No, the forests I looked out upon were not grown from things. They were made of things . They were the Con Edison smokestacks up on 14th. They were the water towers of the old buildings my parents had struggled to get out of into better housing. They were as normal as the sound of the subway They were my forest and my view.
They were my nature.
I still don't get trees. I mean, I like them and everything. They're nice to sit under and nice to walk under. They are very, very pretty to look at. But if you ask me to take out my camera and take a picture of one that tells its story, I'm lost.
No. What makes me whip out my camera in delight and awe and repeatedly look at the horizon in wonderment is steel and smoke and wood holding water and the millions of stories I told myself all the years I've stared out on them. ** Related Posts:
MY PRIVATE CONEY presents IT WAS HER NEW YORK, the short stories that accompany the work-in-progress video and photo collection of the same name (myprivateconey.com - media link - IT WAS HER NEW YORK). The stories and the media explore the tender rubble that holds both my mother, Florence's and New York's soul as one disappears into old age and the other into gentrification. All are real observations and/or experiences with very little tall-tale telling.
Except when it makes the story better.
Please visit myprivateconey.com for additional information and sample works.