Let’s Hear It for Massachusetts Politics

 

 

Rally vs. Trump in Northampton on his birthday

 

Readers of this blog know that I lambast politicians on a regular basis just to stay in shape. This time I’m here to praise a few, not bury them. I’m lucky enough to live in Massachusetts, where politics is serious stuff. We actually expect our elected officials to listen to us. If you’re not good with constituent service, you’re chum for bigger fish.

 

Let me lead with something that made me proud to live in Northampton. On Saturday, thanks to the tireless efforts of our friend Devin Bruce and a generous donation from Marjorie Hess, we dedicated a roofed, outdoor stage at the Forbes Library. Such things happen across the country, but how often do you find a state senator dancing with the city mayor? Mayor Gina-Louise Sciara was unabashedly sashaying with Senator Jo Comerford, as Representative Lindsay Sabadosa, several city councilors, library trustees, the Forbes director, and the audience applauded. This wasn’t a political stunt; it’s how Jo and Lindsay act most of the time. Some in the crowd were elderly and I watched Jo and Lindsay offer their arms to help them get up and down. Jo told me it’s one of her favorite things to do. I hugged both of them, whom I see at my local café, and told them they “rock.” I don’t always agree with our mayor, but I’d be the last to say she doesn’t care. 

 

A shout out to U.S. Representative Jim McGovern. He lives in Worcester, an hour away, but his district is large. Jim is a member of the Amherst Cinema and attends all manner of events west of Worcester. How many people can say that about their U.S. Reps? He’s also an outspoken critic of Donald Trump. Jim attends protests and holds town forums on current politics that fill halls and large churches.

 

Most of us in Western Mass also love U.S. Senator Elizabeth Warren and find it rude, crude, and unrefined when Trump calls her Pocohantes. He hates her because she speaks truth to power and is uncowed by his bullying tactics. She knows way more about economics than Trump, supports working people, and thinks that consumer protection is far more important that unbridled capitalism. Nor is she afraid to rub noses with the masses.

 

Our governor is Maura Healey, the first lesbian governor of any state. Yeah, she’s the kind of person Republican radicals think is immoral. She was attorney general before she was governor and here’s what her “lifestyle choice,” as conservatives like to call it, affects her job. Not. One. Damn. Bit. I sometimes wish she was more forceful, but she has a 60% approval rating. Trump’s is 39%. ‘Nuff said.

 

How about Mayor Michelle Wu of Boston? She calls herself a “pragmatic liberal” and embodies that label. She not only supports working women, she has served on both the city council and as mayor while nursing her newborns. Wu helped develop the Boston Green New Deal, stood up to Trump when he claimed Boston was riddled by crime by using actual statistics, has told ICE it’s not welcome, and gets along well with cops and fire fighters. Right-leaning opponents got behind Josh Kraft, son of the New England Patriots owner. Wu crushed him in the primary with 72% of the vote.

 

The cherry on the sundae is that because we border Vermont, Bernie Sanders is a frequent visitor!

 

Area Code 413. That's us!

 It's true that neither Vermont nor Massachusetts is a utopia, but if you’re a dispirited progressive and can’t stand living in a red state any longer, move to Deep Blue Massachusetts. Even better, come to Western Mass, as pockets of old-style machine politics proliferate in Eastern Mass. In addition to the pols I praised, other progs in Western Mass include: Natalie Blais, Mindy Domb, Adam Gómez, Homar Gomez, Robyn Kennedy, David LeBouef, Jake Oliveira, and Budd Williams. Massachusetts grades strictly by percentages on the progressive scale. If you only vote according that scale 71% of the time, you get a C-! My apologies if I missed a few progressives. What a treat to live in a region where the list of hacks is short and mayors dance with state senators. 

 

Rob Weir

Musings on Charlie Kirk

 

 

Cut Off the Oxygen

 

There’s a John Prine* song with a chorus that goes: Blow up your TV. Throw away your paper/Go the country. Build you a home/Plant a little garden. Eat a lotta peaches/Try an’ find Jesus, on your own.

 

I already have a home in the woods, albeit in the ‘burbs, and my gardening skills are minimal, but the rest of the song (“Spanish Pipe Dream”) resonates. I pulled out one of my guitars, sang it, and smiled, though I was in terrible voice. (This happens about every other time I play these days.)

