Terence paints the deck
This extraordinary conversion of our deck brought joy into my heart every single day I lived in this house. The artist was Terence Donovan, a long-time friend. I watched his projects change from intensely-observed photo realism to a much looser expressionist brush to gorgeous photos of nature and people. For a while he had a studio on Main Street in Cold Spring that was one of my Putnam County travel destinations; I'd always see something new
Color consultation was done with C, but the giant ohm symbol right outside the door was Terence conferring a decade of good luck on our home. The ohm required mixing each color on the fly as he painted, producing a slightly darker tone for each area inside the symbol; the overall effect was a subtle shadow that presented the symbol but never overpowered. What a gift!
The deck was rust-colored when we bought the place and had to be returned to that state when we sold it. We were afraid there wasn't much enthusiasm for this shock of color among potential buyers.
Tempest Oneby Terence Donovan
Just off the Old Albany Post Road in Garrison: field
At the house: Totoros! (Garrison)
First day (composite)
East Village: willows on 11 between B and C
This is the last of the fabulous neon that once adorned Jade Mountain, a Cantonese place that opened at Second Avenue and 13th Street in 1931. The James Whale Frankenstein was probably playing in theaters around the city, maybe even at one of the many places in the Yiddish entertainment district a few blocks south. The Chow Mein sign was the only thing left of the place when I passed by in 2010; it had closed in 2007 when owner Rggie Chan was killed in a bicycle accident while filling in for a delivery guy.
In 1941 Jade Mountain held a fund-raising lunch for refugees from the Spanish Civil War. Entertainment was provided by the Almanac Singers, a group that included future Weavers Lee Hays and Pete Seeger. It was Seeger's first paying gig. Years later I ran sound for him and Odetta at another fund-raiser, up at the University Settlement camp in Beacon, NY.
When I first moved to NYC in '79, Jade Mountain was one avenue block from where I was staying. It was the first place I dined in the city. The vibe was dusty and faded old New York, and I fell in love immediately. The booths had aged yellow vinyl and there were water stains on the walls and ceiling. Grime was deeply worked into the floor. No music played.
What perverse impulse then and now makes me prefer a place like this? Maybe it's that romantic idea of the real New York, always and forever roach-infested and falling apart, the kind of place that gets described in the vernacular as a joint.