Day: April 5, 2014

I met Stephen Malone at the Clinton Park Stables on Wednesday, we rode together in his carriage pulled by his horse Tyson, I told him I liked his office very much, and he smiled, turning to me, the sun glinting off his polished top hat. I felt for the people jammed in all of those towers looking down on us.

Lots of the drivers had top hats, but nobody looked as spit-spot as Malone, he is old school, he cares about style and appearnce. A big, genial Irishman, it would be easy to underestimate Malone, but that would be a mistake. He is open while still being cautious, he is honest without being foolhardy, his easy-going manner belies a man whose feet are firmly on the ground and who possesses a shrewd sense of power and politics. He always knew what to say, and never said the wrong thing.

Just as the carriage horse controversy is about much more than horses, Malone is much more than a driver, he has become the figurehead and spokesperson for the carriage trade as they battle the mighty armies gathering around them – the mayor, the City Council President, the A.S.P.C.A., the Humane Society of the United States, a millionaire animal rights ideologue  with millions of dollars to give to politicians and an angry and obsessive army of followers, a slew of celebrities saying very strange things about the horses, and some billionaire real estate developers hovering like vampires over the stables: once on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen, now in the middle of the hottest real estate market in New York City.

Malone has some allies also. The powerful Teamsters Union – the union began representing horse carriage drivers –  Liam Neeson, a vast army of horse and animal lovers all over the country who are appalled at the campaign against the carriage horses and, according to the latest survey, three out of every four New Yorkers. He also, he says, has a lot of supportive City Council members, he won’t say how many.

Still, those are pretty powerful odds for a bunch of working-class immigrants who like to ride horses around Central Park – I have not encountered any millionaires around the stables – but if Malone is frightened or discouraged, he has learned how to hide it.  The drivers come from everywhere, but there is an Irish streak in the carriage trade. I have many Irish friends, and have written about many Irish politicians and writers in my career, and there is one thing that every single one of them has in common – they are happy to fight, used to fighting, and the bigger the odds, the happier and more joyous the fight. The Irish have been fighting powerful armies and enemies forever, it is almost routine for them, even if it is never pleasant.

I love my rides in the horse carriages, I am embarrassed that I always saw them as something tourists from Iowa and Japan did, not urban sophisticates like me. My carriage rides have opened my eyes to the city in a new and sometimes magical way. The clip-clop of the hooves on the road seems to invoke some ancient and timeless feeling, and from the park, I have the time and perspective to see the skyscrapers in a way I have never seen them before, they rise up above the trees and meadows like mystical cliffs, the majesty and power and history and promise of the city is revealed. I see the gargoyles and cornices and water towers, the hawks diving after pigeons, the gold leaf gleaming in the sun.

I noticed that Tyson, like the other horses I have seen in the park, doesn’t need to be told where to go. Malone, like the other drivers, holds the reins but as we moved up the West Side from the stables, Tyson seemed to sense the traffic, he stopped when the lights were red, started moving when they were green.

We walked past all kinds of noise and mayhem – grinding garbage trucks, screeching taxis, horn-honking angry commuters, utility crews with jackhammers, pile-driving cranes on construction sites, steam pouring out of excavation holes and manhole covers. Two fire engines with ear-shattering air horns roared past us on either side, Tyson didn’t flinch, even when I did. The horse seemed a lot calmer than many of the people around him. Most of the commuters ignored the horses, a lot of people waved at Stephen Malone, gave him the thumbs up, yelled at him to “hang in there.” I saw one or two people glower at us. I am always astonished that driving a horse drawn carriage is the most controversial job in New York City right now.

The only time Tyson snorted was when we past a cement mixer grinding away three feet from him, I am told that every equine in the world hates a cement mixer. Malone said something quietly to him and Tyson shook his head and moved on.