 

This is my prelude to Charlie Kirk. I had never heard of him until he was shot. I wish he hadn’t been; I was much happier when he was a complete unknown instead of a right-wing martyr. I’ve known lots of guys like Kirk and have done my best to ignore them rather than getting bent out of shape about what they say. The town where I grew up had/has many evangelicals and very few Jews or Catholics. I’ve not done a head count but it’s possible evangelicals outnumber mainstream Protestants. I have gone to a few evangelical services out of curiosity. To say they were not my thang is an understatement.

 

During my young adulthood there were other voices that conflated faith with capitalism, love of celebrity, or both. I admire religious people who hold fast to faith as a way to live a good life. I too was once involved with a youth group when I was searching to make sense of–to use Douglas Adams’ words–life, the universe, and everything.* It was not, by the way, Campus Crusade for Christ, which was way too conservative. I have no idea if it’s still around and, if so, what it’s like now. Back then, though, CCC seemed more interested in condemnation than salvation. The 1970s and 80s were when TV evangelists sprouted like weeds: Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker, Joel Osteen, Oral Roberts, Pat Robertson, Jimmy Lee Swaggert, Robert Tilton…. It didn’t require a college education to know that most were hucksters milking gullible cash cows to keep them in mansions, luxury cars, and (in some cases) hookers. There were also those like Hal Lindsey*, who were latter day Millerites predicting the apocalypse. I’m looking out my study window and can report that Earth is still here.

 

I don’t wish to tar every minister or person of faith with a brush of fraud. I’ve also known religious leaders who were the proverbial salt of the earth. I’m not Catholic, but I knew Father Mike of St. Michaels College in mid-80s and he’d get my vote for canonization. I won't embarrass locals I'd lump in the same camp. There is, however, a reason why movies like Elmer Gantry, Boy Erased, Frailty, Guyana, Jesus Camp, Leap of Faith, The Night of the Hunter, Martha Marcy May Marlene, Marjoe, The Master, The Magdalene Sisters, and scores more exist. And I’ve not even touched upon those blowing the lid off of hucksterism in other faiths. My standard comes from Mary Chapin Carpenter who reminds us: forgiveness doesn’t come with a debt.

 

It also doesn’t come with a complete disregard for human nature. Or reason. Millions of kids go through youth groups and hear messages akin to those of Charlie Kirk. As they age, most eventually go down a different path. Why? All the usual human reasons linked to ideals versus desire. Mainly they find an ascetic’s life too confining, either because it’s impractical or the messenger doesn’t practice what he preaches. To go back to John Prine, the disillusioned realize they need to work out things for themselves.

 

I don’t know how sincere Kirk was, but I know it’s stupid to kill people like him. Okay, my Quakerism says it’s stupid to kill anyone, but it’s wicked dumb to create martyrs or applaud murderers. Hucksters, fanatics, celebrities, and influencers feed off our oxygen. Ignore them. Turn off the TV, toss aside the paper, and try to find Jesus/Allah/Buddha/etc. on your own. Ditto music or clothing you like or a Democrat who can get elected. Okay, maybe the last one is far-fetched.  

 

* For the record, Prine was a serious Christian. Adams is the author of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy sci-fi series. Lindsey (d. 2004) wrote The Late Great Planet Earth and numerous sequels.

Watching Over Her Imaginative and Moving

 

 

 

 

Watching Over Her (2023 in French, 2025 in English translation)

By Jean-Baptiste Andrea

Simon & Schuster, 584 pages.

★★★★★

 

Watching Over Her won a Prix Goncourt for the best and most imaginative work of the year when it was released in France in 2023. It has subsequently won other awards. English readers are now lucky enough to be able to read it, courtesy of an excellent translation by Frank Wynne. It is a long novel, but an amazing one that transports us to the early decades of the 20^th century.

 

It opens in an Italian monastery in 1986 with a man on his deathbed. He is Michelangelo Vitaliani, a dwarf whose name is nearly as long as he. Vialiani is Italian and made his reputation there, but he was born in France and, much to his chagrin, was often called “Il Francesa.” He called himself “Mimo,” partly to escape the burden of his first name. (That Michelangelo bore the surname Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni and since his death in 1564, has been considered as perhaps the greatest artistic talent of the Renaissance.) It was also Mimo’s fate to also be a sculptor.

