Santiago Calatrava’s New York City Oculus

The main concourse inside the Oculus

I know it’s a cliché to say, I don’t know much about art—but I know what I like. But in my case it is true. I also know little about architecture, but that has never stopped me from appreciating great examples of the form, be they magnificent Gothic cathedrals or cloud-busting skyscrapers; iconic bridges, or beautifully constructed Victorian homes.

On my visit to New York City last year, I often found myself surfacing from the bowels of the massive Fulton Street subway station, from where I made my way into Santiago Calatrava’s amazing Oculus, or to give the building its official title, the World Trade Center Transportation Hub. Calatrava seems to have become a somewhat controversial architect for reasons I don’t fully understand, and since I am not qualified to comment on them, I won’t try and explain them here. I have not personally seen any other of his architectural constructions, so I can offer no comment on those either.

What I have seen with my own eyes, however, is the Oculus that sits above the vast underground subway and Path train network that services New Jersey, and sends tendrils of underground railway lines snaking up the island of Manhattan, all the way into the Bronx, and across the East River into the heart of Brooklyn.

Each time I walked into the vast hall that sits below the soaring white ribs that form its outer shell, I have been awed by the grandeur and vast scale. I suspect many New Yorkers don’t take the time to linger in the building or pause to appreciate the towering interior. If that is the case, it is a great pity.

The Oculus seen from Brookfield Place

Might that be why the building has come in for much criticism? Even now that the building is complete, the Oculus comes in for regular bagging. Why? Is it the design? Is it the final cost, which blew out from an initial projected cost of $2.2 billion to around $4 billion? Is it because only 40-50,000 commuters pass through the hub on an average weekday? Is it because, as the writer Martin Filler describes it in his article for the New York Review of Books, headlined New York’s Vast Flop, nothing more than a glorified shopping centre? Maybe it is for all these and many other reasons. 

In the article (which is in fact a review of three newish books examining various aspects of what came to be known as Ground Zero), Filler complains that the construction of the Oculus was a “…stupendous waste of public funds.” To be fair to Martin Filler, the title and thrust of his review seems to be aimed at the whole of the World Trade Center complex, not just at Calatrava’s Oculus.

However, I just can’t bring myself to agree with Filler’s feelings about the Oculus, which, apart from the “…stupendous waste of public funds,” he variously describes as "...this kitschy jeu d'esprit" (meaning: a light-hearted display of wit and cleverness, especially in a work of literature.) Literature? Whatever...

The Oculus and WTC One

Martin Filler also talks about the “…maudlin sentimentalism of his [Calatrava’s] design," and in his most damning paragraph writes in part: “What was originally likened by its creator to a fluttering paloma de la paz (dove of peace) because of its white, winglike, upwardly flaring rooflines seems more like a steroidal stegosaurus that wandered onto the set of a sci-fi flick and died there.”

Wow. Don’t hold back, Martin. And he doesn’t. He goes on to write: “Instead of an ennobling civic concourse on the order of Grand Central or Charles Follen McKim’s endlessly lamented Pennsylvania Station, what we now have on top of the new transit facilities is an eerily dead-feeling, retro-futuristic, Space Age Gothic shopping mall with acres of highly polished, very slippery white marble flooring like some urban tundra.”

And further:
“Far from this being the “exhilarating nave of a genuine people’s cathedral,” as Paul Goldberger claimed in Vanity Fair, Calatrava’s superfluous shopping shrine is merely what the Germans call a Konsumtempel (temple of consumption), and a generic one at that.”

Whew! I think it’s pretty clear that Martin Filler doesn’t like the Oculus. Personally, I’m with Paul Goldberger from Vanity Fair. I love the building. I love the “white, winglike, upwardly flaring rooflines,” and I also love the “retro-futuristic, Space Age Gothic shopping mall” feel of the building. If it doesn’t turn up in a big budget, oversized superhero movie sometime during the next five years I’ll eat my hat.

Who, but a handful of New Yorker’s cares that the complex took twelve years to complete instead of the five originally planned for? Who, but a bunch of bean counters even remembers that the price of the building blew out to $4 billion? And does it matter that Grand Central Terminal has a daily commuter tally of 750,000 subway riders, compared to the already noted 40-50,000 that pass through the Oculus? Of course not. Nor does it matter, that it cost more than One World Trade Center.

