My fifth year at the annual Village Halloween Parade. A spectacular event. See my previous postings for photos and information about the parade: Halloween Parade 2010, Halloween Parade 2009, Halloween Parade 2008 Part 1 and Part 2, Village Halloween Parade 2007 #1 and #2, Village Parade 2007 Preview, Village Halloween Parade 2006 , Halloween Parade 2006 Preview
Barry does not ask for much. He only wants to be known as the King of Accordion. But the media attention he has received spins him the way it wants, so to the media, he is the King of whatever works best to suit their needs, including the front man to a recent Occupy Wall Street march. A little spin or artistic license often makes a story more enjoyable to read – I have been guilty of that myself. My writing has evolved from the fact-reporting style of the news journalist to one that is highly personal, weaving in connections from my life experience that are triggered by the place, person, or thing which I write about.
Nonetheless, I do like to feel that I have neither misunderstood nor miscommunicated the feelings and thoughts of an individual subject. It is for this reason that on personal profiles, I often email a biographical inquiry and use excerpts so that you can read the subject’s own words, not my translation. I have also frequently recorded long meetings/interviews. I make these available as well.
Barry Hamadyk, currently a Brooklyn resident, hails from New Jersey. Barry has played accordion since he was 5, and it is this love that he endeavors to communicate by attracting people with his regal garb. He can be found in the parks of New York City and is a habitue of Washington Square Park, sitting on a bench for passersby while recordings of accordion music play continuously. His preferred repertoire are waltzes and rhumbas. At one time he played organ for roller skating rinks.
Barry found that as his wardrobe became more outlandish (along with his Nordic look), the more attention he got. Once a crown was added, response went through the royal roof. This organic transformation has evolved over the last 5 years. Although, at a surface level, one may see Barry as someone akin to our friend Mark Birnbaum (with a shared passion for music), the motivations for the flamboyant dress are actually quite different, as are the men and their backgrounds.
Being referred to as the King of New York rather than the King of Accordion is not Barry’s only dismay with a news article recently written. It also was reported that “he gets a lot of money, too, without much effort.” However, Barry neither really solicits money nor collects it.
I spoke with Barry for quite some time and found him extremely forthcoming and congenial. If you meet Barry in the parks of New York, say Hi and remember, he is the King of Accordion 🙂
Related Posts: The Conductor
I don’t relish the job of creating a name for a rock group. In the world of naming, much like the perennial complaint of women about available men, it often feels like “all the good ones are taken.” Some group names are enigmatic. Others, such as Leftöver Crack and Transgendered Jesus, give a strong impression, and seeing them in person confirms any preconceived notions that WYTIWYG – what you thought is what you get. Why do I say that?
Meet cofounder of Transgendered Jesus, Anne Hanavan, a recovered East Village drug addict and prostitute. Hanavan hails from Buffalo, New York, and came to NYC in the 1980s to attend Fashion Institute of Technology. However, a cocaine habit was followed by heroin addiction. Her career as prostitute began at the downtown strip club, Pussycat Lounge, where she was originally employed as a bartender, then went on to dancing and turning tricks. This eventually evolved to streetwalking on East 12th St. and Allen St. for 8 years.
Anne cleaned up her drug habits and built her life back up, worked various jobs, and later made a foray into short films, taking film classes at NYU. The films deal with themes of growing up Irish Catholic, sex work, drug addiction, and punk rock, and are often sexually explicit.
The group name, Transgendered Jesus, is certainly provocative. In an interview in Artvoice, Anne says:
A transgendered friend of mine had posted a crazy link on Facebook to some transgendered Jesus site, and I thought it was fantastic. It summed up everything I’m about: making your own choices, believing whatever you want to believe, and that nothing has to be black and white.
I did peruse a few websites, and it was clarified that the concept of a transgendered Jesus is not to be associated with sexual orientation, only disposition. I came across statements such as:
Jesus’s feminist politics worked in tandem with his transgendered disposition.
Jesus’s Transgendered Disposition Always in Plain View!
In flesh, Jesus was the Son of Man but, in spirit, the Daughter of Mary.
