What it Means to be From Brooklyn

I wanted to start this post saying that I do consider myself an authentic Brooklynite. I've lived in Brooklyn all my life (if only part-time because of my parent's divorce), in Carroll Gardens and Greenpoint and all the places in between. I went to Coney Island during the summers of my youth and hung out down in DUMBO before it changed faces. I think I can, if only now that I'm living on my own in Brooklyn, say that I am a true resident of this wonderful borough.

That being said, here's a little story and a few questions one can ask about this subject...

Saturday night, I ventured out to Williamsburg and to Union Pool for a friend's birthday. (M's birthday, to be exact, who is doing much better after her mugging, and hanging with the hipsters once more). If you haven't been to this bar/venue/hang before, I'd highly suggest going. I always find that the group of people hanging in the back courtyard area are interesting, eclectic and all out East-Williamsburg youth, though sometimes, you'd be surprised who's lurking in the corners...

Standing in the vicinity of my friend's birthday party group, my roommate and I were conversing about something that now alludes me (music, art, or ridiculous things our friends do could be a good bet), when two very NON-hipster/Williamsburg boys approached us with great fever and excitement. With drunken smiles and giggles, to boot. One had a shirt on that said "Pour, Favor", with a picture of a beer mug spilling over, and the other, a track jacket with some design shirt on underneath. Both spoke in thick Brooklyn accents, said they were from somewhere far out in Brooklyn, and confessed to never having been to Williamsburg before. And were wondering why there were so many gay guys in this neighborhood (in tight jeans). And who loved all of the artsy girls (aka: no bombshell blonds in heels). And who both suddenly held up their PBRs and said "this beer are awesome! We've never had it before", to which the only response was to crack up and simply ask the dumb question of "Who are you guys?"

Meet Jack and Johnny, one who sells women's shoes (excuse me, is a SHOE DISTRIBUTOR) and the other one who is in real-estate under his daddy's company. Both in their 20s. Both not college grads. And both dancing fiends (they so wanted to ditch Union Pool, I could tell, and go back to the comfort of their meat packing district), who live off of their parents and will continually be looking for a good time. They were entertaining, to say the least, though my roommate and I hung out with them for a bit too long (they turned into embarrassing, drunken fools, and really DID dance in the bar area of Union Pool, which thoroughly destroyed the hipster-buzzed-groove which had previously been going on), but honestly, they were just such a fascinating pair of guys to have stumbled upon that night. It was like a car wreck that you couldn't look away from, with sudden moments of clarity that shocked me. They pointed out everything that has suddenly become normal to me (girls with short hair, guys with half-buzzed hair, suspenders and skinny jeans, country shirts and dark-rimmed glasses, pretentious-indifference that seems to waft down the street of Williamsburg sometimes), and questioned the very foundation of the youth in "L train" Brooklyn that I had quickly and subconsciously come to identify with. To sum it up, they said to us "You girls need to get into a groove!", and in a dumbfounding response (to them) I said "this IS our groove."
It all made me ask myself the question: what exactly does it mean to be a Brooklynite, and are we all just pretending off of the L train? I've come to realize through my short 23 years on this planet that the first part of that question is , above all, an infinitely unanswerable question. Brooklyn is perhaps the most diverse 96 square miles on earth, consisting of every possibly ethnical group, all having their own, closed off neighborhoods, with the (more) occasional gentrification seeping in to bridge some gaps, and widen others between communities. Williamsburg seems to now be the young-hip-trendy-bohemian-artsy area of Brooklyn when everyone comes to play. Where Jack and Johnny come from, to us "L trainers", seemed sheltered and unrealistic, yet who are we to say we aren't exactly the same way? Sheltered from their part of Brooklyn, or other neighborhoods we don't dare go. I guess in the end, I can only define a Brooklynite as someone who is a bit rough around the edges, not afraid to speak their mind, and open to atleast a 10 minute conversation about your ideas and values. Friendly, courteous, but not always gracious. And who have lived here for quite some time.

So, you know, just living in Williamsburg does not make one a Brooklynite. For me, you have to have been here way longer than a year, and have experience a few different neighborhoods/trains before even coming close to labeling yourself as a resident. You've got to want to give a little bit more to this borough than just money on a bar counter, or funding your local American Apparel store. You've got to LOVE it, hands down. So, that's why I can say I'm a Brooklynite.