 

At birth it wasn’t clear that he would much of anything. His family was mired in poverty, his mother was absent, and his father died of venereal disease contracted from a prostitute during World War I, and no other family member wanted Mimo. After all, who wants a dwarf? In the not-quite-modern world of 1916 Europe, folk tales held that dwarves were bad luck. His father left money for his upkeep, but his first “guardian” passed him on to another who put him to work as a stonecutter. One useful thing his father left him was an ability to carve stone and Mimo quickly surpassed the skills of his fellow workers and masters.

 

Watching Over Her often feels as if it were pulled from The Canterbury Tales. The “her” in the title is Viola Orsini, the bohemian daughter of a proud aristocratic family. They come to each other’s attention when Mimo and other members of “Uncle” Alberto’s crew are working on the Orsini estate. Alberto is not Mimo’s uncle, nor does his dwarfism repulse Viola, as she too is an outcast. As Mimo fashions things in stone, Viola takes it upon herself to fashion his intellect one book at a time. They rendezvous in a cemetery, as her parents would be appalled to see her spending time with a diminutive tradesman. Those meetings in the graveyard are the genesis of one of the oddest and most unpredictable relationships in recent literature. One could call it lovers-not-lovers.

 

Reversal of fortunes is a common literary trope, but that between the Orsinis and Mimo is akin to twin glass elevators, with that of the Orsinis descending as Mimo’s ascends. He soon does commissions for the Orsinis, sups at their table, and smokes Orsini cigars, but is never considered as match for Viola. Mimo also sculpts for the church, which makes him one of the most celebrated artists in all of Italy. That’s rather amusing, as Mimo is more sinner than saint. As his purse bulges, much within it is spent on drink and rental women, though he always yearns for the unattainable Viola. She, in turn, becomes a family pawn as she reaches marriageable age. Think of them as each other’s oddball guardian angel.

 

Do not, however, expect any old-fashioned happy ending. Where Waiting For Her departs from the aforementioned Canterbury Tales vibe is that the 1920s into the1940s are the age of Mussolini in Italy. How does a cash-poor noble family like the Orsinis respond to the often vulgar Il Duce? For that matter, what does a famous sculptor like Mimo do when fascists wish to employ him? To again reference Chaucer, Waiting for Her is also a morality play. If you will, events also tends to bring the glass elevators to the same level.

 

How many books hinge on how the promise of youth is sullied by adult realities? Author Jean-Baptiste Andrea has written something more complex, a novel of great humor, bridled passion, burning ambition, and deep sorrow. In this (sort of) love story, the question of who do you love stumbles over the query what do you love. 

 

#NetGalley 

#WaitingforHer 

 

Rob Weir

Note: This book is scheduled to release in February, but you might want to pre-order it now. It's an amazing work and rumors are that it will be available earlier.

Zielfeld Girl: Walking the Road to Fame?

 

 

 

Ziegfeld Girl (1941)

Directed by Robert Leonard

MGM/Loew’s, 132 minutes, Not rated.

★★★★

 

Like numerous classic films, Ziegfeld Girl has backstories that might not be familiar for contemporary viewers. Florenz Ziegfeld never appears in the film. He wasn’t needed; early 20^th century audiences would have known all about the Ziegfeld Follies. (Think a better-costumed version of Radio City’s Rockettes.) Ziegfeld was famous for his lavish dance and music productions. The film accurately records that a new Ziegfeld production was an anticipated event in big cities. Depression era films frequently spotlighted the disconnect between show biz opulence and the financial hardships of ordinary Americans. To be chosen for a big Broadway show was like winning the lottery.

 

Ziegfeld Girl often seems an extended infomercial for the Follies. It was! Plus, a semi- sequel to the 1936 film Ziegfeld Follies. The storyline follows rather common Depression era tropes. It is a bit like Ruby Keeler’s hoofer-to-star arc in 42nd Street of  a cast trying out for a show, each one of them hoping for instant fame. If you don't know that film, 42^nd Street think of more recent films such as A Chorus Line.  Ziegfeld Girl has three young women waiting to be discovered: Sandra Kolter (Hedy Lamarr), Sheila Regan (Lana Turner), and Susan Gallagher (Judy Garland). Garland played a 17-year-old, which wasn't too much of a stretch because she was 19 at the time. She was cast because of her enormous success in The Wizard of Oz two years earlier. Not surprisingly, she plays a naive minor considered to be an extra or go-fer because she wasn't particularly pretty or glamorous by Ziegfeld standards.  And then they heard her sing!