The group’s shows have elements of performance art, reflecting Anne’s background as an artist and filmmaker. The show I saw was in Tompkins Square Park – the outdoor environment was not conducive to the full range of performance elements, including custom video projections, etc. that I understand often accompany their shows. But the music was loud, brash, angry, and not for mainstream tastes. But neither is the image of a Transgendered Jesus 🙂
Related Posts: WYSIWYG, False Assumptions, Piercing Al Fresco
On May 15, 2008, I wrote Mesmerized about my childhood fascination with fire. On April 29, 2009, in Little Stuff, I told of my play with bottle rockets as a young adult. In And You Can’t Make Me, I recounted my short-lived defiance of my father while playing with matches.
What I haven’t told is how playing with matches led to a fire. While playing in a field behind a Howard Johnson restaurant with a childhood “friend,” I was egged on by said “friend” to get more aggressive in the lighting of grasses. Unfortunately, this led to a small fire which quickly grew beyond our control to be large enough that a firetruck was called. Through some good fortune, I was never implicated; I recall watching the blaze and firemen with my mother from our front stoop, she not realizing that I was the perpetrator.
As part of the product line for my business, I sell many articles used for fire juggling and spinning. Some of my customers use these products just recreationally, while others use them more seriously as professionals in performance. And some, like Chris Flambeaux, have turned fire into a lifestyle.
Chris has been a customer for over 20 years, and his interest in fire has evolved into creation of his performance troupe, Flambeaux Fire. The extravaganza features everything on fire: an aerial act, fire fan manipulation, fire poi swinging, and brandishing of an array of headpieces and other torch accoutrements. Performers work on stage, within circles of fire, and also on stilts, walking through the audience:
Chris hails from Scotland; his Scottish accent is only one of many weapons in his arsenal of charm. Always friendly, accommodating, and courteous, a visit by him and a look at his work just illustrates how flames are not necessarily destructive or evil. In the hands of Chris Flambeaux, we see the beauty and can Smile by Fire 🙂
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Although well acquainted with Webster Hall, in 40 years of living in New York City, I had yet to step inside the place.
Webster Hall is one of New York City’s most historically and culturally significant large nineteenth-century assembly halls. The building, at 125 East 11th Street, was designed by architect Charles Rentz, Jr. and constructed for Charles Goldstein in 1886-87, with an eastern Annex in 1892.
Webster Hall was the first nightclub in the United States. It has gone through numerous incarnations since its construction and currently serves as a nightclub, concert hall, corporate events center, and recording venue. It has a capacity of 2,500 people.
My first visit was on Sunday for the QAS – Quarterly Art Soirée. This extravaganza takes places on all four floors of the space over the course of an entire day, from 3PM to 11PM. There were visual artists throughout the space, along with performances on the stages and in the lounges – music, dance, singing, aerial acts, burlesque, and a big finale by Flambeaux Fire.
I was particularly impressed with the dress of many of the attendees and also with the masks of Stephan Keating – beautifully designed and crafted. The space was extremely comfortable, with attendees milling about, exploring the various art installations and performances. Overall, the event has a very festive feel. At one juncture, one of the staff members decided to wallow in a glitter spill on the floor, rubbing it over his face and rolling it, much as a rhino rolling in mud 🙂
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At my business, we have a showroom which adjoins our offices. The separation between the two is an open doorway and a windowed wall, so nothing is hidden from our clientele. We typically have various prototypes, samples, or products for evaluation in the office area.
Regardless of how much inventory or diversity we have in our showroom, invariably people will fixate on some sample in our office, craning and straining to see the object of their desire from the doorway and being careful not to overstep the demarcation between showroom and office. Upon inquiry, we inform them that the product is not for sale. Then the interest really escalates. On occasion, we have had begging, with the customer making the case that this is, in fact, exactly what they need.
The scenario is so common that it has become an inside joke in the office. I have suggested that we take sale merchandise and factory seconds from the showroom, move them into storage, display them a few at a time in our office area, describe them as special prototypes when asked, and raise the prices.