Sarah Palin, Live Here, See Wall Street

The Sweet Science

In response to the assault I went through in 2006, I found a home at Gleason's Boxing Gym in DUMBO Brooklyn, and in the power everyone seemed to exude from knowing how to defend themselves. I never took any formal lessons, but the environment of the old, eclectic gym and the comradery of the trainers, boxers, and spectators who were both very old and new to the sport intrigued me and drew me in like a warm blanket. I based my Senior Thesis Photo Essay around this gym and the objects that inhabited it. I loved the idea of doing still life studies of simply the things that made the gym what it was, and not just the people. (The essay, titled "The Sweet Science" is on my website).

So, I found it ironic today that, when dealing with my friend's recent assault (see post below), I came across a very interesting photo essay on boxing by Nicolai Howalt, where he compares shots of young boxers before and after a fight. I particularly love the one posted above because there are such subtle changes in his exterior; you almost have to look at it again and again to catch everything. Very fascinating.

Salsa Dancing @ Plan B (And a terrible thing that happened in Brooklyn)

Last night I found myself at a salsa club in the east village with two friends (R and M), dancing our hearts out and cracking up until 1am. Now, this is a very unusual occurrence for me. I've turned into a bit of an old lady during this past year when it comes to weeknights, and I can get very upset if I miss out on my 8-9 hours of beauty sleep (as some can attest to, I can be quite a grouch in the morning without it). I do go out alot, but I'm usually back in my comfy bed by 10pm. YET, as it appears, all of this doesn't mean I won't take advantage of a wonderful opportunity to go a little crazy.

So, after spending some quality time with my dad (and my cat!) in Carroll Gardens, I hopped on the F train to 2nd Ave to meet two of my friends at Mudd Coffee to plan our evening. First, I'd like to say that 1st Ave is the nexus of the universe, because on my walk uptown, I ran into not one, but TWO of my good friends that I hadn't seen in ages. So, after brief conversations about coffee (one friend was departing a coffee house), the economy (the other friend works for JP Morgan Chase), and basically how both things were causing them sleepless nights, I finally made my way to 9th st. and my friends. We had a bit of an arguement about what to do (some people are very hesitant to go to a random, corner salsa club at 10pm on a Wednesday night), but finally, we agreed to give it a try and arrived at our destination of 10th st between A and B; a little place called Plan B. And WHAT a fun place! Housing a full, live brass band with an awesome flutist and trumpeter to boot, this place carries a group of lively people who just simply want to dance. The place is small, but intimate, and allows just enough room to not ALWAYS get stepped on by stilletos (though this did happen to me often, and when I finally complained, the guy I was dancing with said "Calm down, Carrie Bradshaw") I'll be the first to admit that I am no salsa queen, but last night it didn't really matter. Some guys were nice enough to give me dancing lessons and some just decided that I should learn as I go, but in the end we were all laughing and grooving and having a good time. R insisted there was a Diego Luna look-a-like in the crowd, but he turned out to only move like Diego and not look like him.

And then things started to turn this morning...

I was happy to leave last night as a wonderful memory of trying out something new and enjoying it a bunch, until I started getting unsettling text messages this morning from R, about how M's phone was off and we didn't know if she had gotten back to her apartment alright last night. Sometimes I simply hate this city...

On her way back to Brooklyn last night, M was mugged outside her building and woke up in the hospital with bruises and a broken nose. And every time I hear of something like this happening to a young, hopeful person, it makes me hate this city a bit more. As always, I try to remind myself that things could have been much more terrible (there are far worse places you could wake up in than the hospital after being punched out in the middle of the night), but just knowing it happens is enough to really upset me. I don't know... I don't know if she wasn't being safe, if she was too drunk to make a smooth entry into her building, or if it was as random as other assaults that I've heard of and been a victim of, too. All I can do is wish her a speedy recovery and remember to never let my guard down late at night, that NO ONE should let there guard down. You can never be too careful in this city.

DUMBO and 12th Annual Arts Under the Bridge Festival

DUMBO, Brooklyn will always hold a dear place in my heart, but I'm torn between loving it's history and hating it's present. This neighborhood and I grew up together, changed together, and really, now resembles nothing of the DUMBO I once new (besides that the art has still managed to hang around, though not entirely in the same way). When I was 15 years old, my father moved his Stained Glass Conservation Studio down to DUMBO and joined the army of Artisans who were making the community diverse, artistic, kooky and passionate. This was the time of DUMBO when a young, white female such as myself could not walk around alone for fear of being mugged, when the York St. stop was virtually deserved (and you most certainly didn't venture down to that forlorn end of the platform where the garbage and rats roamed), and Superfine was still a little kitchen in the back of a bar called Between the Bridges (which used to reside where the new, cookie-cutter building @ 63 York St. sits). Despite the grunge and the mess and the chaos of a neighborhood still under no control or rules, it was wonderful because within all of that, there were genuine people, who could hold a great conversation and care about what you thought, and really cool bars/restaurants that no one knew about yet that one could call their own.