 

Most of the characters in this film were exceptionally well known at the time the movie was released. Jimmy Stewart played Sheila's boyfriend Gil Young, a working-class truck driver and sometimes bootlegger. Philip Dorn was Lamarr’s husband Franz, and the cast also included Dan Daly, Edward Everett Norton Jackie Cooper, and Eve Arden. The lesser-known Charles J. Winninger appeared as Susan's father, a faded vaudevillian, and upstaged some of the more famous actors. He was charming as Susan's father/chaperone who wheedles his way onto the stage. He sings “Mr. Gallagher Mr. Shean,” a 1922 vaudeville hit, with none other than Al Shean himself. If Shean’s name rings no bells, know that he was an uncle to the Marx brothers.

 

Roles seen in other films from the 30s and 40s appear in Ziegfeld Girl. Lana Turner for example, is a girl from Brooklyn who is seduced by rich older men who keep her at a level of luxury she'd like to get used to. Of course, this puts a strain on her relationship with Gil. Tony Martin plays Frank Merton a melodramatic singer. I confess that his voice drives me crazy, hence I fast forwarded his songs, as I always do in Marx Brothers’ films in which he appears. Nonetheless, the individual stories of Ziegfeld Girl were quite moving. Many Ziegfeld shows featured large casts of women who did very little other than walk down stage stairs wearing elaborate costumes. One often needed little talent other than beauty and the ability not to fall over. Hedy Lamarr is one such individual, though she was always put in the front because of her sultry attractiveness. Movie husband Franz is a very interesting character; he too tried out for the Follies–as a pianist–but was rejected because he was too good. After all, you don't want to draw audience attention away from the bevy of beauties parading in front. How does Franz reconcile with the fact that his wife is the center of the male gaze?

 

I made a comparison to A Chorus Line and this film was really quite a lot like it. One watches to find out how the central characters resolve their various obstacles, including personal dilemmas. I wouldn't call it a brilliant movie–Herbert Stothart’s score was one of the film’s few Oscar nominations-–but it was a boffo hit in 1941. One of the great pleasures of watching it today is to see how a talented cast can hold our attention despite a thin script, and even if you don't get all of the period inferences. And I admit, Hedy Lamarr looks mighty fine in her star headdress.

 

 

 

Rob Weir

 

 

 

 

Boomtown: Hollywood Looks art the Oil Boom

 

 

Boomtown (1940)

Directed by Jack Conway

MGM, 119 minutes, Not-rated

 

Boomtown spotlights Hollywood heavyweights Clark Gable, Spencer Tracy, Claudette Colbert, and Hedy Lamarr. Tracy was miffed that he got second billing, but the unexpected 1934 hit It Happened One Night launched Clark Gable’s star higher in the sky. Colbert, Gable’s costar in 1934, took a role originally written for Myrna Loy.

 

Some history helps understand this comedy/drama better. The novel that led to the script was set in Texas, but producers and director Jack Conway wisely changed the locale to Oklahoma. Remember studying the Trail of Tears in U.S. history? It involved the expulsion of 60,000 Native Americans from five Southeastern states in the years 1830-50. Some 13-16,000 lives were lost in the forced-march to lands in “Indian Territory,” allegedly theirs forever. If you’ve seen Killers of the Flower Moon or read the book, you know that “forever” didn’t last the 19^th century. Land rushes led whites to move into Indian Territory and statehood for Oklahoma* in 1907, just as an oil boom occurred. Coincidence?  

 

Boom Town is an oil-slicked Western that bypasses this sad history, but it’s historical in presenting a frenzy analogous to the California gold rush. Entrepreneurs, outcasts, and dreamers poured into Oklahoma hellbent on making a fortune. In many ways oil strike towns were more like the Wild West than the cattle drives of American myth. In both gold and oil instant towns, corporations and those who had money to invest carried off the biggest hauls. A few oil independent “wildcatters” also struck it rich–enough to keep more settlers coming. “Big John” McMasters (Gable) and “Square John” Sand (Tracy)–called “Shorty” by McMasters–are wildcatters with a record of dry holes and not much jingle in their pockets. They meet in a boom town and decide to double their chances by teaming up. They pull a swindle on equipment seller Luther Aldrich (Frank Morgan) for their futile first big attempt and have to skedaddle just ahead of the sheriff.