What matters today is that the building stands completed, and that as long as it is maintained and cared for properly it will still be standing there in not just fifty years, but in a hundred years. Properly cared for and maintained, no one (apart from a few critics

Visitors gather for the official opening, August 16, 2016

and envious architects), will remember or care about the length of time it took to complete, or the final cost.

Finally, in his March 9, 2017 article, Filler writes that the Oculus "...opened to the public in March 2016. thought with no fanfare whatever." While that may have been the case, it is also true that there was in fact an official opening for the center six months after Filler's article was published, on Tuesday, August 16. I know this because I was there, as were thousands of other people.

Native New Yorkers, and the many thousands of visitors who pass through the Oculus will make up their own minds about how they feel about the building. I’m willing to bet that the vast majority of them will stop to look up and admire the sheer scale and beauty of this new architectural gem, which I predict will eventually go on to be lauded for the “retro-futuristic, Space Age Gothic” building it may well be.

More Information:

• The Fulton Center...
• Westfield World Trade Center...
• World Trade Center PATH Station...

Was David Letterman At 1969 Jimi Hendrix Gig?

Well you can call me crazy but today I was watching a YouTube video of Jimi Hendrix playing a concert at London’s famed Royal Albert Hall in 1969, and as a camera pans across the faces of audience members, I swear I spotted David Letterman in the crowd.

Yes, that’s the David Letterman of the old Late Show With… show.

Letterman, who was born in 1947, would have been around 21 or 22 at the time of the concert.

Does anyone know whether he ever mentioned seeing Hendrix in London on his show?

Below is a screen grab from the video with an insert I’ve added of Letterman. You can see a clear resemblance, or am I imagining things?

In the video of the 1969 Royal Albert Hall concert, Letterman appears for about three seconds the 2:43 mark.

So, am I crazy or not? 

Festive Times in The Festival State

Adelaide Fringe Parade

As ‘Mad March’ fast approaches, Adelaide, the capital of South Australia is well into its festive season. Already this summer the city has hosted the Tour Down Under (January 17—22), that annual international bike race that was first staged in 1999, with the local rider Stuart O’Grady taking the win. Since then the Tour has grown to become the biggest cycle race in the southern hemisphere with international cycle stars like Cadel Evans, Marcel Kittel, Andy Schleck and Andre Greipel just a few of the many great cyclists who have participated. 

But the Tour Down Under is only the starter event for South Australia’s festival season. Underway as I write this is the Adelaide Fringe (February 17—March 19). The Fringe has been taking place for more than 55 years, and this year features a veritable smorgasbord of more than 500 acts covering everything from comedy to cabaret, music to magic, visual arts, theatre, film, and so much more.

For many local and visitors, the Adelaide Fringe holds more interest and excitement than the premier arts event in South Australia, the annual Adelaide Festival (March 3–19). This major international festival has been taking place since 1960, and features a program of theatre, opera, music and dance, more visual arts and film, talks, and installations, some commissioned specifically for the event.

Writer's Week

A major component of the Adelaide Festival is the free Writer’s Week (March 4–9), which takes place in the open air at the Pioneer Women’s Memorial Garden. This year, as always, Writer’s Week celebrates a diverse range of writers and writing, and includes writers from Chile and Cuba, Ireland, Iceland and Indonesia, the United States and Canada, and of course a host of writers from Australia. For a book lover like myself, the opportunity to listen to some of the best writers on the planet talk about books and read from their latest works is not to be missed.

But wait, there’s more!

Rev heads, have not been left out. Somewhere, in the middle of this high art and low culture, the annual Supercar motor race, the Clipsal 500 (March 2–5), hits the streets. During this event visitors get to indulge their love of fast cars, burnt rubber, skimpily clad women, and high-octane fuel. At the end of the day's activities on Friday and Saturday night, participants can rock into the night to the music of the Hilltop Hoods, The Funkoars, Baby Animals and one of the great Aussie rock bands, Hunters & Collectors.

