Effete Musings

I was so electrified by Neil’s post about Greenpoint real estate that I couldn’t help but do some research on the socio-economico-historico-political roots of the culturally rich areas of northwestern Brooklyn. My first move was to hit the stacks of the Williamsburg branch of the Brooklyn Public Library, where I found a fascinating book entitled Documents and Essays from New Bohemia: 1992-2006. Unfortunately, ninety percent of the book had been cut out in order to form a hole in the pages in the shape of a flask. Only the introduction remained intact. Thought you might enjoy it. Check it out:

Introduction

Fuck off, Pablo:

A Short History of the East Village Exodus and the Birth of the Brooklyn Scene

By Edwin Kovacs

This book is a collection of stories, essays and other written materials documenting the lives and the milieu of a certain variety of young men and women, which some have called hipsters (a term generally employed derisively), or less commonly bohemians, or perhaps dandies, or even bon vivants, although admittedly I’ve never heard the latter appellation utilized as a descriptor for the individuals whom I am presently in the process of describing. As a rule of thumb, I prefer not to apply any of these labels, mostly because labeling persons and groups of persons has been nearly universally (and rightly) condemned in these enlightened times, but also because it is well known that no label can accurately describe a group of people larger than two or three without employing gross generalities that necessarily misrepresent and thus do injustice to the individual members of any amalgamation of human beings whom you might like to describe jointly under the homogenizing banner of some petty collection of letters, which, after all, are merely symbols, part of the alphabetical system, which in turn represent various sounds, which when put together in various combinations can convey various abstract concepts and emotions to other sentient beings. One example is the word “can,” which everyone knows can mean, among other things, a receptacle for trash or preserved vegetables or the like, as well as an expression of the ability or disability (when conjoined with can’s infamous sister “not”) to perform some action. So, as you can see, words can often be confusing and misleading and thus should not be applied to more than one person at any given time.

But, as always, one must get down to business, so here we are.

It is well documented that the young men and women of Brooklyn began emigrating from the areas of the isle of Manhattan known as the East Village and the Lower East Side some time in the mid- to late-nineteen-nineties. That is not interesting. What is worthy of our attention is the perennial scholarly question: “Why?” In the first place, one might wonder why anyone would choose to leave these wildly exciting neighborhoods for unknown climes. After all, these areas were the artistic birthplaces of Koons and Basquiat, Moore and Gordon. How could more fertile soil for an artist be found? But while it is true the lower Manhattan neighborhoods were then thriving hotbeds of creative activity, the continued existence of the scene there in the nineties, at least in any form remotely resembling its past, was rapidly becoming untenable. But wait a moment, I’m getting ahead of myself.

To understand the reasons for the exodus, we must first briefly examine the history of the East Village/LES scene. The aforementioned areas, formerly poor and riddled with violence and crime, had begun to grow safer due to an earlier wave of immigration of young artists and other creative persons during the nineteen-eighties, resulting in the incubation and birth of art world luminaries such as Molly Haggard, Norton Pembroke and Nils Aaronson, just to name a few. The newfound physical (though not mental) security and artistic cache of the neighborhoods had the predictable result of causing the cost of living (particularly housing) to skyrocket. As it was the cheapness of these areas which had drawn these creative youths in the first instance- rumor has it one could have a loft large enough to fit a canvas the size of Guernica for less than fifty dollars a month- the spaces gradually lost their utility for the true artists originally inhabiting them. That is, the relative inexpensiveness of these living spaces had allowed artists to focus on their craft while working one or two days a week at a coffee shop or restaurant or, in some rare cases, by receiving support from loved ones or from various funds devised by other relatives to ensure their financial security whilst they pursued the purest and most beautiful of occupations. Major works to come out of the East Village in the period before the exodus include “Poop on a Stick” (paradoxically a green snowflake created by cutting triangles and other forms out of a folded piece of construction paper) and the controversial photo-realist painting “Grandma’s Not Wearing Underpants,” among others.

Unfortunately, this blooming of artistic talent, not unlike that found in the Left Bank of previous generations, could not survive in the stifling environment of rising rents which resulted from a second wave of immigrants, those drawn to the East Village/LES by the exhilarating atmosphere of energy and creativity that reigned supreme in those neighborhoods, as well as by various newfound middle-brow amenities such as not being shot at when walking down the street and living near restaurants that serve eggs benedict for brunch.

