July and August:

July is a blur.  I remember that friends visited, but other than that, I must have slept away most of that month–oh, and probably that’s when I read the novel Landfall, by Ellen Urbani, which I was assigned to review for Washington Independent Review of Books.

August was spent reorganizing my writing space, reminding myself of where I was in my various projects, and writing the review.  At this point,  My review has been turned in, edited, should be out soon.  Stay tuned.

The first time I headed down to Chinatown, I stepped into Henry Street Settlement Playhouse instead, and got to chat about the settlement house movement with David Garza, Henry Street’s Executive Director.

My father used to tell me about activities at Madison House–one of the settlement houses existing in New York in the early part of the last century. At the time, one could participate in the arts there–theater, dance, writing, painting, etc. (Now, combined with another settlement house to become Hamilton-Madison House, it tends more toward the provision of only basic social services.)  Hearing my father’s stories about the artistic stimulation provided for slum-dwellers in his days living on the Lower East side made me want to learn more about the settlement house movement with a view to how it might be adapted to today’s world.

I noticed Henry Street Settlement House on a map and set out to walk left on Grand street to visit it before heading east to Chinatown.  Fortunately, a native New Yorker directed me to the new Henry Street Settlement House–the playhouse–since the old one is now used as an administrative office and would have required a longer walk on a hot day to no purpose.

When I explained my interest to the two people I found inside, the man–Garza–said to the woman that he’d take care of what I was asking.  And he talked with me for at least 20 minutes, telling me about the current umbrella organization, United Neighborhood Houses, telling me that Hull House (in Chicago) has been closed, and explaining the difficulty of doing now what was done in my father’s day because gentrification has destroyed the cohesiveness that communities had back then.

I was very impressed by Mr. Garza.  Unlike many public faces of organizations, I strongly felt  his sincere concern was for what this movement is trying to do, not for the furtherance of his organization or himself.

I do hope to do research on this subject and write in greater depth about it (not necessarily on my blog).  This visit was meant to be a beginning.  Walking in off the street, I did not expect to get lucky enough to speak with someone at that level, and very much appreciate the time he took to do so.

Still, New York in June:

On one Sunday, I had a delicious lunch in Little Italy and then walked south on Mulberry Street, crossing Canal Street into Chinatown.  I angled my way through the tourist hordes until I got past them to a quieter street and came upon a small park.  (Columbus Park–I didn’t know the name at the time, but have since found it on a map.)

The park’s narrow, winding path was filled with various Chinese music groups, from small ensembles to small orchestras, most with singers– each singer armed with a body mic, all competing with each other at the top of their lungs in a space certainly no larger than DuPont Circle.  Their audiences sat on benches or stood along the sides of the path, listening.

The winding path let to a little plaza where an old man sat, with his stringed instrument, on the base of a statue of Sun Yat-Sen.  His instrument, like a cello, was one you set between your knees.  But the tuning knobs at the top of its long neck were much larger than on a western instrument and, unlike a cello, the long neck did not connect to a wide base but to a small canister-like box.

The man kept motioning for me to sit down beside him.  Finally, I did.  He immediately handed me his instrument and tried to teach me to play it.

When I drew the bow across the strings, it sounded like I was killing a cat.  My teacher pushed the bow down to the string’s base where it met the box, thus instructing me to pull the bow there.  He also changed the placement of my fingers on the strings.  I had been tentatively experimenting.  Some people stopped to watch.  Every time I pulled the bow across the strings, I’d start laughing because it sounded so terrible.

My teacher did not appear to speak English, and I’m not sure how much of it he understood.  But at one point, when I seemed to be catching on a little, I could have sworn he was asking whether I’d played an instrument before.  I told him that I had learned the viola when young, but that that was a very long time ago.

Eventually, I left, but I put a dollar in his cap, recompense for the lesson.

(P.S.  Although I thought, from the sound, that the music in the park was Chinese, I am not so knowledgeable about the music of different Asian countries, and could have been mistaken.)

Next time:  Henry Street Settlement House

In New York, there is always something interesting to the eye.
Ambling through Washington Square, what do I spy?

–On a Saturday in early June, a man playing classical music on a baby grand piano in the middle of the walkway:

Piano Man in Washington Square, quick sketch

“How did he get it here?” I ask an old woman sitting on a bench.  “He trucks it in,” she says.  “But that must cost a fortune,” say I.  “He probably has a special deal with the company,” says she, “he’s here every Sunday.”  But this is Saturday, I don’t say.

Meanwhile, jazz combos are playing at the four corners of the Square’s center.  On the plaza near the arch, the feet of a shirtless man are dancing while his fists punch the air.  I watch, wondering whether he is a mad man, but decide he is a boxer doing his work out in the fresh summer air.

— On Wednesday–same square–I sit on a bench, eating my lunch.  Across the square’s plaza, by the central fountain, one man stands with a video camera at the ready, another with a boom box at his feet and a large sign in his hands reading:  Dance to This Song.  (The song’s refrain, to an upbeat tune, goes:  I’ve got it, you’ve got it too, we’ve got the USA blues…)  As they pass, people respond.  Some, hesitant and self-conscious, just walk to the beat.  Others more extrovert, do a twirl before moving on; three pretty girls dance around for a few minutes, mugging for the camera. And one fellow gives a full performance, for which we all clap.

Washington Square is near New York University and the New School for Social Research, both of which have departments related to the performing arts.  Maybe that’s why people are less inhibited here.  But, I just don’t think you’d see this creative spontaneity in D.C., even near the universities, not even in DuPont Circle.  I think we’re too buttoned up, too concerned whether people will think us silly.  But I’d be happy to be proven wrong–if you’ve got a different perspective, write a comment.  Let me know where, here in D.C., one can find that playful sense of freedom.  Anybody out there?

More adventures tomorrow.