I have often seen a similar phenomenon on the streets of New York City, where a crowd gathers around a street vendor selling from a large bag. No one can see the contents, which fuels a burning desire in many to learn what is being sold. Once they see what is offered, most will leave immediately without buying. Like the morbid curiosity associated with the rubbernecking of highway accidents.
People just love the secret, the special, the private, and the undiscovered. At least the idea of such.
There is a very popular guide book called NFT (Not For Tourists), published for a number of cities, including New York City.
Trust me, this guide is for tourists.
Virtually no one really wants to see the things that are Not For Tourists. If you really want that, travel with me on a blistering hot summer Sunday to the industrial sector of Woodside, Queens. Specifically to 37th Avenue and 54th Street.
Here, you will find the Korean Church of Eternal Life. Notices are hanging from the door, graffiti covers the front, and the church property abuts what appears to be an abandoned diner surrounded by a barbed wire fence. All is adorned by overgrown weeds. You won’t find this church in your NFT guidebooks.
I don’t think you will find any churchgoers either. Actually, you won’t find anyone at all. It is Not For Sale. And, like Ozone Park, Willets Point, Hunts Point, and the Hole, the Korean Church of Eternal Life is Not For Tourists 🙁
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We live in a time when there is a perception that you can find everything on the Internet. Shopping, dating, socializing, employment, video, film, TV, music, travel arrangements, reviews, activity listings, books, and massive information. Certainly it is one of the most transforming technologies in humankind.
However, from a different perspective, it is only a tool to better the human condition and facilitate those things that humans love to do. Many still do not use the Internet at all, and others feel that it is a crippling, not enabling, technology. Some who hold these beliefs are quite young – not just old curmudgeons, as one might expect.
Even in New York City in 2011, there is an underground world of people, places, and things which can not be learned about via the Internet or any way other than by being personally connected. These things are cultish by nature, and the lack of information, either printed or electronic, is part of the allure and a necessary condition for participants to find authentic. A corollary will be, of course, the lack of marketing hype or any commercialization whatsoever. Although well-known at this point, the Burning Man festival very much embodies this spirit.
What may come as a surprise to many is that there is a burning community in New York City that is alive and well, comprised of individuals who enjoy fire manipulation in all its forms – fire hoops, fire poi, fire staff, fire juggling. Gatherings are very much like flash mobs, occurring spontaneously on short notice with changing venues. Open fire is not legal in this city, so the nefarious nature of these gatherings is further understandable. They are typically late-night and often continue on into the wee hours of the morning. For many, 6 AM typically means it’s bedtime, not a time to wake up.
Last week, I was told of a burn that was to take place in a park in the far East Village along the East River. Aware of these burns for some time, I decided to make a visit. Performers took turns doing fire routines to a backdrop of vehicles whizzing by on the FDR expressway. There was no hierarchy, structure, or schedule. I lurked in the shadows taking photos and video – no problem, as others were doing the same.
I left early, at 11:15PM. The person that told me of the gathering arrived after that time and told me they burned until 6AM, wandering to other locations. Many of these participants were customers, and at one time, I may have been inclined to introduce and ingratiate myself. But I am wiser now, and although I was happy to be invited by a member of the community, I know I was only with them, not of them 🙂
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The 1980s saw one of the most memorable anti-drug commercials ever made: This is Your Brain on Drugs. It was short, direct and, many feel, effective. In it, a man held up an egg and said, “This is your brain,” then picked up a frying pan and added, “This is drugs.” He then cracked open the egg, fried the contents, and said, “This is your brain on drugs.” Finally, he looked up at the camera and asked, “Any questions?”
I have observed and socialized on occasion with a few individual members of a group of crusties, who have now begun to make home in one particular area of Washington Square Park. For many young people, the nihilistic lifestyle is seductive. Most are severely addicted to drugs such as heroin and are on methadone programs. I have seen many drug addicts sleeping in a severely slumped type of position on a park bench in New York City, like that in today’s photo.
On July 8 and 12, 2011, I published a two-part story featuring crusties and Morgan Maginnis ( see Part 1 here). In the photos and video interview, Morgan had a certain charm. She said she had two college degrees at age 23. But all is not well with her. She has violent outbursts and manic episodes, hits others, and has been hit herself in what appears to be a popular recreation among crusties. Morgan always seems to be bleeding somewhere.
