Category — Site Authors

Howard Greenberg

http://www.guardian.co.uk/arts/gallery/2008/apr/17/newyorkschoolHoward

Greenberg started off like any one of us. He was confused with his path in life and play around with his career choices. He thought his life was with psychology but life often plays a trick on us and little did he know his career was going to make a one-eighty turn. Through what it would seem to be a miraculous circumstance, a camera fell into his hands and Greenberg discovered a passion that grew with no bounds. Greenberg was different and many would say he was a pioneer in his time. He took that camera and did something with it. With a certain amount of creativity and ingenuity he shot photos and built his portfolio eventually establishing a name for himself. He was different because he put his faith in the course of life and allowed it to bring him to new places and experience new events. As a result Greenberg was able to build himself a prestigious reputation as he traveled to various places such as Woodstock to get his name out there. As of today Greenberg holds a world-famous exhibition known as the Howard Greenberg gallery on 57th street and continues to collect mid-century photography. Although he has mixed feelings for contemporary photography his fervor for the classics will never change.

Howard Greenberg’s talk at Macaulay Honors College surprisingly soothed some of the anxieties that have been plaguing my mind since the beginning of the school year. As he began to speak about how is career in the world of photography unfolded, it became clear that his journey was not only a success story. It was a story of a dream that he followed and worked for. It was a story of passion. When he started to answer questions about the photographs he brought, he immediately expressed his feelings about each one, noting which aspects of the photograph he appreciated, and adding details of its history and its photographer. It was evident from his responses that he not only had zeal for photography, but also a deep knowledge of it. Later, a student asked how he was able to sell photographs, and he replied, “Nothing works better than enthusiasm.”

As a freshman, lost in a sea of possible career choices, I have been wondering how success is even possible when every path seems to have risks and obstacles.  However, Howard Greenburg showed life in a different light. “Make a life out of what you love,” he said. While I have heard this from countless friends and family members, I am not sure that I ever really believed it until I heard it from this man. It is not because he is wealthy or has made a name for himself as a photography dealer. Rather, it is because he seemed genuinely happy with his decision to pursue photography. In the end, whatever career I do choose to follow, I hope that I will have the same hunger and devotion that Greenberg has for his work in photography.

With a photo gallery located on 57th Street in Manhattan, Howard Greenberg has established himself in the New York City scene, as well as around the world as a renowned photography curator and dealer. However, Greenberg did not start out with the dream career of being a photographer. He initially studied to become a psychologist in college, but stumbled upon photography after a family friend’s trip to Japan landed him with a camera. Many people spend years of their life trying to figure out what they want to do as a career, but with his new camera, Greenberg found his calling and decided to become a photographer.

Greenberg started off as a freelance photojournalist when he moved to Woodstock, NY in the 1970s. Throughout his time in Woodstock, Greenberg created a name for himself and had many of his photographs published in papers such as the New York Times as well as magazines; he opened up the Center for Photography in Woodstock in 1977. He takes great interest in mid-century photography, although he is familiar with both 19^th and 20^th century photography; in 1980 opened up the Howard Greenberg Gallery in Soho, Manhattan to exhibit great works by famous photographers from the past and present. Greenberg’s gallery is now located on 57th Street and consists of a diverse number of prints that show different styles of photography from every artist.

picture found on: http://www.aperture.org/partypics/detail.php?id=2

Waiting for the elevator on my way downstairs to the community center, I see none other than my Peruvian friend, Walter. On other occasions, this encounter would be awkward but today he was in a happier mood than usual. We were not merely conversing, but laughing and joking as we waited for the elevator. At that moment I realized that this elevator ride together would be quite enjoyable and could possibly change our relationship forever.

As we enter the elevator, I quickly look around and recognize an odd situation. Besides the other neighbors that I share this lovely Ludlow dorm with, I see a maintenance personnel with a ladder possibly three times his size. When Walter enters the elevator, he takes a quick glance and couldn’t help but communicate with the personnel, who was Ecuadorean.

After Walter began the conversation with “Hey man, what floor you working on today,” I could barely make out what they were saying. Since I don’t speak Spanish, I waited for Walter to switch back to the English language so I could finally follow this peculiar conversation. After a while I got my wish when Walter finally said to the Ecuadorian, “you know that Peruvians and Ecuadorians are enemies right.” At that moment, I thought the mood in the elevator would immediately worsen, but instead, laughter erupted from both Walter and the maintenance personnel. At this particular juncture I realized that this was New York City, the biggest melting pot in the world. I learned that New York City is the place where enemies would become friends, and that nationalities rarely affect how we make those friends.

I love this city.

(http://softrice.files.wordpress.com/2008/07/6-beef-intestines.jpg)

“Wow, this is really good”, I exclaimed, intensely chewing the rubbery, white substance that had been placed in front of me at the dim sum restaurant. It was like a noodle, yet not, and somewhat resembled a soggy tree branch.  I continued moving it around in my mouth, trying to distinguish what exactly the strange, but still quite pleasant flavor and texture were. Both were completely foreign, and I finally asked, still mindlessly chewing, “what is this?”

Everyone at the table glanced towards their neighbor, shifting their eyes uncomfortably, trying to decide whether or not they should tell me exactly what I was eating.

“It’s a thing Chinese people eat.”

Not at all satisfied with that answer, I reiterated my question.

“No seriously, what is this? It’s really good!” Silence prevailed for a few more seconds until finally someone piped up.