 

They scrap together enough money to pay off most of what they owe, but con Aldrich one more time. Luckily, they strike a large deposit. Not so fortunately, McMasters meets Betsy Bartlett (Colbert) at the bar of a hotel and the two have instant chemistry and  marry. Sand thought of her as sweet on him, but accepts his fate. He does, however, take a protective stance toward Betsy. When he catches McMasters dancing very closely with a barroom floozy, the two quarrel to the degree that they flip a coin over the oil field. Square John wins, but Betsy would rather be broke with Big John, and they ride off in search of another strike.

 

Things happen in a boom/bust cycle in which one has a strike while the other pumps (ahem) sand. Then the cycle reverses. That’s generally followed by another partnership, another spat, and another split. This continues until McMasters commands many wells and is so wealthy that he is courted to set up his business in New York. He even invites Sand to oversee parts of what becomes a vertical empire (bottom to top control over oil, equipment, refineries, outlet, and delivery transportation). In his New York office he also acquires a snarky, snappy, and very sexy secretary, Karen Vanmeer (Lamarr). He’s all Oklahoma libido and she’s all New York schemer. This time poor Betsy feels outclassed and hopeless. A close encounter with a pill bottle leads to a conspiracy between Betsy and Sand to ruin Big John via the Sherman Antitrust Act.

 

All of this sounds more serious than it is. Boomtown plays the rivalry for laughs more than regrets. Gable and Spencer are like two battling brothers who deep down take honor, friendship, nonchalance, and risk-taking more seriously than money. Above all, Square John wants Betsy to be happy. In some ways, the cast of Boom Town does for oil what the Marx Brothers did for Florida land speculation in The Cocoanuts.

 

A word of caution: This is at core a male-bonding film in which most women are “girls.” Lamarr’s role is that of a temptress and is unique in that she’s ruthless, not carefree. Gable and Colbert never made another film together. Read between the lines and you’ll figure out why.

 

Rob Weir

 

* Oklahoma derives from Choctaw words that mean “red people.” The “sooners” of sports team names is shameless. They were whites who moved into Oklahoma illegally in advance of lands opened in 1890.

 

Algiers: Hedy Lamarr and Her First Hollywood Movie

 

 

 

Algiers (1938)

Directed by John Cromwell

United Artists, 99 minutes, not-rated.

★★★★

 

In the next few weeks I will be featuring films involving Hedy Lamarr (1914-2000) because I co-lead a women’s history group reading a biography of her. Lamarr was an inventor and one of the most intriguing starlets of the early days of sound movies. She was born in Austria as Hedwig Eva Marie Kiesler, won a beauty contest when was 12, and at 18, married Friedrich Mandel who was 33. She made five films in Europe, including Ekstase (Ecstasy) in 1933, which was notorious. The 18-year Hedwig Mandel briefly appeared fully nude and a scene of her in the throes of passion is believed to be the first film depiction of a female orgasm.

 

Her marriage to Mandel was the first of six (and six divorces). Friedrich made two big mistakes, he expected her to be a dutiful traditional wife and thought she was an airhead. As Mandel drifted into fascism, Hedwig listened to sensitive political conversations she took with her when she fled to London in 1937. (She was half Jewish.) Samuel Goldwyn of MGM took her to Hollywood, changed her name to Hedy Lamarr, and began the legend that she was the most beautiful woman in the world. She gets my vote, though Hedy once considered surgery to make her breasts larger.

 

Algiers was her first Hollywood film. It was directed by John Cromwell and written by John Howard Lawson, who later gained infamy as one of the 1947 Hollywood Ten indicted for Contempt of Congress for refusing to rat on anyone accused of communism during the second Red Scare. Algiers might remind you quite a bit of Casablanca, which took Hollywood by storm five years later. Ironically, the role of Ilsa was written with Lamarr in mind, but went to Ingrid Bergman because Lamarr was under contract to MGM, which refused to loan her to Warner Brothers. Casablanca, though, borrowed heavily from the script to Algiers. Ironically, the main villain/lover boy of Algiers, Pepé le Moko (Charles Boyer) was the model for the Warner Brothers cartoon skunk Pepé LePew. (How’s that for revenge!)