Fast forward 7 years, and here we are, where DUMBO has turned into a stroller/hipster haven, with prices soaring, local artisans virtually gone, and huge festivals during the weekend, where the streets become so jam packed, I wonder how anyone can breath. It's not BAD, purse; I still hang out down there with my father (who's studio still exists in 'new and improved' 55 Washington St.) and there are still a couple of people we recognize in the bars, or at the pool tables...on the streets. It's just a completely different vibe now. It's HIP, and that explains it all. A neighborhood where once no one but the roughest, gruffest men would enter (and perhaps their daughters who could be shielded under their wings), now houses families with babies, hipsters with cash, and the artists who are wealthy from their fame in Chelsea. It's a renovation of DUMBO, not a revolution like some have suggested.

Should it change? Well, it can't. That's the thing, isn't it? These neighborhoods in NYC and Brooklyn, that were once unique and specific, artistic...genuine, turn into upper class playgrounds, where the rich can feel bohemian. Gentrification hit DUMBO like a tsunami; and the receding wave left many confused, shaken and really lost. Those that survived and stayed behind (like my father) feel more and more out of place each day, and are simply waiting out their leases before they can leave. It's sad, though we make the best of it and still hang at the bars, play on the pool tables and take in the beautiful skyline view. We remind ourselves that somewhere out there is another DUMBO just waiting for us to discover, and make our own all over again.

ANYWAYS. Again, despite all of this, I would be amiss to not mention the arts festival DUMBO is holding this weekend, Arts Under the Bridge Festival. This festival has been around for almost as long as I have (in DUMBO), so I still hold respect for it (and occasionally, I'll find I have a college friend trying to make his/her way in the world hold a show during this time whom I wish to support). It looks like it will be a good one, as there are so many political ideas floating around everyone's minds. Who knows what might come out of this...?

Interested in Old-School DUMBO? Please go to my website at www.elizabethfraserphoto.com, go under projects and then to Artisans in DUMBO. This is circa 2003 DUMBO, freshman year photography.

ENJOY!

ps- the image of Tom Bogaert's installation during the 2007 Arts Under the Bridge Festival, titled Piso Majado Por Dumbo.

Priscilla Ahn

Very obsessed with this girl right now. She's so clean sounding, and just naturally beautiful. Please see all of her Take Away Shows @ Le Blogotheque. They're wonderful. I particularly love "Living in a Tree", mainly for the wonderful lyrics that seem to just flutter from her lips; things like "lonely hearts bare lonely beats in a world carved from steel and stone", and escaping industrialism for nature. It's a continuing theme for her, the song "Dreams referring to her playing "pretend between the trees, and fed [her] houseguests bark and leaves, and laughed in [her] pretty bed of green." Lovely.

Ladybug on the L Train

Yesterday, I was in a typical rush hour travel scene at Union Square Station in New York City, dashing down the stairs to catch the overpopulated and freezing L train to my lovely borough of Brooklyn. Barely squeezing through the train, I was simply relieved to be on my way home when a woman tapped me on my shoulder and pointed to my elbow. Now, being a New Yorker for many years, I tend to take taps on the shoulders to not mean a great deal [they usually result from me stepping on someone's toes or being mistaken for a friend/loved-one/business colleague]. So, imagine my surprise when I looked down at my elbow and saw a little red laby bug hanging on for dear life! How did this little creature manage to survive me pushing through Union Square, haggling through the subway station and rushing onto the train, all with gusting winds and hoards of people, when it was just a minute fraction of the size I was? I stared at it for several seconds and then tried to get it onto my hand only to sighed because, really, what could I do? I didn't want to kill it, and I definitely wasn't going to just get off of the train at a random stop because of this little creature. I gave the woman who tapped my shoulder a shrug and smile, and she responded in kind, and I decided that if the little bug could survive the trip to Dekalb Ave with me, I'd make sure to set it free on a tree outside of my apartment. After about two stops, I finally maneuvered the labybug onto my hand, and stood against the door for 8 more stops, watching her try to navigate the ridges of my fingers, to figure out where her beloved Union Square Park had gone, and watched her finally resting on the nail of my thumb. I'm sure I looked crazy; I could feel people staring at me from all corners of the train. "Just a girl with her ladybug, nothing to see here." Lo and behold, the doors opened at DeKalb Ave, I walked up the stairs slowly with her still resting on my thumb, and brought her safely to a tree on Stockholm St. Funny thing, I actually had to push her a bit to get her off my finger! Perhaps we bonded a bit too much on that long subway ride.

Something like this just makes me feel so...nice :)