Burning Flags Press The website of Glen E. Friedman. Renowned for both his work with musicians like Fugazi, Minor Threat, Public Enemy, the Beastie Boys, Slayer (and many, many more) as well as his groundbreaking documentation of the burgeoning skateboard phenomenon in the late `70's, Glen has been privvy to (and has summarily captured on film) some of the coolest stuff ever. He's also an incredibly insightful and nice guy to boot.
SoHo Blues - Photography by Allan Tannenbaum Allan Tannenbaum is a local photographer who has been everywhere and shot everything, from members of Blondie hanging out at the Mudd Club through the collapsing towers of the World Trade Center on September 11th. You could spend hours on this site, and I have.
Robert Otter Photographs Amazing vintage photographs of New York City, specifically my own neighborhood, Greenwich Village.
oboylephoto Just some intensely cool photographs of abandoned places.
The Weblog of Spumco's John K. The weblog of cartoonist John Kricfalusi, crazed mind and frantic pencil behind the original "Ren & Stimpy," as well as "The Goddamn George Liquor Show." Surreal, unapologetic, uncompromising genius.
Yeah, I know -- there are already way too many books about CBGB out there, but hang on a second.
For a start, photographer David Godlis is a goddamn legend. Secondly, I found his ruminations on night-shooting by available light (influenced by pioneering Hungarian photographer Brassai) to be really pretty interesting.
Hey all, just a quick one. I'm actually sequestered out on the `Island for a while with limited computer access, so bear with me.
During my two-month hiatus, my comrade Drew sent me the video below, and I've meant to put up a post about it ever since.
This October will mark the eight-year anniversary of the closing of CBGB at 315 Bowery, a milestone that prompted much gnashing of teeth in many circles (including mine). The shuttering of the fabled rock club, endearingly squalid dive bar and ground zero of Punk Rock has since come to serve as a telling signifier of the transformation of New York City. That its address has since been co-opted by a bespoke clothier only reinforces that. The Bowery is a different place. Downtown is a different place. New York City is a different place. Those are just the facts.
Since CB's demise, the already robust mythology that surrounded it has only flourished (no thanks to a truly abortive film from 2013 about same, but the less said about that, the better). An invocation of a night of CBGB now comes grittily entrenched in the artful imagery of dimly lit urban decay, the insouciant cool of bohemia, the whiff of an anything-goes frontier and the palpable threat of violence. The name conjures up pictures like those found in Bri Hurley's "Making a Scene," a striking photographic document of the New York hardcore community (that's one of her shots above), or like the iconic image below of the No Wave all-stars... portraits of romantic characters existing on the edge of society.
Truth is, of course, not every night at CB's was like that. Not every show at 315 Bowery warranted the punk pageantry. Hell, in its last several years of operation, the booking policy at CBGB really wasn't that adventurous, nor did it attract room-filling big names. Even during its 70's and 80's heyday, some shows at CBGB were just that... shows. No one got stabbed. No one showed up with a mohawk. No cops were punched. It was just another night at one of the city's live music venues.
Below is another clip by Nelson Sullivan, the intrepid videographer I've written about before, who presciently made a point to document as much of his life on video as he could (prior to his untimely death). In this clip, Sullivan attends a record release party at the CBGB Record Canteen (remember that?) for Binky Philips, a somewhat-less-celebrated scene veteran, CB's regular and self-described "also-was." As an event, it's fairly low on thrills, but the video provides a tantalizing glimpse back at the scene circa 1987.
Watch for a blink-and-you'll-miss-it cameo of the cover of Killing Joke's Brighter Than a Thousand Suns amid the record racks.
These days, CBGB is the afore-cited John Varvatos boutique and the space that was the CBGB Record Canteen is now a Patagonia, for all your pricey, outdoorsy gear needs.
"Differentiating" is a big buzzword in my office (and, if you work in the media, probably in your office too). 'Differentiating content' is always our goal. It's going to distinguish our outlet from the rest of the noise on the `net, and it's ultimately what drives our endeavor and it's what we do best. It's original and unique and you can't get it anywhere else. It defines us.
