the world to view them.

Art and tourism are - as they have been from the beginning of recorded history -honorable and profitable pursuits for communities to engage in.

Forest Hills, this hamlet nested in gently rolling hill country, by the very nature of its landmark designation, its proximity to Forest Park's wooded acres, and its status among the city's communities has always attracted the wealthy who have built their mansions here, and it now continues to attract the wealthy, only this time, wealthy builders who feel the place's desirability is transferable to their drab box stores, and that the community's prestige will elevate a common shopping mall into a fashion statement. They plan to use our well kept gardens, and tree lined streets, our years of assiduous striving to make this an outstanding residential community, to lure customers who will think their box stores "exclusive" since they are in Forest Hills. In short, the megastore developers are opportunists of the worst kind, trying to harvest our years of hard work, orderly nature and civic pride, to pluck them like roadside wild flowers, to drain the milk, and suck us dry until there's nothing left but another run down city neighborhood. And the elected officials are willing to play The Price Is Right game with them because our community means everything to us, but nothing to them but a pile of stones to mount in order to reach someplace higher.

The idea is for an innovative cultural facility to attract financially substantial individuals into Forest Hills: well educated art lovers, people who will take an interest in our community and appreciate what we're trying to accomplish. We can encourage the antique and curio industry which is a branch of the art business, and is now a prevalent part of Metropolitan Avenue commerce, in fact, most of what we need as a base to build on already exists. An crowd of art lovers could stimulate a range of quality shops that offer unique services, rare talents and uncommon objects. Metropolitan Avenue would evolve upwards naturally.

Local Home owners might say, a crowd is a crowd, that a flood of tourists and sophisticated shoppers are no better then a flood of megastore shoppers, what's the difference? Let's look.

First - There are thirty prime acres that must be made useful. Right now, this means the construction of megastores, or a viable alternative. There is no doubt that the megastore option means the death of Forest Hills as we know it. We can talk forever about why this is so - let it suffice to simply say, megastores are inappropriate on Metropolitan Ave.

Second - we could try to attract new tenants for the existing factories, and then things can remain the same, and nothing will change. This is the tired old argument of warn out thinkers. Nothing stays the same - ever. The day of these factories is gone. Blame the politicians who have been exporting high paying union jobs overseas in order to import the same products cheaper, and now expect a pat on the back for creating minimum wage retail jobs when it's actually a swift kick in the ass they deserve for starting this downward spiral.

Everything must evolve or become extinct. Forest Hills, while still comely, is eighty years old. It has had eighty good years, but it needs a source of rejuvenation, like a battery recharge so it can have many more good years. Our problem is to wrest the thirty prime acres - an enormous tract of property within the midst of any community - from the megastore builders, thwart their planned incursion, and utilize this property as the nucleus of a revitalization program, keeping in mind that the property in question abuts Forest Park, controlling the destiny of the area. Any proposal that would keep things the same or let this property slip away would also forestall this revitalization process, or set the community on the path to mediocrity; and in a few short years, the time of Forest Hills could be gone and forgotten. With these thirty acres, we have a god sent opportunity that will never present itself again in our lifetimes. The community of Sea Gate in Brooklyn, once a wealthy and charming community took no interest in the affairs of neighboring Coney Island to their heart felt regret. Now Sea Gate is a mere shadow of things that might have been.

The third option - perhaps the mayor will rezone this property making it residential as he did for Mill Basin in Brooklyn. Thirty acres of housing - and more then likely, high density, hi-rise housing - must be self contained, with its own schools, police, fire and other public services, or, they would have to share our now saturated community facilities, (which, by the way, the megastores will do.) This thirty acre project - perhaps consisting of a dozen or so hi-rise buildings - would interpose itself between us and the Park. Also, more housing added to Forest Hills would simply pack us tighter, and not supply the stimulus or the rejuvenating effect that our revitalization program must have. Housing is preferable to megastores, but not by much.

Someone suggested that the property be bought by local churches and made into cemetery space. This is not a bad idea. Cemeteries are quiet, aesthetically pleasing green belts, far more preferable to megamalls or housing projects, however, a cemetery, by itself, does not provide the rejuvenation process we are seeking. And only some peccant cad would stoop to exploiting the dearly departed in order to save the community.

We have perused the problem, but not mentioned why art shoppers and megamall shoppers are not the same. Outside of the obvious differences - art shoppers behave more like tourists, gravitate to the area from afar, and have different spending patterns then mall shoppers, tending to frequent expensive restaurants, to purchase items of interest and beauty, things that are not among the necessities of life, items that are shipped home instead of carried away, and in general, are more laid back casual browsers instead of harried shoppers - megamall shoppers are uncontrollable, that is, their traffic flow is impossible to regulate. The industry itself is built on extremely high volumes of traffic, which it needs to turn a profit; pulsing crowds are their life's blood, the larger the crowds, and quicker the turnovers, the greater the profits. Crowds of mall shoppers will come and go in constant waves, from every direction, day and night, without the community being able to influence in the slightest the volume of traffic. Not so with art shoppers and tourists. Since there is no mass transportation in the area, (though reopening our rail link to Kennedy Airport can be beneficial for the art business, and just another nail in our coffin as a supply line for megamall shoppers) and the amount of automobile traffic that a cultural facility would attract is less then a tenth of the megamall traffic, but the average sale in local shops could be many times greater, it behooves facility management to institute a controlled flow of traffic. I point again to the lessons of Italian history, specifically, the fishing village with the dredged up statue. The world will beat its own path to your front door if the attraction is unique; by controlling two factors - the quality of the collection, and local prices - crowd control becomes an exacting science. And, in emulation of the Florentines, unrivaled masters of world tourism, setting limits to the size of the visitors pool does not necessarily mean capping prosperity.

. . . .Ahhh, she's getting ready to sign off. . .well there goes my mind meld, but before we part, what do you think about replanting George Washington in St. John's Cemetery . . . wasn't he looking in this direction while taking the oath of office . . . Drat! I hear they encased Lincoln's body in concrete . . . and what's Grant doing all the way over on the east side . . . any body know where Disney's buried . . .his store's here on Austin Street . . .isn't it high time he became a New Yorker . . . well, there's the Russian Sailor's Dance, so ciao, cara mia, and to the rest of you . . . buona note.

June 21, 1996