This week’s video feature, by New Partisan regular A.R. Brook Lynn, is a short film about a cash-strapped Greenwich Village mother, Becky (NP contributor Hala Lettieri), and her six-and-a-half-year old daughter, Charlotte (Samantha Becker), on a trip to see her estranged husband, James (Salvatore Interlandi, writer and director of the widely acclaimed Charlie), and try to collect child support. James also features Angela Pietropinto (Welcome to the Dollhouse), and a cameo by New Partisan editor-in-chief Harry Siegel as the mental patient some say he was born to play.
His hands were in the belly pockets of the coat and as he drew close I noticed that he had a lazy eye. I don’t like to categorize people on the basis of their looks, but this man was a perfect rendering of a pulp novel hustler, appearing dangerous not so much for what he could do physically but, rather, morally.
Upstate’s declining population of increasingly elderly and poor remaining residents are no longer consistent conservatives. While Pataki, like Cuomo, has overseen this decline, he’s also clinging to the back of the demographic leviathan.
Flip through Weegee’s photos to see the city’s violent underbelly, or Berenice Abbott’s for razor-sharp views of the city’s canyons. Look to Michael Wesely for ghostlike, long-term exposures. When I look at Bill Travis’s work, I see something different and the closest parallels I can find are with photographs over a hundred years old.
Amber Scoon's Cortelyou Project, a series of paintings of what the 2000 census found to be America's most integrated neighborhod.
I must have studied that novel in at least two classes as an undergraduate. In fact, looking at my beat-up copy from back then, I have a sinking feeling that I even had to teach it one year in freshman comp. That was when I had to go over it carefully enough to explain to students what was good about it, and I always had the nagging suspicion that whatever it was, I’d missed it.
I think of Taras because he loved me when it was easy to love me.
I wore my hair in two braids, a thin whippet of a smiling girl, not unlike a very young Therese: her smooth brow, her lovely cheekbone, her innocent abandon, the pretty white shirt collar, her little ankle socks.
I am no longer that. But what is Taras? I project him on the walls of my memory, a voyeuristic image, a dried rose hung upside down in the attic, stripped of meaning, withered. I do not any longer know what he is or where he is or how he is.
I think of him but I do not dream of him.
But I dream of Kiev.
Place matters: its eradication can neither be reversed nor the sin atoned. No book, no film can ever restore what dies inside us when the wrecking crews descend.