But Mad March (as the locals refer to this period every summer), is the gift that keeps on giving. If you have not yet been exhausted or financial broken by fast cars, highbrow theatre and arts, books and their writers, and the almost unlimited shenanigans of the Adelaide Fringe you can always put on your tie-dye T’s, braid your hair into dreadlocks, douse yourself in patchouli oil, and spend a weekend at WOMADelaide (March 10–13).

This four-day world music festival is located in the city’s Botanic Gardens, and this year includes more than 60 acts and speakers from more than 20 countries. Among the performers this year are the Hot 8 Brass Band from New Orleans; the Specials, a band that brought an updated version of British Ska music to the world; and The Philip Glass Ensemble which will be performing music from Koyaanisqatsi. Apart from the music, WOMADelaide features workshops, Planet Talks, an ElectroLounge, a KidZone, a host of international food stalls, and a Healing Village for those needing some time out from the feasting and dancing.

Whew! I'm exhausted simply from the anticipation and the promise this list of amazing events suggests. Sadly, time, money and age will all combine to ensure that at most, I will only be able to dip into the many sweets on offer. But then, that is probably exactly how it should be.

Dear reader, you may not be able to attend any of the above events at this time, but I seriously encourage you to think about planning a visit to Adelaide during the summer festival season. If there is one thing I can guarantee you, it is that you won't be bored.

Crop Trust: Global Seed Vault

Nestled in the Svalbard archipelago lies a small unassuming-yet-sturdy building created to last forever. While it may look minimal, this building is one of the most important in the world because it hold the key to continual hitman survival. It houses the world’s largest—and most secure—collection of crop diversity.

While the Svalbard Global Seed Vault isn’t the only gene bank in the world, its seed collection is the most likely to maintain funding while also withstanding war, natural disasters and climate change.

Built by the Norwegian government and encouraged by the Crop Trust when the vulnerability of other gene banks came to light, the Global Seed Vault serves as a timeless record of crops throughout generations. It is meant to ensure—regardless of what happens to the planet—that agriculture can survive and thus, the human race can survive.

Since 1903, more than 93 percent of fruit and vegetable varieties in the United States have gone extinct. With a changing climate, the only way agriculture can adapt and continue to feed the world is with crop diversity. The Global Seed Vault’s mission is to ensure agriculture remains resilient to environmental changes.

There are currently more than 880,000 samples in the vault—seeds from every country in the world. Ultimately, the hope is to greatly increase this number. The vault has the ability to store 4.5 million varieties of crops and a maximum of 2.5 billion seeds.

It is every citizen’s moral duty—and in the world’s best interest—to come together to fund the Svalbard Global Seed Vault, helping it to not just survive, but thrive. Every $625.00 saves a single crop variety. Please join GoPro in supporting Crop Trust’s Seed Vault to safeguard crop diversity forever.

Below, follow world-renowned scientist Cary Fowler into the heart of the arctic, where the Svalbard Global Seed Vault lies nestled in the frozen Norwegian landscape.

GoPro Cause: Forever Securing World Food Supply with Crop Trust from GoPro on Vimeo.

Want to get involved? Visit Crop Trust here…

- o0o -

UPDATE: FEBRUARY 25, 2017

Just days after adding this post, more information popped up on my Facebook feed linking the a Smithsonian magazine story titles, Syria Just Made a Major Seed Bank Deposit in the Svalbard Seed Bank.

According to the story, in 2011, during the Arab Spring, “…an advisor to the Crop Trust, which operates the vault in Svalbard, reached out to the Syrian-based seed bank to ask if they needed to back up their seeds. Though officials initially refused, they eventually acquiesced—just in case. Soon after, the political situation began to degrade.”

Thankfully, 49,000 types of seeds arrived in Svalbard just before turmoil hit Aleppo.

Read more from the Smithsonian magazine here...

Writers From Life's Other Side

A small selection of books bought this year

Over the past few years I have made a point of seeking out writers that have never been on my radar, despite the accolades they have garnered for their writing. I am especially interested in discovering and reading writers from ethnic backgrounds that offer a new and unique (for me), view of life that I have never experienced or imagined. Additionally, I have been seeking out male and female writers of colour, who tend to add another layer of insight and experience to their writing that non-white male and female writers are simply unable to provide.

