Really?
I am speachless.
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Black Friday Buddha
The day after Thanksgiving, my brother and I set out in matching jerseys from our mother’s house in Connecticut, looking to find a Buddhist shrine he’d spotted on a previous trip.
As we were getting close, the driver of a red pickup truck nearly ran us off the road, and then slowed, glaring at me an my brother in the rearview. Then he slammed on the brakes. He was pointing and screaming at me through the closed passenger-side window as I rode by– something about “my road” I think. Then he gunned it and sped past us towards the stop sign fifty meters up the road, where I caught up to him for an awkward moment. He still looked hopping mad, but I was giving him the blankest stare I could muster– what had we done?– so he just drove off. I didn’t want to provoke him, but I did want to ask him if everything was alright at home.
My brother had drifted way off behind me. When he caught up, he told me he had let the word “asshole” escape his mouth when the truck first went by. He also mentioned that, after the truck’s tires screeched, he had nearly let a turd escape into his fancy English bibs.
We reached the shrine shortly thereafter, a lonely stupa in the middle of a field, surrounded by some mangy prayer flags. We read on a sign that a stupa is meant to radiate harmony and good will, that this is the only stupa in Connecticut, and that, for maximum benefit, one should walk around the stupa in a clockwise direction. My brother wasted no time in doing so.
Tonight’s Commute
Riding home over the Manhattan Bridge tonight, I had to stop and bust out my new camera. It is always grand, in some way, to ride over the bridges in NYC. But moments like this are exceptional.
Que Serra, Serra
On the way back from the Rockleigh Crit, we spotted this (new?) Richard Serra piece, waiting for a good time to cross the GW Bridge (?), on it’s way to Gagosian on 24th street (according to the driver).
Once upon a time I was shooting the exterior of that gallery for Richard Gluckman, the architect of the space. Through the open garage-type doors you could see some earlier, spiral shaped versions of these steel pieces inside. A pickup pulled up, and the woman in the passenger seat leaned out and asked us what they were. I said “sculptures”.
“Sculptures?”
“Yeah, they’re really cool.” I encouraged her to visit the gallery. “You can go inside those” I told her.
But something said “roach motel” to her, apparently. “Yeah,” she said. “You can go in, but you don’t come out!”.
