A Frank view of New York

(HARRISONBURG, Va.) —  When I look back on New York City, where I was almost a month ago, I see a blur of people, street food and jolting subway cars. It’s a happy blur now. But when I wrote my last blog posting about the city, I was at odds with it and couldn’t understand why. I still don’t completely, but the angst is gone and with it went the worry. Sometimes I come across some person or some place that challenges me in some deep way. I try hard to be cool around him/her/it, but the more I work it, the more I stick out. And the more I want to get it right. I usually don’t know who started the competition, only that I’m bound to lose it. I’m basically describing all my time in middle school here, but that’s a terrible comparison because unlike those devilishly painful years, my relationship to New York City had the grace to change near at the end. By the day I left, I was sad to go. I had finally forged a minor connection with the place. It just took me a little while to wake up and smell its possibility.

I remember the moment my attitude changed. It was like someone turned on the light, unexpectedly, in my mind, and all of a sudden the world was shining again. It was sometime in the afternoon on a weekday that wouldn’t stop raining. Because of the constant drizzle, I (and hoards of other people) had escaped into the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Everywhere I looked there was a crush of damp patrons, and for the first hour or so, I was overwhelmed and hungry. It was just a bad mood, but at the time I took it to mean more, as I was so desperately looking for a sign about New York. I wanted some unwavering sense, one way or the other, about it.

I wandered around, always going a way I hadn’t planned but realizing there was no point getting angry at my lack of directional sense, as everything was fascinating (Native American baskets? Dammit! I wanted Tibetan amour). There was only one thing I really had my heart set on anyway, and it was a photography exhibit by Robert Frank. I knew little of him, really. I was just hungering to see some photos that mattered.

Somehow, I navigated the floor plan and come up on the exhibit, and only then did I realize what I was actually about to see. It was a collection of the images he used in this book, The Americans — all 83 black-and-white photos, blown up to a pleasingly large dimension. Frank traveled around the country for two years in the 1950s while making this book, and when it was finally published, it included writing from Jack Kerouac. When this burst on the scene, the pictures’ blunt view of America had scandalized people.

I learned all that as I walked from photo to photo, each shown in the order they appear in the book. These aren’t happy pictures. They’re kind of bleak, with a hard edge and absolute lack of Americana-flavored romance. And yet, I loved them. As I circled the space, I made sure to give ample attention to each image. I read almost all the captions, and when I couldn’t understand a concept, I stood there and soaked in the words and photograph until I did. I was looking at an America I don’t really know anything about, one with rough cowboys and black nursemaids and old-school starlets, all looking a little lost. Even though people doing the same grand tour hemmed me in on most sides, everyone else in the room hardly existed to me. I shifted from image to image for what must have been an hour-and-a-half. I let them settle, slowly, into my system. I had been in New York for a week, and finally I had found something deeply personal in it.

There is so much to do and see in that city that it’s hard to choose one thing to care about, but once I did, it felt so right. As I left the exhibit, something in me was restored. The rest of my day felt better, looked better, tasted better. That evening, I shared beer and nachos with an editor with whom I had done some work months before. As she lives in New York (she works for Fodor’s Travel Guides), we had never met in person before, but it went well. She was friendly and real, and in turn, I felt like I was being myself, too. I looked at her life, as a young editor on the make and then at mine, as a young writer, traveling and looking for direction, I appreciated both these realities. I was absolutely impressed with the prestige of her job, and at the same time, I didn’t lose sight of what I’m doing.

A friend of mine recently said that maybe part of me wants to play with the big boys in the world journalism and publishing. Part of this is true. Part of me wants to settle down in a big city and gear down into making myself a somebody. But I can’t forget one of the huge differences between me and those up-and-coming artists that live and breathe New York City as they launch themselves into the world. To them, New York is home. But I can come to their city, take in it, and then leave. For me, right now, that’s beautiful.

I’d like to thank Robert Frank some of this clarity.

Me and Elizabet, one of my favorite couch surfing hosts to date.

Me and Elizabet, one of my favorite couch surfing hosts to date.

She pointed at the sign behind her which read "Don't Feed The Birds" and laughed. It's because of her, she said, that they put that warning up. She feed the pigeons every day.

She pointed at the sign behind her which read "Don't Feed The Birds" and laughed. It's because of her, she said, that they put that warning up. She feeds the pigeons every day.

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I had no idea I was hoping to see the Naked Cowboy until I did. I stood in his presence for several minutes, taking in the bravado and strangeness of him.

I had no idea I was hoping to see the Naked Cowboy until I did. I stood in his presence for several minutes, taking in the bravado and strangeness of him.

Keeping Times Square beautiful.

Keeping Times Square beautiful.

Unfortunately, this is as close as I got to seeing a taping of the Late Show.

Unfortunately, this is as close as I got to seeing a taping of the Late Show.

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Inside the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Inside the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

More of the Met.

More of the Met.

Jana and Rita, two sisters nice as can be, who chatted me up right when I need a good chat.

Jana and Rita, two sisters nice as can be, who chatted me up right when I need a good chat.

My old friends, David and Arielle and their little daughter, Olive. I swear that I have never seen a kid more full of energy. She was so awake. It bowled me over.

My old friends, David and Arielle, and their little daughter, Olive. I swear that I have never seen a kid more full of energy. She was so awake. It bowled me over.

Scarecrow contest, Central Park.

Scarecrow contest, Central Park.

Central Park, in a moment without rain.

Central Park, in a moment without rain.

Chinatown.

Chinatown.

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