Among my female 'discoveries' have been Maya Angelou (I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings); Zora Neale Hurston (Their Eyes Were Watching God); Jesmyn Ward (Men We Reaped, and Salvage The Bones); and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (That Thing Around Your Neck, and Americanah).

Male writers of colour that have also come to my attention and join my list of new 'discoveries' include the brilliant and insightful Ta-Nehisi Coates (The Beautiful Struggle, and his stunning follow-up, Between The World And Me); Teju Cole (Every Day Is For The Thief); Colson Whitehead (Apex Hides The Hurt); Ernest J. Gaines (A Gathering of Old Men); and Daniel Black, whose recent book The Coming, I examined here...

Still more of my recent book buying adventures

Of course, I am not completely ignorant about the pantheon of great African-American writers who were, or are contemporaries of the above writers. Men such as Langston Hughes, James Baldwin, W.E.B DuBois and Ralph Ellison are names I have been familiar with for many years. Of these four writers, the only one I had read was James Baldwin. Indeed, earlier this year I reread two of Baldwin's now classic essay collections, Nobody Knows My Name (from 1961), and The Fire Next Time (1963).

I had read these and other books by James Baldwin during my 20's, but was motivated to read them again because two contemporary writers, Ta-Nehisi Coates, and Jesmyn Ward have responded to Baldwin's famous essay, The Fire Next Time, by publishing in these past couple of years, Between The World And Me (Coates, 2015), and a collection of modern essays edited by Ward called The Fire This Time (2016).

Until recent years, my knowledge of female minority writers has been all but non-existent. I have read Toni Morrison over the years, and while I was familiar with Alice Walker and her book, The Color Purple, I had not, and still have not, read that or any other of her books. To be honest, I can not recall having read a novel by another woman of colour before Toni Morrison, which, for an avid reader like myself, feels like a terrible admission to be making.

Clearly I have a lot of catching up to do, and the list of authors, both male and female that I am adding to my reading list, continues to grow and expand. I just hope I have the time and energy to do the authors and their books, justice.

Here are links to some of the books I have read (or plan to read) this year...

• Between The World And Me, and The Beautiful Struggle, by Ta-Nehisi Coates
• Salvage The Bones, and Men We Reaped, by Jesmyn Ward
• The Underground Railroad, and Apex Hides The Hurt, by Colson Whitehead

All are worth reading.

Travel Tales From The Past: A Venetian Diddler

As an avid reader, I make it a habit of mine to regularly scan through the new additions to that great online collection of public domain books at the Gutenberg.Org website. Currently there are more than 54,000 titles available on the site, and all are free to download (in the ePub and Kindle format), or read online.

Today, on a whim I decided to check out the September 5, 1840 edition of The Irish Penny Journal, and to my delight found the following cautionary tale from a mister Michael Kelly who recounted his experience with a Venetian scammer.

Note: Wikipedia explains that a zecchino or sequin, was "...a gold coin weighing 3.5 grams (0.12 oz) of gold." It was minted by the Republic of Venice from the 13th century onwards.

Oh, and a Capon is a rooster that has been castrated to improve the quality of its flesh for food - although, I hasten to add, not the quality of its sex life! But I digress. Let's get on with our cautionary tale...

* * * 

A Venetian Diddler

When in Venice, I had but two zecchinos left wherewith to fight my way through this wicked world. My spirits for the first time deserted me: I never passed so miserable a night in my life, and in shame of my “doublet and hose,” I felt very much inclined to “cry like a child.”

While tossing on my pillow, however, I chanced to recollect a letter which my landlord of Bologna, Signor Passerini, had given me to a friend of his, a Signor Andrioli; for, as he told me, he thought the introduction might be of use to me.

In the morning I went to the Rialto coffee-house, to which I was directed by the address of the letter. Here I found the gentleman who was the object of my search. After reading my credentials very graciously, he smiled, and requested me to take a turn with him in the Piazza St Marc. He was a fine-looking man, of about sixty years of age. I remarked there was an aristocratic manner about him, and he wore a very large tie-wig, well powdered, with an immensely long tail. He addressed me with a benevolent and patronizing air, and told me that he should be delighted to be of service to me, and bade me from that moment consider myself under his protection. “A little business,” said he, “calls me away at this moment, but if you will meet me here at two o’clock, we will adjourn to my cassino, where, if you can dine on one dish, you will perhaps do me the favour to partake of a boiled capon and rice. I can only offer you that; perhaps a rice soup, for which my cook is famous; and it may be just one or two little things not worth mentioning.”