It’s odd but every time I ride in Central Park, I see a part of New York that I didn’t quite grasp and love even more – the people walking and running, the grand hotels, the towering West Side apartment houses, the gorgeous East Side museums, the famous shops, the contrails and clouds in the sky, the statues and paths and fountains of the park.  The park is a magnificent testament to the civic pride and promise of a great city, I walked in it a thousand times, until my carriage ride I never saw it at all. There is something quite wonderful about these calm and gentle animals, if the city leaders were awake, they might think of bringing the horses elsewhere in the city, there is no better or more meaningful way to see it – the pace, the simplicity, the open view. People feel good around them, they smile and wave to them, pull out their cameras and cellphones,  that is quite visible.

It was a beautiful thing to see when we broke into the open and trotted into the park, the quiet and peacefulness there was almost magical in contrast with the din of the city. I always thought riding in a horse drawn carriage was something of a cliche, this way of looking at the city,  but then I realized something I have noticed before, cliches are cliches because they are often so true. In the midst of the great cacophony, a great swatch of nature, a man in a top hat, a carriage, a big and beautiful horse, a world almost shockingly in balance.

“Do you think you will prevail?,” I asked Malone.

“Yes, I do,” said Malone, “I am certain of it.”

“Why?,” I asked him.

I could see that he had been waiting for the question.

First, he said, because we are telling the truth. Secondly, he said, because the people against us are so arrogant and the people of New York are on our side. And finally, he said, because of the horses. They belong here, they always have and they always will.

The bike race felt controlled and a bit cold to me. The bikers travel in packs, led front and back by cars with flashing lights and referees inside. For most of the race, the bikers stay together and I guess somebody breaks out towards the end. There are always some lonely stragglers well behind the pack. The races came every ten minutes and will continue tomorrow (George Forss and I are going to the Hyde Museum to see the Ansel Adams exhibit there.) The bikers ride silently and concentrate intensely. It was cool and windy today, I don’t know if that made it harder or easier.

If I can, I’ll get up early and see if I can get some shots of them all setting up early in town. I liked this shot, I didn’t even see the flag flying from a mailbox across the street at first. This is what it felt like. Album on my Facebook page.

Every year at the beginning of Spring, my town, Cambridge, N.Y., is overrun by men and women in SUV’s and trailers with jazzy bikes attached, and all weekend there are people running around looking like colorful insects with colorful helmets, jackets, thin and pointed shoes and all kinds of expensive paraphernalia. The sport reminds me a bit of photography – it used to be a simple thing to ride a bike, now it is a high-tech eco-system, except that most photographers I know don’t look so trim and fit.

The race is called the “Tour Of The Battenkill” and it draws thousands of bicyclists and takes over this small town and many of the roads leading into it. People who sell hotel rooms and  food in town do a booming business, the other merchants grumble a bit that their normal customers can’t get anywhere near them. People like us are warned to stay away.  We can’t even go near the Round House Cafe, we have been told it will be jammed from dawn to dusk with hungry athletes and their families. My friend Scott looks like dracula, he hasn’t slept in days.  The town is awash in skinny people with big leg muscles and in tents selling all kinds of stuff.

The race is strange for me, as I am alienated from most sports, with the occasional exception of baseball, and then I am a sort of detached Yankee fan, which has nothing to do with the real world. I am always a bit mystified at why these people dress up like this and race around for miles. They look strange to me.

The ones I have met are nice and interesting, they are courteous and considerate, it is just not something natural to me. Just about every single resident of the town volunteers to help in some way –  drivers for referees, handing out water, directing traffic, selling food, escorting the bikers with their cars and motorbikes, standing by to change flat tires, shouting encouragement at the bikers.  I am outside the tent, as usual, I’ll be home reading tonight or blogging, I suppose I am a much bigger freak than any of them. Maria has no interest in bicycling, she won’t even look at my photos. Ambulances come from everywhere to stand by and there are troopers and deputies and local police everywhere, blocking off streets, redirecting cars, sitting around with flashing lights on their cruisers. Half the streets in town are roped off.

Cambridge is a place of great community, as I am learning, and I love the town for that. If it’s local, people are always there to help and support it. I am liking that, it is a powerful thing.