“It’s cow intestines.”

My chewing slowed as I processed that bit of information, and suddenly I wanted to get what I had moments before found absolutely delectable out of my mouth as quickly as possible. Trying to remember how delicious I thought it was before I knew what it was, I swallowed down the cow intestine.

“Oh. I see” I gulped. The look on my face made everyone laugh.

“I just think of everything as squid”, my friend said, picking up her own piece of cow intestine and popping it into her mouth, “makes it easier”.

I laughed and nodded. Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss.

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“I NEED STARBUCKS.”

There is manic glint in my friend’s eyes.  They’re slightly bloodshot and she tries to open them wider but her eyes are restricted by a droop in the upper lids and abyssal black circles underneath.  I begin to chuckle a bit as I go to grab my coat from my locker.

Another friend slumps to my side and says, “No, no, no. Go to Dunkin’ Donuts. They have that ninety-nine cent coffee deal today.

To that statement, there are shouts of excitement and people jump out the door.  But Dunkin’ Donuts doesn’t serve real coffee, they serve a watery, oddly colored, noxious concoction.  (And the one near our high school had a cat running around in the kitchen at the Dunkin’; sometimes there was an odor.)

The Dunkin’ argument had been gone over so many times, that the Starbucks friend, just rolled her squinted eyes over at the Dunkin’ friend and glared at him without saying a word.

“I’m not going to learn some special lingo or whatever just to order my coffee. A small is a tall? That doesn’t even make sense!! Extra hot?  Skinny?  Double?  All those macchiatos, lattes, whatever—they’re just all the same thing! Coffee and milk!”

The three of us go out and they settle on the Colombian coffee at the café that gives us student discounts.  Cheap, tasty, and heartwarming.

I sat there, sipping blissfully away at my home brewed, French-press made Costa Rican coffee as I had been the whole morning.

http://emmaidalinnea.blogg.se/images/2009/lg-0061_45586597.jpg

Most places have some kind of tourist appeal. In New York, it’s the skyscrapers and diversity. In the Bahamas it’s the sandy white beaches and bright blue water. In Sweden, it’s the moose. A few years ago, my aunt’s brother-in-law, Leif, decided to open up a moose park. I laughed at this idea, wondering why anyone would pay to see a moose.  I had seen them in the wild several times and didn’t think of them as much more than overgrown deer. I didn’t give Leif’s plan much more thought, assuming nothing would come of it. However the next summer Leif had already bought two moose and had opened a moose café. My family and I went on a tour, just out of curiosity. We were pulled around a fenced-in area by a noisy tractor. I did see the moose but I had come closer to them walking my dog in the woods than I did at the park. I left feeling sorry for Leif and his wife after all the time and money they had put into this project, just to have it fail. A few weeks later, to my surprise, Leif proudly announced that he had had visitors from over 350 different countries. Every time we passed his farm the lot would be filled with cars. I am still surprised now, years later, to see how busy the moose park is every time I’m visiting my aunt. It is interesting how something so common in one country can be a source of joy and wonder to people from other cultures.

When I first moved into my building about 15 years ago, my condo building was rather empty and dull. Cultured is hardly the word I would use to describe my family; Chinese is a better word because that’s the only type of people my parents would ever talk to. But as time soon passed we heard different languages throughout my condo as different families began moving in. My mom was bewildered and wondered why she could not understand them and failed to realize that they were not speaking her native language. Soon enough as weeks passed no language was easily deciphered as we heard many different languages being spoken at once when we stepped outside of our condo building. With time my mother became accustomed to these “outsiders” as she would call them due to the fact that there were hospitable “outsiders” contrary to her beliefs. Our neighbors would come down to our home and bring in fruits and other delicacies. As my mom attempted to communicate to them she resorted to speaking her native tongue and our neighbor also resorted to their native tongue as well. So we ended up with my mother speaking Chinese and my neighbor speaking what I believe was Korean. The end result is a screaming and laughing contest with one person trying to speak over the other person. It is interesting how language works, even though neither party understands a word that is being said, they continue screaming as if they did understand. Perhaps it was the fact that they did not understand each other that kept them going or maybe it was this desire to understand more about each other through laughter and basic facial expressions. The language in my condo varies greatly and everyone picked up on basic vocabulary. I found that my mother was speaking words of Korean to me instead of saying it in Chinese. Language is contagious.

As a lowly white male living in the most diverse borough, in one of the most diverse cities, I have often felt isolated from my more culturally defined peers. I have never left the country, and when someone asks me what race I am there is an awkward pause, until finally I proclaim, with very little pride, “I am white.”

I’m supposed to be Catholic and I guess my ancestry means that I’m mostly Italian. The problem is that I haven’t been to church in at least five years and the closest thing to Italy I’ve seen is the inside of a pizzeria. I don’t want to pretend I’m something I’m not and I’m definitely no Roman Catholic Italian. Everyone seems to be so interesting and unique, culturally at least, what happened to me?

I guess I blame it on the fact that I can only speak one, not so exclusive, language. I always wanted to speak a sexy language, or maybe one of those cool languages. Walking around Baruch and seeing all the different groups speaking in their own languages makes me feel jealous, to me it seems like everyone is part of small, super secret clubs bonded by uniquely shared sounds. I want to join! It’s not all bad news though, I get to participate in a much larger club, making friends with people from various cultures and adjusting my own cultural identity along the way.