This was Morgan. Today, we have Morgan on Drugs. Any Questions?
(see Part 1 here)
“Brian only speaks the truth.”
Around 1973, I answered an advertisement for a freelance carpenter (see Part 1 here) to work on a retail store restoration on 3rd Avenue in the 20s. I arranged to meet and interview with Max, the new shop owner. For some reason, he took an immediate liking to me with an inexplicable level of confidence, in spite of my lack of experience.
In the course of the interview, he became fixated on knowing whether or not I had ever fallen on my head. His assertion was that this typically opened a person’s “third eye,” apparently something he was looking for. I decided to play my cards carefully and responded in a vague enough manner to let him believe what he wanted. I was immediately hired and soon promoted to be in charge of the entire construction project – something I was clearly not qualified for in any way. No matter, however, since this project was to derail rather quickly.
I was introduced to the workers as their boss and that my word was to be followed without question. Max asserted that I could be trusted implicitly because “Brian only speaks the truth.” Apparently, this was a function of my 3rd eye being opened.
The entire project was the intersection of whimsy, folly, and insanity. After completion of one interior wall, Max decided a curved wall would be more to his liking. I was told to have the wall ripped out and to begin the construction of a curved wall.
Max always carried an attaché case. On one occasion, he took the time to make a very important announcement. If we ever were to notice his attaché case left behind accidentally, we were to take possession and contact him immediately. We were informed that he typically carried $10,000 in cash. He snapped open the case and revealed neatly bundled and stacked $100 bills. WOW. I had never seen that kind of money.
But most curious and odd was his possession of a book with a hole in it, which apparently contained arcane knowledge. From time to time in conversation, he would brandish the small black tome and speak to me while looking through the hole. Once, he said, “I was on a plane returning from Amsterdam, reading my book with the hole in it …” As he said this, he would lift his book and peer at me through the hole. I desperately wanted to see the inside of that book. Perhaps it contained the answers to life’s deepest and darkest mysteries. I was never allowed to look inside, nor did the book have any title or markings.
At one point, I came down with a severe flu and decided to tell Max in person that I would be out of work for several days. I met him at his apartment in Manhattan. When I arrived, his family was seated at a table, eating dinner. He was completely naked, head to toe, casually eating fried chicken. His wife and children were clothed. When I told him of my condition, he said that it was easily cured – I only needed to take 1000 milligrams of vitamin C per hour.
The project quickly went under, and I was owed $400. One day, I was called by a coworker, who said that Max was at the store with his attaché case and that if I wanted my money, I should get there quickly. I jumped in a taxi, a luxury I rarely indulged in. I arrived and told Max he owed me $400. He said that when I had the exact numbers for him, he would pay me. I told him the numbers were exact. He opened his case and gave me $400 in cash. I returned home and felt rich, drawing from that stack of money for living expenses for some time.
The last I heard of Max was when the same coworker called and said Max had last been seen lying in the street on 3rd Avenue, singing Delta Dawn (a big hit at the time) and stopping traffic. An ambulance had picked him up and he had been placed in a psychiatric institution. I will never know what lay in the pages of The Book With the Hole In It …
Note: I recently located Samuel Weiser Books in York Beach, Maine, one of the largest dealers of occult books in the world (previously located in Manhattan). I called and spoke to someone very knowledgeable. I described this book with a hole in it. He assured me he was familiar with virtually every occult book, that he had never heard of such a book, and that it was highly unlikely that such a book on an occult or spiritual subject existed.
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In the early 1970s, I worked as a freelance carpenter. At the time, numerous small agencies existed for small jobs – some only requiring a day or even several hours of work. Jobs were immediate and plentiful. Virtually no experience was necessary. Of course, better skills, feedback from clients, and reliability all factored into getting more and better jobs from the agencies.
Those who were ambitious could parlay their experience and get affluent clients, repeat work and even very long assignments with great perks. One friend managed to get a position for months at a time as handyman at the Connecticut country home of a New York City resident. His employment included living at their country home for what essentially amounted to an all-expense-paid summer vacation with added pay. Affluent clients were typically quite generous and appreciative of those willing to do skilled and unskilled labor and indulge their whims and fancies.