Well, as much as I decry the flagrant usage of workplace lingo outside of the office, I feel that it's worth asserting that New York City is losing its differentiating content. Between my comrades at EV Grieve, Jeremiah Moss' Vanishing New York, Bowery Boogie, myself and a clutch of others, it seems that documenting the jackbooted march -- nay, spastic sprint -- of avaricious urban development and gentrification has become a virtually full time occupation. The metamorphosis of this city is laying waste to more independent businesses and age-old neighborhood establishments than can be quantified. Whether its Pearl Paint or J&R Music World or your favorite corner deli or a restaurant that's occupied a particular corner since the days of Fiorello Laguardia, no single locale is safe, regardless of your individual predilections.
For me, the most recent one to really give me pause is Shakespeare & Co. over on Broadway, which has just lost its lease. It's one thing for comparatively "niche" operations like, say, a music shop devoted solely to extreme metal (Oh, I do miss you, Hospital Productions) to not be able to meet its rent, but for a lovingly stocked bookstore on a well-traveled avenue? That doesn't just depress me, it SCARES me.
Obviously, it's a combination of factors that's causing this. In an environment where most folks are procuring their reading material -- if they're reading at all -- via Amazon or downloading stuff onto their stupid devices (screw you, Kindle & Nook users), every book store is in serious goddamn trouble, from the mom'n'pops through to your major chains. In this instance, however, I think it's simply the bugfuck insane New York City real estate market that's to blame, and there's no possible way on God's wretched earth that Shakespeare & Co. can match the rent some other businesses are able to pay. As such, they are being forced to forfeit.
Again, though, in an ideal world, a bookstore (like a library) serves EVERYONE. It's not a "niche" operation, unless you consider "reading" a "niche" activity, in which case you should be put down like a crippled pony. Not only is Shakespeare & Co. a bookstore, it's a beautiful bookstore, staffed by knowledgeable folks and stocked to the rafters with every type of text imaginable. Unless I'm late to arrive at a specific destination, I've never been able to walk past the store without stopping in, even if I'm not looking for anything in particular, and I've always been struck by something new when I'm there. Its selection of children's books is as lovingly cultivated as its supply of far-flung filmographies and esoteric rock bios. From erotic fiction through esoteric academia to tomes about the occult to coffee table books dedicated to eye-popping photography, there is absolutely no shortage of compelling reading material at Shakespeare & Co. If you've never been, you're living a life dimmed by a paucity of excellence.
And soon, it'll be gone, inevitably to be replaced by a bank or a frozen yogurt emporium or a Starbuck's.
The landlords to blame deserve a few rigorous punches in the balls.
Look, it’s no mystery that I don't like John Varvatos. Not just because he’s a fatuous fashionista who has slavishly attempted to appropriate the legacy of CBGB by opening up his bespoke boutique in its beleaguered footprint, but it’s more that he just seem SOOOO DESPERATE to be accepted and taken seriously in the music community, despite the fact that he so clearly JUST DOES NOT GET IT!
Obviously, opinions differ greatly on these points, and I’ve certainly never met the man. That’s him up above, by the way. He’s the bald gent on the right sharing a microphone with the guy who very much isn’t Ace Frehley. Maybe Varvatos is a completely cool gent, but I think I speak for a large swathe of silly rock fans who take frowny offense to his monied reimagining of 315 Bowery. If you step inside this pricey haberdashery, you’ll find the walls floridly adorned with rock memorabilia. Varvatos’ affinity for rock n’ roll is presented well to the fore, but there’s something just so clunky about it. I mean, in the front, there’s a selection of lovingly presented album covers, but a huge number of them are from acts with absolutely zero connection to the former venue’s history. I mean, Rush, Bob Seger, Santana, Ted Nugent – these folks never trod the fabled boards in the rear of that room. Regardless of your stance on the argument, CBGB is as close to the Kaaba of punk rock as can be quantified. Why, then – if you’re so inclined on cultivating its enduring cool – clog the place up with invocations of acts who’d have never darkened its doors?
Another example of Varvatos getting it wrong is his latest campaign, featuring my childhood heroes (or two of them, at least) in KISS. As much I’ll continue to defend my fandom for (vintage) KISS `til I’m purple in the face, having them team up (doubtlessly for a princely sum) with John Varvatos to play within the former walls of CBGB (a venue they very certainly never played) just feels, well …. WRONG. Again, as much as I love KISS, they almost single-handedly define everything the original alumni of CBGB set out destroy. KISS embody excess, artifice and avarice (by their own admission), and even though they paired down their stage show (attempting to give a not-so-subtle nod to their comparatively stripped-down days circa Dressed to Kill), they remain one of the very last bands that belong on that particular stage.
YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG, JOHN!!!
Check out the clip of same beneath.
The self-mythologizing bluster of Messrs. Simmons & Stanley notwithstanding, it’s a pretty hollow stunt. “John Varvatos invited 200 guests to 315 Bowery for an intimate performance,” reads the preamble, “They were not told who they were about to see.”
Translation: They probably weren’t actual KISS fans.
The whole thing just reeks of self-congratulatory exclusivity. And money.
My third quibble with Varvatos has to do with a book he's hawking on his website, that being "Rock in Fashion." Is it a surprise that he's published a book about his dual loves of music and style? No, of course not. Ostensibly, there's nothing wrong with that. And I should point out that I've never cracked the binding on this tome, although the fact that it costs sixty big ones doesn't suggest that I will anytime soon. I know I shouldn't judge a book by its cover, but.....
To grace the stately and lovingly bound front of this handsome coffee-table text, Varvatos selected a storied Mick Rock photograph of Syd Barrett, then recently deposed from the ranks of the nascent Pink Floyd, circa the troubled recording of his debut solo album, The Madcap Laughs. Under the bedraggled apparition of the late Floyd leader is the legend, "JOHN VARVATOS -- Rock in Fashion."
Why does this bother me? Well, here's where the pedantic rock geek in me (never far from the surface) gets really testy. Photographer Mick Rock was a good friend of Barrett's, and captured the then-notoriously fragile musician in some disarmingly candid and fraught images. By even the least passionate accounts of the recording of The Madcap Laughs, it is well established that Syd Barrett was stealthily unravelling. While he may look like an insouciantly cool cat in that photograph, even passive Floyd fans know that he wasn't entirely "all there" at the time.
As I understand it, the car pictured behind him had been a gift that he'd simply left on the street to rot and erode (there's another image from the shoot with a police sticker on the windshield warning its owner -- an impartial, dead-eyed Syd -- of its dereliction). Over the ensuing decades, Mick Rock's pictures of Barrett have become synonymous with the musician's tragic legacy. While striking and genuinely iconic, I'm not sure it's appropriate that they should be used to celebrate Syd's fashion sense, an infinitesimally incidental portion of the narrative. But, again, Varvatos doesn't get that. Clothes, I guess, are his big thing.
It's that time of year again. Frankly speaking, 2013 was one of the worst years of my family's life. Pretty much everything about it sucked. As such, we're quite happy to see the back of it. I'm not expecting January 1, 2014 to be a magic silver bullet that suddenly solves everything, but as the Replacements once sagely sang, Anywhere's Better Than Here.
1. What did you do in 2013 that you'd never done before? I can't think of anything to put here that isn't entirely depressing, so I'm going to skip it.
2. Did you keep your New Year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year? I don't remember if I made any, but if I did, I invariably didn't keep them. Will I make some this year? Don't know yet.
3. Did anyone close to you give birth? Yes, a couple of people.
4. Did anyone close to you die? Sadly, yes. My father-in-law very sadly passed away in January. That sort of set the tone for the year.
5. What countries did you visit? Didn't.
6. What would you like to have in 2014 that you lacked in 2013? Conclusive and actionable solutions to an ongoing problem.
7. What date from 2013 will remain etched upon your memory? I'd say Thanksgiving weekend.
8. What was your biggest achievement of the year? 2013 was not a year of achievements.
9. What was your biggest failure? I'm not sure there was much I could have done better, but I am plagued by the notion that there was more I might have been able to do to prevent the worst aspects of this year.
10. Did you suffer illness or injury? I didn't, no, but those close to me have.
11. What was the best thing you bought? I honestly don't remember. Possibly the big furry beanbag I picked up at Restoration Hardware that was worryingly much larger than the one we'd initially spied in the showroom.
12. Whose behavior merited celebration? My wife and children.
13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed? The usual culprits. I haven't had as much mental energy to get bent out of shape by political stuff, but the far right still have my undying contempt.
14. Where did most of your money go? School tuition, airfare, the tax man, building maintenance.
15. What did you get really, really excited about? In a bad way? The health and well-being of my loved ones. In a good way? Hmmmm. Not very much.
