8508. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #145

145. SALES PITCH

Numerous conflicting things

about Lincoln Center still

rankle: When it opened,

Kennedy, Bernstein, all that

NYC flash, praised it as the

greatest thing in the world.

They dragged in a Marc

Chagall mural or drapery

or something, so as to even

validify their persistent

claims of high art and finish,

panache, grace and style.

It embodied that entire

Jackie Kennedy ethos.

No one and not for a

minute ever owned

up to what had gone on,

yet another elite land-grab

with millions made by

the tramp landlords who'd

owned all these neglected

and run-down yet inhabited

buildings : they all got their

recompense, paid for the

sales of their swindling

hulks. But not the endless

thousands inside of them.

Those families, people,

small business, and the

rest were just kicked

out, moved, sent

elsewhere to figure

out their lives. What

replaced it all was a

1963 version of a future

of windswept, wide

plazas stretched along

the base of larger buildings,

with lots of glass, and

with spacious views of

interior lobbies where,

basically, went the idea,

the wealthy show-goers

could mill about, have

their walk-about cocktails

and see and be seen  -  in

their Halston gowns,

Oscar De La Renta suits

and scarves, and the rest

of that drivel. As Castro

said, in Cuba, at about

this same time, 'Where's

the Revolution when

you really need it?' The

world was becoming a

huge, seedy joke, with

people like Truman

Capote and Gore Vidal

and Norman Mailer

along for the ride as

literary swindlers not

much different from

their friends the real

estate swindlers. All

wrapped as one, it was

style and fascination

and elitism and cronyism

and balderdash and sex

all wrapped up as one.

-

When I first landed in New

York City all I heard, or read,

if I looked at headlines and

the accompanying newsstand

photos plastered everywhere,

were the good times  -  all that

John Lindsay 'Fun City' stuff.

The new towers everywhere,

those two next to the United

Nations, where all the really

grand people lived, the side

oases of glory and power,

those dining at swank clubs

and masked balls. A certain

sort of artsy 'style' had swept

in on some high-class East

River swan-boat and all the

new piggies wanted aboard it

and quickly. Ugly ducklings

turning into swans in an

instant, in fact in what was

called back then a 'New

York Minute.' It was

time I didn't have.

-

The crux of it all was

-  and let me get this

out of the way now  -

Jewish. The world had

dug itself a huge hole by

the 1950's, a trench filled

with guilt and wartime

destruction  -  Jewish

people slaughtered,

gypsies, wanderers,

ruination, cities and

places just sizzled away

in Dresden fire-bombings

all in a row. It was rank

and rotten and foul, and

the entire world was still

in a sort of shock  -  a

shock I truly noted. It

was as if, everywhere,

school and the rest, all

the uttered sentences

were either lies or

incomplete. Lincoln

Center, let's say was an

example of power and

might gone wrong. But

no one uttered anything

except platitudes. All these

horrifying  -  to me as a kid  -

lectures by adults about how

bad the Soviets and the

Russians and the Commies

were and what they would

do to us, and how reckless

they were with bombs, etc.

Meanwhile, it was US who

had done all that  -  atomic

bombs, fire-bombings,

destroying ancient places

like Monte Cassino with

bombing raids, etc. All these

great cities of Europe blasted

to ruins, yet the fingers were

always pointed elsewhere.

It never really made sense,

even if it was somehow

justifiable as wartime tactic.

The end result, on the home

front, was Pride, I figured.

Pride like Avenel  -  slapstick

homes thrown up everywhere

for sailors and soldiers who'd

come home, start a family,

have three kids, buy things,

work, and shut up. That was

the expectation chart  -  but,

just as much, I realized, in the

boardrooms and offices, doing

all this, were the leftover results

of the war  -  overcompensating

Jewish guys, ribald and often

vulgar, ironic with their odd

TV humor, planning all this

detestable distraction stuff, to

numb and zombify an entire

nation into addicts of paper

towels, cheesy laughter, thrills

and pills. That was simply the

newest layer on all those

previous Goldwyns and

Zanucks and Gershwins

and Baylins. (Baylin would

be Irving 'Berlin', who

somehow changed his name.

At least the Gershwin brothers

didn't become Gherkins or

something. Authenticity counts.

counts). Advertising, humor,

'art', graphics, and the rest;

entertainment. A crafty

bunch, and now the new

expectation was that we

owed them something.

Reparations for slavery,

yes, get laughed out of

court, but reparations

for this, wartime, stuff,

we all bear the brunt in

in out gross society. Just

go ask any LennyBruce

WoodyAllenJerrySeinfield,

for starters. And that's

only the present times. They
had a million followers, all
working for their paycheck.

-

Now, you would say, back 
to that mural I mentioned in 
the beginning, and which was
added later to the opera house
and ask, why Marc Chagall?

Two twenty-million dollar

murals, also much later, and 
incredibly callously, later used

as banking collateral for

further development,

why a totally Jewish art

reference here? Why all

the obsequious drowning

in guilt and gilt, over the

ruinations of the rich

fitfully giving the

heave-ho to any of the 

authentic poor who

may once have depended

on the area as home. 

Opera. Chamber Music.

Ballet. A list of Jewish

names, up and down the

roster, ten miles long.

Even as a twelve-year old,

I'd ask myself, why? You tell

me? If it (art) is the grand

reservoir of the past

of all Western Cultural

traditions, as you very

well may say, even then

why so grandly Jewish,

so glitterati, so ostentatious

and coarsely in-your-face?

It was like the downtrodden

and the beleaguered who

had just been 'rescued' had

suddenly turned their back,

already, and were becoming

the oppressors now of others.

Marc Chagall, patron saint

of Jewish-Russian art, with

two huge murals to the vast

plaza and street attesting

to superiority and pride

while tearing up the

homes, streets and

pavements of people

who really needed it

all, just for the tired,

shitty sake of rich-man's

music and opera, while

shredding the fabric of

others' lives for the sake

of display and gluttonous

snobbery  -  and then rubbing

it in with Marc Chagall

murals. Think about

it all, as I move on.

-

The 1960's were a shambles  -

and things like this happened,

and everywhere it was done with

a grin and smile and smirk. All

very difficult to pin down now,

but it had taken on an ironic

life of its own. Everywhere

the world was getting perverted,

twisted over for some other

purpose. Rudi Gernreich,

one-piece topless bathing

suits. Ha-Ha, smirk, smirk.

Effusive and coarse joke

on the stupid goy. They'll

buy it. Our guys will push

it! Gay. Jewish. All together.

It was as if Bob Zimmerman 

and Albert Grossman were

there, just waiting in the wings.

What do you do with people

you've ruined? Cast them off?

Throw them crumbs? Send

them away? Or just sell

them something else?
-
A long time has gone by, and
I know you're not supposed to 
go at people, but those are some 
points I needed to make. The whole
idea of humanity is other people,
and  -  to me  -  the somehow
entire idea of 'Lincoln Center' was
anti-people. Was smug and 
alienating. Suffered from pride.
I was unable to do anything about
it. in fact, I watched and only
saw what I saw. I wasn't, by any
means, one of them. The Julliard 
kids, music-school swank, the
girls always gorgeous somehow;
I'd see them waiting at lights, to 
cross  -  their large instruments in
huge cases, on casters (Bass violas
and such, I figured) gigantic horns 
and all those twisted tuba things.
Taxis everywhere, the Philarmonic 
people reporting for work, all those
grand, open buildings and a
fountain'd plaza, often windswept
and quite alienating in Winter,
but otherwise, yes, charming.
That's what they had made
from the nothing they'd left after
demolition. If it had to be, it had 
to be, and I guess it was.