There was no screening of clients beyond a job description and the ability to pay. One burly gentleman had me build a loft bed with a staircase. He was particularly impressed with his own physical prowess, and he repeatedly asked me for assurance that the staircase would be wide enough for him to climb and that my construction would support the vigorous sexual activity of a heavy, powerful man and would not collapse. I used extra bolts.
However, I was to learn that when exposed to a populace as large as New York City, clients like the burly man were really nothing extraordinary. To do this kind of work was to enter the homes and personal lives of New Yorkers. Many were unabashed, revealing their habits, lifestyle and needs.
Nothing, however, could prepare me for one assignment so bizarre that it strains credulity. Trust me – this real New York City tale is 100% true and is an adventure I like to call The Book With the Hole In It…
See Part 2 here.
Other Related Post: Never Cut a Board
I can’t imagine a subject deeper, thornier, more impassioned, more complex, and more contentious in New York City than anything involving Judaism or Israel.
So, if you want to INFLAME some New Yorkers, set up in Times Square and claim to be the only authentic descendants of the ancient Israelites.
Then, bring a chart showing a correlation between the Biblical 12 tribes of Israel and various groups in the Americas:
Judah — Black Americans
Benjamin — West Indians
Levi — Haitians
Simeon — Dominicans
Zebulun — Guatemalans, Panamanians
Ephraim — Puerto Ricans
Manasseh — Cubans
Gad — Native American Indians
Reuben — Seminole Indians
Asher — Colombians, Uruguayans
Naphtali — Argentines, Chileans
Issachar — Mexicans
Most New Yorkers have encountered groups of Black Hebrew Israelites, have written them off as extremists, and are unfettered by their presence as well as unwilling to waste time engaged in verbal war with them. Others, perhaps neophytes like a woman I saw there, were infuriated – she was asking everyone she could find to define Jewish and if any of these individuals fit the definition.
In New York City, whether you encounter those who Got Religion, see a Street Revival or someone Mad as Hell (see here and here), everywhere you turn, someone wants you to share their passion or their fury. There’s a war on the streets of New York and it’s a War for Your Mind…
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Part 2 (see Part 1 here)
I had hoped to learn a little more about Morgan and her background. In a way, one could say I had made her acquaintance. When I approached her lying in the grass on Sunday, greeting her with “Morgan Maginnis,” she jumped and ran as if she had seen the devil incarnate. It took some conversation and persuasion to convince her that I was the man who had photographed her only a few days earlier.
She told me a little about her past – that she was from Los Angeles and that her parents had died from a combination of alcohol and an auto crash. She said that she was a college graduate with two degrees and has a job in demolition. I was told that she had just been featured in Vice Magazine and that this was her big break. Her pet rat had already died.
I told her that I had written part one of a crustie story, that I was featuring her and that I had referred to her as “cuddly and disgusting.” I hoped she was not insulted, but it was my honest reaction to having her arms encircle me from behind while correcting an email address. She was charming, cute and filthy all together.
She and her friends laughed and found it an apt description. One said that they were all disgusting. Perhaps, in her world, cuddly, even with a qualifier, was quite a complement, because she seemed rather pleased, repeating the phrase several times to her friends.
On Sunday, however, things took a turn for the worse. I looked for Morgan to speak to her and glean a few more details of her life. When I found her, she was crying and recounting her day. Trying to get more drugs to supplement her methadone. Food stolen, as well as other incidents common to the homeless. Morgan is clearly angry and frustrated.
A confrontation with a black man spun out of control. She grabbed his bag, throwing it at him as well as away from them. She accused him of being like other blacks who had raped her. The ranting, vulgarity and drama escalated. She was running through the park, screaming and throwing things. Bystanders were running scattershot in fear of being a victim. I was wary myself. Although the acting out was largely drama, Morgan is not incapable of inflicting bodily harm and I learned that she has been arrested numerous times.
