About New York in the Nineties, there could be a lot to say. There could be, if Manhattan for me was more than a series of near-misses. Something big almost happened for me in Manhattan, a number of times, as a writer and an artist, but in the end, nothing really coalesced. All of which means that I have to cut against a number of conventional grains to tell my story the right way. Where and how it was that, over the course of the twentieth century, New York was able to take a formidable lead over Philadelphia culturally on the East Coast, I know. It's a tangled story, and it involves the government, the racier, nastier parts of Europe, and the will of the founding fathers. Not to mention, also, what has been built into New York as an ultimate purpose from the beginning. It's not a nice purpose. But suffice it to say, the true-blue writer, uncorrupted by willingness to dilute himself in any way to express himself, has always been persona non grata in New York. That's me. Whatever ground was broken for me in Manhattan at the end of the Nineties, would have to be the kind of sideways and backwards ground that expressed something inessential, incidental, if also intriguing to some. Thus, what I now have on Art Recess 2. Abby has to come up, but here I speak for myself, not Abby. Time will tell what records were kept to really understand what Abby thought of her home town. My home town too, sort of: I was born in Manhattan. Or, rather, I arrived in New York, on February 7, 1976.
No comments:
Post a Comment