17. Compared to this time last year, are you happier or sadder? Much sadder.
18. Thinner or fatter? Can't say. About the same. Stress keeps me slim.
19. Richer or poorer? Poorer
20. What do you wish you'd done more of? Problem-solving.
21. What do you wish you'd done less of? Stressing out.
22. How did you spend Christmas? We kept it pretty low-key this year. Just at home with my wife and children.
23. Who did you spend the most time on the phone with? Probably with my wife.
24. Did you fall in love in 2013? I was already very much in love.
25. How many one night stands in this last year? I am happily married and ever-faithful.
26. What was your favorite TV program? We did watch an awful lot of the the tube this year. We quite enjoyed "Mad Men" and "Downton Abbey." I think "Girls" and "Homeland" have both started to slide a little bit. Loved "Sherlock" and "Birdsong." Probably most wrapped up in "Breaking Bad," which we're still catching up on (only midway through season 3 at the moment).
27. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year? I can't spend time hating people. That's just not productive. I certainly spent a lot of time hating certain circumstances that were beyond my control.
28. What was the best book you read? Toss up between Dave Gilbert's "& Sons" and Jon Wiederhorn's "Louder Than Hell." Both brought me much-needed distraction.
29. What was your greatest musical discovery? Like I said, I didn't spend as much time obsessing over music in 2013. I continue to quite enjoy "Like a Dream" by Francis & the Lights, though.
30. What did you want and get? The super deluxe re-release of the Velvet Underground's White Light/White Heat and the super deluxe Singles Collection box set by Killing Joke. Both entirely needless, but lovely to behold.
31. What did you want and not get? Conclusive and actionable solutions for an ongoing problem.
32. What were your favorite films of this year? Probably that Big Star documentary.
33. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you? I turned 46 and there's nothing nice to say about it.
34. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying? Better health and less suffering for the people I care about.
35. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2013? Who's got time for fashion?
36. What kept you sane? Who said anything about me being sane? Honestly, the one thing that kept me sane was the imperative to stay steady, assertive, positive and in control while things were collapsing around me.
37. What celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most? Who cares?
38. What political issue stirred you the most? Can't say I had the time to worry about any.
39. Who did you miss? I miss my father-in-law and Lou Reed.
40. Who was the best new person you met? Some new colleagues at work, I suppose.
41. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2013 Never, ever, ever take your loved ones for granted. Tell them as often as possible how very much they mean to you. And don't expect modern medicine to have every answer. Evidently, it doesn't.
42. Song lyric that sums up 2013: To slap a song lyric that pertains to the circumstances of this year would only serve to trivialize those circumstances, so I'm going to pass on this one.
Loyal readers might remember a couple of entries I posted back in 2009 wherein I mentioned discovering Amos Poe's film, "The Foreigner" through Nick Rhombes' excellent book, "A Culture History of Punk." I went into depth about the film on that post, and then returned to it periodically after I was finally able to see it. It's indeed a bizarre cinematic experience, but it really is a must for anyone who shares my fascination with the downtown Manhattan of yesteryear. It can be tough to track down, but seek it out. It's worth it. I don't believe it's available via Netflix, but who knows?
In any case, my fascination for "The Foreigner" was revived somewhat recently when Gallery 98 debuted its exhibition of No Wave and Independent Film, which included Poe's film. Among the items on exhibit were some still photographs from the production of "The Foreigner" taken by one Fernando Natalici, who acted as the art director for the film. That's one of his photos above (click on it to enlarge). In the image you see the protagonist Max walking away from a momentary interaction with Debbie Harry (see the clip below). This scene is one of the more haunting and memorable moments from the film.
As I mentioned back in this post, upon my first discovery of "The Foreigner," I became fixated with pinpointing the exact location of that alley. At first, I wrongly suspected that it was Courtlandt Alley down in TriBeCa, then Shinbone Alley in NoHo before finally figuring out that it is Great Jones Alley, which runs parallel to Broadway in between Bond Street and Great Jones Street.
The alley in question is private and gated-off today, although as I said in this post, I actually attended a children's birthday party there unwittingly back in 2009 (prior to seeing the film, alas). As decrepit and desolate it looks in Poe's film, it's now a very enviable slice of real estate (no surprises there).
Ever since then, of course, I've been smitten with it. Later in 2009, I snapped the picture below of my little son Oliver standing in front of the gate.