Like those who naively believe they can domesticate a wild animal, I left feeling a little foolish, thinking that a relationship approaching normalcy could be had with a drug addicted crust punk. I had descended to the bottom, and I am saddened by what I see there. Drugs are unforgiving, and their allure is a cruel mirage. It’s a world of false promises of peer respect and the charm of nihilism and anarchy.
The future is dim for these individuals, and their lives will likely be quite short. No one wants to invest time in fanning dying embers. They are the trash of contemporary society and the only talk I hear is where to relocate them. They are filthy, disgusting, and violent, so get them away from here. Only the sanctity of human life and the 5th/6th Commandment prevents many from suggesting the simplest solution while asking the rhetorical, Crusties are People Too?
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Christian Meets Chaucer and Crusties
Let’s create an impossible scenario. Start with a Bible-thumping preacher standing on a small stool, screaming scripture aloud in a park using amplification. The police arrive after a noise complaint by a hostile man with a long white beard and hair – the incarnation of Mr. Natural ala R. Crumb. He also complains that he does not believe the preaching is biblically accurate (not an arrestable offense). The preacher informs the police that there is case law that says preaching with amplification is not illegal and that only volume can be regulated. He looks for the court ruling on his iPhone and will fax it to the police precinct. The police back off.
Another preacher begins, his voice volume greater than that generated by the small amplifier used previously. Simultaneously, a young man is reading loudly from a text, directed at the preacher. I cannot recognize the language – I assume it is a religious text, perhaps in Hebrew and ask him about it. He is an English literature student and is reading the Canterbury Tales in the original Middle English at full volume. It’s a war of words…
A crust punk eating potato chips takes an interest in the Canterbury Tales and stands near the student, following the reading. Another crusty in bright orange hair joins them and eagerly introduces her newly acquired pet rat to the student. Christian meet Chaucer with crusties. It is like a family reunion.
I become too friendly with the crusties, particularly the one with orange hair. I ask if she minds if we take photos. She grants my wish, and my photographer friend Bill and I go into overdrive, shooting away. I learn that the woman’s name is Morgan Maginnis. She is very nice, as is her friend, Hays. I ask her a few questions and I videotape her. They give me their email addresses. I am both warmed and disgusted when she wraps her arms around me from behind and takes my pen to clarify one letter in the email address. She is cute, cuddly and very dirty.
Late that night, I run across Morgan, Hays and a group of their friends several blocks from the park behind a luxury highrise apartment building. They recognize me. I stop, say hello and chat. One has an iPhone and asks me to take group photos of them. I take photos with my own camera and assure them that I will email them photos. I ask them direct questions about sex and drugs. They give me direct answers. Are we becoming friends now?
Crusties have been a big problem in the parks. They have been unruly, troublesome, belligerent, drug addicted, homeless, typically jobless and leave garbage strewn everywhere with a virtual campsite in Washington Square Park. You’re not supposed to like them. But I learn that Crusties are People Too…
Note: In Part 2, we get a little closer to Morgan through text and video.
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Emotive forces play a large part in our lives, often trumping the “sensible.” We eat too much or the wrong foods, date the wrong people, choose careers with dim prospects, buy things we don’t need. New York City has its own brand of impractical indulgences – driving in SUVs and living with huge dogs in small apartments.
Seeing a New Yorker with a Great Dane, Mastiff, Great Pyrenees or Irish Wolfhound is not as rare an occurrence as one might expect. New Yorkers like to think big, and dogs are no exception. However, everything about these critters is big – size, weight, smell, hair, food consumed, excretions and slobbering. Many weigh more than their owners, as I imagine is the case in today’s photo. A large dog dominates an apartment space. Many describe the experience as living with a roommate.
In 2004, the New York Times ran a story, Rooming With the Big Dogs; 140-Pound City Pets and the People Who Love Them. Parts of the story were incredible, others bordering on the hysterical. The Times story tells of a married couple, Barry Kellman, his wife Shane, and their English mastiff, Brutus. During her pregnancy, Shane threw the dog out. Determined to keep him, Barry began boarding him. As costs mounted, he rented an apartment for Brutus at $1800 per month. From the article:
To meet Brutus is to appreciate the challenge of living with him. He slurps water from his bowl like a horse at a trough. He urinates with considerable force and stamina. ”This goes for about 15 minutes,” said Paul D’Amato, the doorman of his building. ”He’s a tank.”