A boiled capon—rice soup—other little things, thought I—manna in the wilderness! I strolled about, not to get an appetite, for that was ready, but to kill time. My excellent, hospitable, long-tailed friend was punctual to the moment; I joined him, and proceeded towards his residence.

As we were bending our steps thither, we happened to pass a luganigera’s (a ham-shop), in which there was some ham ready dressed in the window. My powdered patron paused,—it was an awful pause; he reconnoitred, examined, and at last said, “Do you know, Signor, I was thinking that some of that ham would eat deliciously with our capon:—I am known in this neighbourhood, and it would not do for me to be seen buying ham. But do you go in, my child, and get two or three pounds of it, and I will walk on and wait for you.”

I went in of course, and purchased three pounds of the ham, to pay for which I was obliged to change one of my two zecchinos. I carefully folded up the precious viand, and rejoined my excellent patron, who eyed the relishing slices with the air of a gourmand; indeed, he was somewhat diffuse in his own dispraise for not having recollected to order his servant to get some before he left home. During this peripatetic lecture on gastronomy, we happened to pass a cantina, in plain English, a wine-cellar. At the door he made another full stop.

“In that house,” said he, “they sell the best Cyprus wine in Venice—peculiar wine—a sort of wine not to be had any where else; I should like you to taste it; but I do not like to be seen buying wine by retail to carry home; go in yourself; buy a couple of flasks, and bring them to my cassino; nobody hereabouts knows you, and it won’t signify in the least.”

This last request was quite appalling; my pocket groaned to its very centre; however, recollecting that I was on the high road to preferment, and that a patron, cost what he might, was still a patron, I made the plunge, and, issuing from the cantina, set forward for my venerable friend’s cassino, with three pounds of ham in my pocket, and a flask of wine under each arm.

I continued walking with my excellent long-tailed patron, expecting every moment to see an elegant, agreeable residence, smiling in all the beauties of nature and art; when, at last, in a dirty miserable lane, at the door of a tall dingy-looking house, my Mæcenas stopped, indicated that we had reached our journey’s end, and, marshalling me the way that I should go, began to mount three flights of sickening stairs, at the top of which I found his cassino: it was a little Cas, and a deuce of a place to boot; in plain English, it was a garret. The door was opened by a wretched old miscreant, who acted as cook, and whose drapery, to use a gastronomic simile, was “done to rags.”

Upon a ricketty apology for a table were placed a tattered cloth, which once had been white, and two plates; and presently in came a large bowl of boiled rice.

“Where’s the capon?” said my patron to his man.

“Capon!” echoed the ghost of a servant; “the——”

“Has not the rascal sent it?” cried the master.

“Rascal!” repeated the man, apparently terrified.

“I knew he would not,” exclaimed my patron, with an air of exultation, for which I saw no cause. “Well, well, never mind, put down the ham and the wine; with those and the rice, I dare say, young gentleman, you will be able to make it out. I ought to apologise, but in fact it is all your own fault that there is not more; if I had fallen in with you earlier, we should have had a better dinner.”

I confess I was surprised, disappointed, and amused; but as matters stood, there was no use in complaining, and accordingly we fell to, neither of us wanting the best of all sauces—appetite.

I soon perceived that my promised patron had baited his trap with a fowl to catch a fool; but as we ate and drank, all care vanished, and, rogue as I suspected him to be, my long-tailed friend was a clever witty fellow, and, besides telling me a number of anecdotes, gave me some very good advice; amongst other things to be avoided, he cautioned me against numbers of people who in Venice lived only by duping the unwary. I thought this counsel came very ill from him. “Above all,” said he, “keep up your spirits, and recollect the Venetian proverb, ‘A hundred years of melancholy will not pay one farthing of debt.’”—Reminiscences of Michael Kelly.

* * *

For other cautionary tales of travel scams, read One Ring To Scam Us All, and Another City, Another Scam.