As a sidebar, I will note that all of these factors, those spawned by the influx of middle-, upper-middle and plutocrat-class white youths into an area formerly populated by the forgotten and downtrodden, caused another sizable migration, that of the East Village and LES’s just-mentioned former denizens, who in the nineties fled in droves to more natural habitats, found mostly in the south Bronx and Newark. Though these poor fellows could also be written about at length, such an account would admittedly be rather uninteresting, as they accomplished little of note other than surviving in what was widely known as an “urban warzone,” and so I will move on to the matter at hand.

Already reeling, the artistic community of Manhattan took a further blow when a third wave of youths, this one less interested in the spirit of creativity than in soaking up the aura of “coolness” that the trailblazers had created out of their own sweat and blood, sent rents soaring even higher again. Apartments formerly let at $200 per month might now be had for $2,000, if one were lucky. At this point, the original immigrants and other like-minded younger souls knew it was time to move on to another, cheaper neighborhood.

It is thought that Julian Demitrius was the first member of the burgeoning East Village/LES scene to make the jump over the East River to the then desolate area known as Williamsburg, sometime around December of 1994. Although as a historian I would like nothing better than to pin down this critical date with exactitude, it is unfortunately unknown, as at the time of the move Demetrius was engaged in a three month long psychopharmacological experiment involving continuous dosing of himself with peyote, STP and angel dust.

As his chemical adventures testify to, Demetrius was a true visionary, recognizing even at that early date the potential of the mostly Hispanic and Polish neighborhood to house all manner of artists and musicians, owing to its surfeit of expansive loft spaces to be had at the lowest of monthly dues. As he told me in a March 2007 interview:

“When I walked down those streets for the first time, I was just like, ‘Wow.’ I mean, every block was filled with these big open apartments and industrial spaces with high ceilings and hardwood floors, and they were cheap, too. I was like, ‘Finally, a place where my ten-piece electronic drone/chamber music project can come together.’ ‘Cause I’d been wanting to do it for, like, three years, but could never find enough space to practice. It’s the bane of every musician in Manhattan, you know, just trying to find a space to practice. But when I got to Williamsburg, I was like, ‘This is it,’ you know. It was like something out of a dream. Then this fuckin’ giant red worm with translucent glowing skin and teeth that looked like tentacles covered with razor-sharp scales rose up out of Bedford Avenue and swallowed me whole. [Laughs] So that’s how it all started.”

A dream indeed, and this one not deferred. Within two hours of landing on Brooklyn’s western coast, Demitrius had signed a lease for a two thousand square foot space on North 7th Street just west of Bedford Avenue. By the end of the week, his band, the now legendary Apostles Movement Ensemble, had installed their equipment and was jamming furiously in thirty-six hour speed-fueled sessions, developing the sound collages that would eventually be laid down on wax to compose their seminal debut album, Fuck Jesus, I’ll Have a Burger.

History had been made, and while AME were never able to top their early artistic achievements (although the group did go on to have minor commercial success with the watered-down, poppy single, “JC, I Was Just Playin’ (I Think I Really Do Love You),” a tidal wave of like-minded and similarly talented groups were to follow in the band’s wake.

Ground Glass for Breakfast, Cocaine Induced Insomnia, Mothman, the Geriatric Lovers- if you aren’t familiar with these names, it’s because you weren’t there, and also because none of the groups existed for longer than six weeks or recorded any of their compositions. They were, however, the cream of a wildly radical and viscerally exciting new music scene. Lesser groups such as Cash Cow, Orange Concentrate and the enigmatically named T (The Letter) carried on the tradition of the earlier groups (with whom they shared a good many members) and created such classics as “The Joe Danvers 7”” by OrCon and the famous “unjacketed” T LP, simply entitled Goulash. To this day, the latter album has never been officially released beyond its original pressing of 150 red-and-puce-striped vinyl twelve inches. If you doubt the importance of this early Brooklyn masterpiece, note that as of this writing, a near mint copy of Goulash sells for upwards of $752 dollars in auctions conducted in the infinite realms of cyberspace. Make that $752.01.