This evening, however, after being out with my kids for dinner, we found ourselves walking west on Great Jones street, and I was immediately struck with the idea of replicating the still from the film at the top of this post, with my son Oliver posing as Max and my daughter Charlotte serving as Debbie Harry. Without the photo in front of me, this is as close as we were able to get. The action actually took place deeper into the alley, but the gate prevented that level of authenticity.
For closer reference, here's a clip of the scene in question.
Lastly, speaking of Great Jones Street, my blogging comrade Jeremiah Moss of Vanishing New York put up the video below on Facebook this evening of jazz legend Charles Mingus being evicted from his home on suspicion of drug possession. His home? Right adjacent to Great Jones Alley.
I’ve been setting items “to one side,” as they say, with the intention of posting them here. This list is getting unwieldy, thus it’s time yet again for another installment of Stuff You Might Have Missed.
I posted this on Facebook this morning, and it struck a chord, so I thought I’d bring it here too. Gramercy Park is a lovely place, however exclusive. But even if one’s not affluent to live in it (which is most of us), it can still be a pleasant experience to walk through … or around, I should say, being that in order to walk through, you’d need to be in possession of one of those hotly-coveted keys. In any case, as picturesque as it is, there’s an awful, evil tree that grows on the western side of the park (directly across from the stoop that Bob Dylan posed on for the cover of Highway 61 Revisited). This tree blooms little berries that, when crushed or stepped on, emit an odor that makes the scent of death seem like fresh brewed coffee on a Sunday morning by comparison. After posting this, I was informed that the tree in question is known as a Ginko tree, and not – as previously suspected –- the tree of vomit-slathered dog poo.
By definition, I’ve always considered myself a fan of Marvel Comics, but back in my days as a slavish comic geek, I did pick up the odd D.C. title now and again. As such, I was saddened to learn this morning of the death of illustrator Nick Cardy. Cardy’s responsible for the cover above, which I picked up a young lad, haunted by the surreal imagery. Notice how Supe’s destroying his own logo? That really put the hook in me.
Listen to Michael Gira’s entirely harrowing early recording for “Hard Rock,” the premiere release by Thurston Moore’s Ecstatic Peace label. Listen to what Dangerous Minds warns: Not only is this recording not safe for work, it’s not safe for home either. Hell, it’s not safe for HUMAN EARS! Seriously, it’s utterly, utterly revolting. You’ve been warned.
Lastly, speaking of SWANS, I’ve not been able to stop playing this rendition of “Coward” from their new live album, Not Here/Not Now. I saw SWANSlast year just prior to the arrival of Sandy, and it was a fittingly apocalyptic experience. They continue to amaze. Play this very, very loud.
Hey all. It's been a bit crazed on the home front of late, so to bide your time until I have the opportunity to compose something slightly more substantial, here are a few items that caught my attention. Maybe they'll catch yours.
Here's a recent interview with the great Tom Verlaine, rife with awkward pauses and withering condescension. Actually, it's not that bad. I see Verlaine in my neighborhood fairly regularly, whether having a slice at Stromboli's, ordering a cup of coffee at the News Bar or browsing for books at The Strand. I used to say "hello" to him. I stopped doing that, as he's capable of being disarmingly brusque. Then again, if you had geeky, middle-aged punk fanboys accosting you all day, you'd probably be sneery and unfriendly too. That's Tom up above, by the way. Not sure of the date, but he's the barefoot gent on the left, walking arm-in-arm with Patti Smith.
By this point, you're invariably sick to death of hearing me moan about New York City's myriad since-vanished record stores. As such, here's a minor diversion on a similar theme.
Prior to and alongside being a slavishly pedantic, feverishly committed music freak, I was also quite enamored of comic books. I was predominantly a fan of Marvel titles like "X-men," "Howard the Duck" and "Ghost Rider" (all three series having since been respectively degraded by cinematic adaptation), but pursued a few D.C. titles like "The New Teen Titans," "Sgt. Rock" and "The Green Lantern Corps." I was also into a few arguably esoteric, indie comics like "Elfquest," "American Flagg," "Cerebus the Aardvark," "Captain Canuck" and the original "Judge Dredd" books (lovingly illustrated by the great Brian Bolland). This stuff meant the world to me.
Initially, when I was first getting into comics, I just got my latest issues at a local newspaper joint on Lexington Avenue, but I soon changed my tune. I was over at my pal Sean's place, and he'd started keeping his comics in crisp, neat plastic bags (instead of just storing them in sloppy stacks under his bed, like I'd been doing). In my gradual transformation into a full-on comic collector, Sean and I started seeking out the specialty shops.
