I did not realize that Jake at Gothamist posted a better-written piece about Cushman on the last day of the year 2003.
I still hold that Spondizo “found” this site “first” as he emailed me about it in early December. The real question is how do memes truly work such that cultural knowledge is transferred over semi-hidden pathways?
I’m a strong believer in ethnic memory, for instance, which, according to me, states that the as a descendent of Eastern European Jewry, my ability to speak Yiddish fluently is more innate than, say, a native Cambodian’s. It’s not Lamarckian theory here — rather, I believe that the context and syntax of language passed down from my grandparents to my parents to me was consistent with the way my great-grandparents spoke in the old country. I thus have a kind of proclivity to speak Yiddish, which I daresay I don’t really. Is this akin to memes? Probably.
Oh, this is cool: Deckchairs made blog of the day today.

I was introduced recently to a phenomenal historical collection of photographs by Charles W. Cushman (thanks to the upcoming Spondizo blog). Hours could easily be spent perusing this site, which contains the diverse, difficult, and romantic imagery of a man who witnessed what the website describes as “a dying landscape” — America before the technology years, before the suburban residential expansions and before the mass integration of commercial life into our daily habits. Strangely, or not so strangely perhaps, his work is mainly in COLOR, a rich color that is separate from our digitally rendered world yet looks oddly good rendered by it.
Cushman is apparently up there with the likes of other great photographers like Walker Evans, and his vision, sensibility, and techniques are truly unique. Cushman traveled this country shooting small towns and large cities. But because of the color (o, the color!), the inhabitants in these photographs look as if they still walking among us, dressed in their workclothes and Sunday finest and ready to go to work. And the landscapes sing.
Look at this one of a woman and child, this one of Fulton Market in 1941, this one on the Lower East Side of New York in 1941, this photo of the Rockies melts my heart.

I watched the first part of the movie-musical Chicago last night. After reading so many reviews of how wonderful, smart, and sexy this film was, I was ready to be pleased.
Instead, Chicago was turgid, simple, silly and dull. It was hard to project Catherine Zeta-Jones and Renée Zellweger onto characters that sexily sing and dance — and the music was full of adolescent Disneyesque features. I wanted to like Queen Latifah playing Mama but she seemed old and cute. The collaged scenes and the extravagent lighting was ridiculous and was better suited for the stage production. I fell asleep watching it while reading Utne (albeit, this says little good about Utne as well).
Full disclosure: I detest musicals but I thought I’d give this piece a chance.