Of the many brilliant works of this period of Brooklyn history, however, undoubtedly the greatest expression of the human spirit came not in the form of the audible, but rather presented itself in a visual and tactile medium. Of course, “Toady” Joe Malone may be a household name today, but in 1997, he was simply another starving artist looking for “cheap digs” wherein he would be free to express his unique personal vision. As Malone told me in an August 2006 interview:

“You see, back in those days, it was like, ‘Rarrrr,’ all the time. You know what I mean? I was sick of the whole gay scene, the leather scene, S&M, and what have you. I just wanted to go somewhere where I could really sit down and make my mark, you know. Do something I’d be remembered for forever and ever, till the end of time. Just like a fairy tale, right? Ha, ha…”

While at the time observers and acquaintances of Malone, a former West Village sex worker known for his willingness to engage in any act, however sadistic or appalling (in light of conventional bourgeois values), would not have given him “a snowball’s chance in hell” of succeeding as a serious artist, Malone was determined:

“Yeah, somebody said that to me, the snowball thing,” said Malone, communicating by telegraph from a Himalayan yurt in 2003. “And I just said to myself, ‘Fuck it, I’ll make a snowball in hell that won’t fuckin’ melt, then.’ But then came the tricky part. Ha, ha. [Ed. note: Malone’s laugh was actually communicated by Morse code.] How do I do it?”

The answer came in the form of one of the most groundbreaking artworks of all time: “Fuck off, Pablo.” After obtaining a rental space in west Williamsburg that was situated over a now defunct Polish market known for its authentic kielbasa and pierogi, Malone set to work. “At first I just started collecting my nail clippings for no reason whatsoever,” he told me. “Then after a month or two of sitting around smoking heroin with Peter, I looked over one day and it just hit me, ‘There’s my snowball.’”

From that day forth, Malone set off on an epic adventure that would span three years and ten feet. Each day Malone would arrange his clippings on a five-by-three foot canvas. Then throughout the day, he would use his own oral cavity to transport the natural adhesive he obtained from his lover, Peter, in order to cement the clippings in place. After repeating this process five to six times a day for three years, his masterpiece was complete: a white canvas with the words “Fuck off, Pablo” written in the byproducts of his and Peter’s very biological essences. It is a stunning work to behold. Unfortunately, it now resides in the private collection of Russian billionaire and art connoisseur Lukash Shivilinski, who purchased it at a Sotheby’s auction for $25 million in 2002. According to Malone’s express stipulation, no images of the work are currently available; however, I did witness the piece first-hand at the earth-shattering exhibition “The Present Is Yesterday,” which was fittingly held in a Catholic girls’ school lavatory in upper Queens, and can amply attest to this masterwork’s incredible majesty and power. Upon my first glimpse of the canvas, in fact, I suffered an attack of Stendahl syndrome and swooned, falling backwards and cracking my head on a latrine. When I came to, ragged, beautiful people were hunched over me, worriedly asking me if I was alright. Immediately I responded, “I will be- once I get another look at that heavenly image.”

As I parsed the fluorescent pink urinal cake from my hair and gazed upon “Fuck off, Pablo” in awe, I thought to myself: “This is the greatest artistic moment of the new and the previous century, as well as the greatest moment of my life. Enjoy it now, before it’s over.” It is an experience I shall never forget, barring the onset of Alzheimer’s or some other form of dementia.

Tragically, but inevitably, the halcyon days of the Williamsburg scene could not last. Soon hangers-on and Johnny-come-latelys intruded upon the artists’ previously unsullied territory just as they had in southeast Manhattan, and the fashionable bars and cafes and the rest duly followed. And while the truly free and creative spirits of Williamsburg ventured north to Greenpoint, further north to Sunnyside, and east to Bushwick, a unified artistic movement such as that witnessed over the previous decade was not to be had. An era had run its course. And though we may look back on those days with misty-eyed nostalgia and say to ourselves, “I wish I was there again, back in the lavatory in Queens,” or “I wish I had been there in that lavatory instead of this internet cafe,” one would be betraying the spirit of the age if one were to do so. As Joe Malone said just before he walked away from me (without leaving any money for the check), “Fuck the past, man. It’s all a bunch of bullshit anyway.”

Bullshit indeed, Joe. Bullshit indeed.