Brutus also drools constantly: when he walks, saliva swings like a pendulum. When he shakes his head, it flies onto the walls, the front door, Mr. Kellman’s clothes (the dry cleaning bill is about $400 a month), and in places not to be believed.
”Every now and then you’ll see something hanging from the ceiling,” said Mr. Kellman. He once found it in his shoes. But Brutus’s charm is undeniable. His trusting eyes and massive head bring to mind E.T., the extra-terrestrial.
When his marriage ended, Kellman moved into Brutus’s apartment. It must be a case of love and marriage, because I just could not deal with all that Drooling and Slobbering 🙂
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The Story of Mark Birnbaum, Part 2 (see Part 1 here)
I know what you are asking because everyone I know has asked the same things, as I have. I have now spent a total of about six hours in conversation with Mark.
Would you like everything you believe about people brought into question? Do you feel you are a good judge of people? If so, do not come with me into the world of Mark Birnbaum. To be with Mark Birnbaum is challenging and disturbing. To spend time with him will impose a shift in thinking. There is just no way around it.
On my first meeting (Part 1 of this story), I tactfully asked Mark about his background. He was immediately forthcoming. The biggest surprises were his educational achievements. I asked for a follow up interview, anywhere there was a piano. He generously offered to meet in his home. I recorded our entire 3 hour conversation together and video recorded some of his piano playing.
I met him at his home on East 48th Street Sunday afternoon at 2:30 PM. He was on time, waiting for me in the lobby of the doorman building he lives in. My first thoughts were to corroborate his claims and ask about this in as tactful a manner as possible. The New York Times had already done a story on Mark, so I asked if they had questioned his claims. He said absolutely – they had done their homework. When I suggested that I might also want to see evidence, he readily agreed. He volunteered that people can say anything and that I should ask for such things.
He showed me his college diplomas, the purchase contract and proprietary lease for his apartment and his birth certificate showing his birth in Switzerland in 1952 (where he lived for just three years before returning with his parents home to their home in Brooklyn, New York). He allowed me to photograph any documents that I wanted to. I asked direct questions, he gave direct answers. It was refreshing.
In 1974, Mark graduated Summa Cum Laude from Brooklyn College. He then applied and was admitted to Columbia University, where he obtained a masters degree in one year. He spent about an year and a half in Paris and on his return, he reentered Columbia, where he received his PhD in music composition in 1982. Mark also successfully made all the hurdles for admission to Juilliard, one of the most difficult schools in the world to gain entry to. However, at the time of his admission, there was only one vacancy in musical composition and he was not chosen.
I spent much of our time together multi-tasking. As I listened closely and we conversed, I simultaneously searched for evidence of lunacy or some serious psychological disorder. I could find none. His home, which I expected to be a shrine to squalor, befitting the artist eccentric, was nothing of the sort. It was extremely tidy and minimalistic, with his Yamaha baby grand piano as centerpiece.
Not yet knowing about his work and career as a musical performer, I was very curious about his source of income. I was surprised that he owned his own apartment. He had already told me, “I know how to play the game.” I was to learn that he had.
Mark grew up in Brooklyn. His interest in music started at an early age with a focus on piano. He was for a time a rock and roll drummer and played in a band. His interest in musical genres spans the gamut – classical, rock, blues, jazz, country and the area of his particular interest, ragtime.
Mark has worked successfully as a performer and teacher in his adult life. He had the typical assortment of odd jobs prior to his days as a student, when he worked as a bartender. From 1989 to 1993, he was musical host on the Joe Franklin TV show. At Manhattan’s 13th Street Theater, he had a weekly show “Hot Piano! Ragtime Blues and Jazz” – five months running. From that time, Mark has worked in music as performer and teacher. See his other credits, music, videos, and bio at his website here.