 

Le Moko is a French jewel thief hiding out in Algiers. France sends an inspector to find out why Algerian law enforcement hasn’t caught him. As detective/informer Slimane (Joseph Calleia) explains, everyone knows where Pepé is, but he cannot be captured as long as he’s living in the Casbah section of Algiers. The French send twelve men into the Casbah and find out what Slimane means. It is a warren of narrow streets, connecting rooms and rooftops, tunnels, and informants that’s similar to searching for a straight pieces in a giant hamster habitrail. Plus, Pepé is a popular man in the Casbah. He’s like an old-fashioned ward boss whose henchmen keep order. Pepé and his exotic-looking lover Ines (Sigrid Gurie) know everyone and they protect him, though he has rivals.

 

The Casbah, though, is confining; Pepé is only safe as long as he doesn’t leave it. Enter Gaby (Lamarr), who bedazzles Pepé with her beauty, memories of Paris, and glittering jewelry that his gang wonders why he hasn’t pilfered. Gaby is engaged to the obese Giraux (Robert Grieg), who is filthy rich. It’s never clear if Gaby is bait or if she is attracted to Pepé, but if Lamarr was faking it, she fooled me! He’s also depressed when outside-the-Casbah enemies lure his friend Pierrot (ex-Our Gang star John Morey Downs) into a trap.

 

Algiers is dated and both script and direction could be much tighter. Casablanca is a superior film and there’s a reason why its director Michael Curtiz is considered a legend and John Cromwell is largely forgotten. Still, it’s incredible to see how little Hedy Lamarr needed to do to fill screen eyes. By the way, no one in Algiers ever says, “Take me to the Casbah.” That was Pepé LePew!

 

Lamarr is a Hollywood legend who remains one of the most beautiful in movie history. She was also difficult; only one of her marriages lasted longer than four years. Yet, she was a genius inventor when off the set. The Navy never used the invention of a guided torpedo she and avantgarde composer George Antheil developed, but their spread spectrum theory made the following possible: Bluetooth, GPS, wireless communication, and Wi-fi. No wonder there’s a Lamarr-class starship in Star Trek.

 

Rob Weir

 

Berenice Abbott: Flaneur for Modernism?

 

 

 

Man Ray photo of Berenice Abbott 1925

Berenice Abbott’s Modern Lens

Clark Museum of Art

Through October 5, 2023

 

When you think of Depression Era photographers, the names that pop to mind include Dorothea Lange, Walker Evans, Margaret Bourke White, Russell Lee, Arthur Rothstein, and Imogene Cunningham. Berenice Abbott? Maybe not so much.

 

Abbott (1898-1991) doesn’t seem to fit in the same august company and that’s just as she wished it. She did secure a commission with the Federal Art Project in 1935, but she was much was much better known for her New York City shots, her fondness for architecture, moody compositions that border on surrealism, and portraits of offbeat personalities such as herself. She was a closeted lesbian, but rumors flew. Her work was also a bit too surrealist–she once worked as an assistant to Man Ray–and too far on the modernist scale to echo the 1930s documentary styles, though she always thought of herself as a documentarian. Above all, she didn’t like to manipulate photos for effect and took a scientific approach to her shots. In that vein, she did science shots for M.I. T. for a while. She also championed the work and was influenced by Eugéne Atget (1857-1927) whose empty Parisien streets were deliberately ambiguous and invited viewers to write their own narratives. Atget was also a flaneur, a street wanderer whose detached view of city life matched her own views.

 

The Clark Museum of Art  in Williamstown, Massachusetts, has a selection of Abbott’s works in its Eugene V. Thaw Gallery for Works on Paper. It is well worth seeing, though I have a word of caution. Most of the shots on display are from the 1920s and early 1930s and are quite small. If you click on any of the images below you will get larger images, but the blown up images on the screen are much bigger than what’s hanging on the wall. I’m not certain why they have displayed them so small, as I have seen the same images elsewhere in 8 x 10 images that were reprinted around 1960. (Perhaps the Clark doesn’t hold the rights to do the same.) In many cases this is lamentable as she, as did Atget, liked to fill the frame. Still, her 1937 show “Changing New York” is sampled. It was Abbott’s first solo exhibition and it alone made her a flaneur for the modernist movement.

 

Anarchist Alexander Berkman 

 

Sylvia Beach, 1926

Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1930

Rag Merchant 1929

 

Old Penn Station (demolished in 1960s)

 

Second and Third El Lines, 1932

 

Flatiron Building 1938

New York at Night, 1932

Rob Weir