Today, watching all of the traffic pour into town,  I decided to test my photographic skills – and my new camera – by heading out and trying to capture the feel of the race in photos. A creative challenge. Maria had no interest in coming.  I called my friend Mandy the popular and highly regarded massage therapist in town,  and I asked her where to go to get good photos and she texted me instantly (she is serving in some official function, of course). She said I could go to her house – the races go right by there – and she suggested I go and sit by a covered bridge nearby and catch the racers as they come whizzing through. A good suggestion, I took it.

She texted me several times – no one confuses me for a local – to “be careful and be sure to stay the hell out of their way.” I think she imagined I would step in front of the racers with my big camera and either get run over or cause a massive collision and spin out. No need to worry, Red and I parked in her driveway and I set up my camera on a tripod – Red, angel that he is, lay down next to me and didn’t move as the bikers came by. Red can go anywhere and be calm, as long as sheep are not involved.

This was a photographic challenge for me, trying to capture something I don’t understand and don’t really get. There is something stirring about people who test themselves in this way, who work so hard for something, and when the bikes are moving, I admit they seem beautiful to me, especially the blurring of colors.  Sports are emotional and I have a big camera with  fast lens. I tried to catch the feeling of the race, not for me to decide if I did nor not. My friend George Forss considers each photo very carefully, I fire away like a madman. Ansel Adams would not be calling me up to rave about my photos. But I was happy with what I got. I’m putting up an album on Facebook. I tried out the automatic burst feature on my camera – 12 shots a second, and I was happy with it, I learned a lot about that kind of shooting.

I did some work in color, some in black and white, I hung out with a 10-year-old photographer named Timmy, he was doing some great work with his Iphone, and he and his Dad went and bought a bike this morning from one of the dealers selling stuff in tents on the town’s common. Dad was in the bike race. Timmy gave me some pointers on where to stand, I’m glad I am not competing with him. I like going out there, I learned some things and tried some things. I can’t imagine riding a bike around like that, I have a lot of admiration for those who do. Check out my Facebook album if you’d like.

 

Maria has the most beautiful face, the most radiant smile, her eyes sparkle with ideas and love, I rarely show her face in my photographs and it is a rare day that someone doesn’t message me about it or write me a letter asking why they can’t see more of her, why I so rarely show her face. So I think they deserve an answer as I am getting a lot of heat about it, which is fair enough. The question are always polite, and I don’t show my face in photos either, but I am interested to notice that almost no one has ever asked to see more of me, I think that speaks for itself.

There are several reasons I rarely show Maria’s face in my photographs. The big one is creative. I think Maria’s connection to the animals here is mystical, powerful. Like a lot of people, Maria is wary of acknowledging how much she loves our animals, all animals, how much they mean to her. Like many animal lovers, she is wary of being branded an animal nut or crazy person. She has been ridiculed much in her life, she is sensitive to it, I have perhaps contributed to it by squawking a lot about over-emotionalizing animals in my writing.

We both are animal nuts, look at our lives, we live with donkeys, sheep, dogs, barn cats and chickens. What sane person does that? I don’t want the photos to focus on Maria, I want them to focus on her connection with the animals, her speaking with them.

I also want to protect her privacy a bit, I admit. It is not simple living with someone like me, I always have a camera in my hand, I love taking photographs of her because I learned early on if you photograph the things you love, you will get good photographs. Maria doesn’t pose for photos and I don’t ask her too, so it is rare for her to be looking full-face at the camera. Once in awhile, I can get her to sit still for a portrait, I think it is important for both of us to do it once in awhile – me too. Today I let Maria photograph Simon and me, I am not comfortable seeing my face in photos either, but if you dish it out, you need to take it.

I have three horse friends on Route 313, I stop and talk with them and photograph them once a week or so, they always come up the fence – you can always tell when animals like horses are well-treated by people, they often have no fear and associate people with good things like attention and food. These three love the camera.