I was rapidly losing ground on my initial assessment of this man. At times I felt my sanity was coming into question, not his. Here was a man who was cordial, brilliant, insightful, generous of spirit, gentle, open, talented, articulate and well educated. Apart from his manner of dress, he was normal by any definition. But to spend substantial time with a man dressed this way while having an extraordinary conversation was very disorienting – I was suffering from a severe case of cognitive dissonance. Mark also gone through many incarnations regarding look, as can be seen in my collage of photos from his archives. I asked if he expected that he may reinvent his dress some day, and he said most likely.
We shared so many insights and connections, it was eerie. We had numerous instances of nearly finishing each others sentences. I also share one of Mark’s passions, that of walking the streets of New York City. It is one of the most important parts of living in this city to me. You may see Mark around town walking in his very slow, deliberate, signature cadence. Mark sees his long daily walks as “integral to his playing, teaching and composing, a tie to New York’s street vibe.” From the New York Times:
“The street is my inspiration, and if you want to remain immersed in New York you have to walk its streets. I’m a New York street guy, and Manhattan has the best energy in the world.”
Mr. Birnbaum said he realized the musical importance of the daily walk after meeting the immortal ivory tickler Vladimir Horowitz who told him, “Make sure you walk 40 blocks a day, because if you don’t walk, your fingers don’t run.”
Mark told me of his influences. One of his life mentors is Bill Schimmel, whom I saw perform, met and wrote a story about (see The Redeemer here). Mark cited several other major influences – Vladimir Horowitz (whom he met) and Artur Rubenstein.
Ah, you still have the lingering question – “Why does he dress that way?” Let Mark respond:
Perhaps my purpose in dressing the way I do is to spread joy (cheer people
up). When someone sees or says something negative—they are not seeing me…
Or speaking about me. Perhaps I am a mirror or magnifying glass (like Socrates).
I asked Mark if he was gay. He said no. I asked about his ability to find a partner, dressed as he is:
My manner of dress is a plus in meeting a partner as far as I know.
It is a screening process; if someone doesn’t “get it” (like it or appreciate
it), she would not appreciate me where it counts.
Mark goes on to say:
This dress code is an outer manifestation of who I am: an apostle of
freedom, Zen and Socratic/Orwellian thought).
Dress Code helps me practice piano, listen, study Zen and the Art of War and
is done out of self-respect. I respect others as such.
I dress this way every day– once I am up, whether I am going out in an
hour, later that day, or (very rarely) staying in. When I had a cold months
ago and didn’t go out one day. I dressed the same way.
More a uniform than a costume.
People see what they like (about themselves) or see what they don’t. It’s less about me than them.
Some see rock n roll: Elton John, David Bowie, Aerosmith or Kiss–the ’70’s.
Some see religious significance, spirituality, Shamanism or royalty.
Some think I am a pimp.
Some don’t see at all.
I never explain it much; it would be like explaining jazz.
One has to experience it, be with it.
And….People hear what they see; everyone has their own window.
I know – you’re not quite satisfied. But then this is New York City where there are not only many wonderful and miraculous things, but there are many puzzles and enigmas too. It’s a place where we expect the unexpected. Isn’t that why you’re here?
Thanks, Dr. Mark Birnbaum, for a look inside your window…
Note: From a recent email conversation with Mark on June 21, 2011:
Hi Brian.
Fabulous article keeps getting better!
Yes, I walk to the village and back.
When we met on Houston St, that’s often as far south as I go.
Bill Schimmel says hello and loves your blog,-calling it the best! … (he) considers your article on me the next best thing to being in the NY Times, and that it is the best blog he has seen anywhere.
I agree with him.
I’ll see you soon—on one of our walks.
View Mark’s Youtube channel, Flickr photostream, and website here.
Other stories from Abandon All Preconceived Notions series: Gaby Lampkey (see here and here), Jenn Kabacinski (see here and here), Driss Aqil
Other Interesting Individuals: Ferris Butler (see here and here), Professor Robert Gurland (see here and here), Susan Goren, Creative Expert Criminal Suspect, Misfits, Jim Vehap, Walid Soroor, Flamboyant, Street Revival, André (see here and here), Dave, Reverend Billy, Narcissism Gone Wild, Spike