Unlike NYC's dwindling community of mom'n'pop record and disc shops, there are still quite a few comic shops scattered around the city today, but most of my original favorites are gone. I've spoken about it before, but Sean and I were particularly fond of an establishment on East 58th Street between Lexington and Park called The Comic Art Gallery. Despite the cache of the address, the Comic Art Gallery was through a suspicious-looking doorway and up a graffiti-slathered flight of stairs. Once you were inside, the place was a cramped, chilly little cell (I remember the sales staff all wearing down vests to stay warm in the winter months). They may have skimped on paying the heating bill, but the dudes behind The Comic Art Gallery knew how to utilize every square inch of their space. The place was packed from floor to ceiling with lovingly presented troves of carefully-preserved comic books. It felt like such a clandestine operation. Our furtive missions to the Comic Art Gallery to procure vintage issues of "The Fantastic Four" and such made us feel like we were involved in some covert drug ring. Fittingly, we were indeed addicted.
The other big spot to get our comics fix was a little shop on the corner of East 84th Street and Second Avenue. Supersnipe -- named after the secret identity of fictional Koppy McFad, the kid with the most comic books in America -- was another richly-attended shrine to all things comics. Much like the Comic Art Gallery to its south, Supersnipe occupied a pretty small space, but made the most of it. I remember the walls being red and the shop having a surprisingly high ceiling, or maybe that's because I was just much shorter at the time. But once you were inside, the visual stimuli was almost overwhelming. There were comics and meticulously framed comic book art absolutely everywhere. It was hard to know where to even begin looking for whatever rarified title you were after.
There were other places. I remember place further north on Second Avenue that was there for a bit called Action Comics. Then, of course, there was my beloved Forbidden Planet way downtown. But Supersnipe was really a special one.
I don't remember when Supersnipe closed its doors, but I have to guess at some point in the mid-to-late `80s. I was pretty bummed out. The Comic Art Gallery closed around the same era, only those guys ended up moving downtown to a bigger space on Sullivan Street, which hung on until the late 90's so. But still have nothing but fondness for those original shops.
Today, the building that housed the 58th street Comic Art Gallery is no more, and a parking facility stands in its footprint. Up on East 84th, meanwhile, the address that hosted Supersnipe now rents space to a Two Boots pizza outlet.
I'd searched for years for photographic evidence of both of these shops, but to no avail. It's not surprising that I've never found an image of the old Comic Art Gallery, given how hidden away it was (no sign on the door or on the street-facing window ... you either knew where to find it, or you didn't). But just the other day, I randomly found the picture below of the old Supersnipe storefront, and I practically wept. Eagle-eyed comic geeks could probably slap a year on this given the titles on display in the window (click on it to enlarge). But, anyway, this was Supersnipe, thanks to this blog.
Hey all... just a quick round-up of things that have been buzzing in my brain of late. Please enjoy.
Maybe my favorite story of the week, the month, the year, fuck it ...OF ALL TIME? Apparently, there's a gentleman in rural Switzerland who has been striking fear in the hearts of many by walking around the woods in a gas mask and a cloak (that's him up top) for about a decade. They call this mysterious wanderer "Le Loyon," and the authorities are now after him. Read his awesome story here.
Here's a bitchy one. If you don't already harbor palpable disdain for Anne Hathaway, ponder this: The Oscar-winning actress is selling her apartment in Brooklyn. Thing is, though, she didn't actually spend any time living in it.... she just used it "as a closet." Evidently, the 2,592-square-foot, 3-bedroom abode was too confining for her.
On the western side of the Washington Square Arch, there's a little door that my kids cannot resist knocking on absolutely every time we walk by (which is fairly often). Thanks to Gothamist, here's a look at what's behind that door.
It turns out that it’s a still from the 1978 film “The Eyes of Laura Mars,” starring Faye Dunaway as a fashion photographer with an odd gift for crime-scene premonition. I’m honestly not sure if the rest of the film lives up the arresting image above, but for those – like me – who haven’t seen the film, I’ve unearthed the scene in question below.
According to my friend, the director of photography was one Victor Kemper, also responsible for the visuals in such films as “Dog Day Afternoon” and “Pee Wee’s Big Adventure.”
In any case, enjoy the late 70’s vibe of chaos in Columbus Circle below…