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Vince
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My name is Vincent Mounier. I'm a photographer and designer of this site. My blog Coriolistic Anachronisms is now five years old. Find out more about the web site and me.
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Last Thursday, at Marie’s suggestion, I got up at 6 AM to go watch giant balloons float through Manhattan streets. I wasn’t there alone. An estimated 3 million of my fellow homosapiens had converged on the city. We were a little cramped. Marie had stayed in bed.
Une femme avertie en vaut deux.
Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade is the 2nd or 3rd largest in the US, they say. It begins at 9 AM and lasts about 3 hours, winding its way from mid-Central Park level down to Macy’s on 34th. Spectators arrive at dawn and camp on sidewalks to reserve a front-row spot. They bring makeshift scaffolds to elevate themselves above the multitude. They come equipped with cameras and warm clothes and thermos. And they wait more patiently than I have ever seen a crowd wait.
My plan had been to push on early all the way to the start line, to have a curious look at the parked balloons inflated the night before. 
Once on the subway, however, I made a fatal mistake and remained aboard an express that whisked me 7 stations - or 50 streets - passed my destination. By the time I’d backtracked and landed at 72nd St, it was 8 AM and the incoming human flow was backed up all the way down the subway stairwells. Up in the street, there was a mob piled up against the intersection and no way to even approach the parade’s path.
I bailed. I was going back to bed. The most I would have seen of the event was hundreds and hundreds of participants lining up on the platform of various stations in their colorful outfits.
But approaching Times Square underground, I changed my mind. I decided to emerge, do a quick recon on the surface and if needed escape via the F line that could take me straight home. The crowds there were much more manageable, as we were half way down and hence much later along the parade’s path. I walked around the neighborhood for a while, negotiating road closures to find a proper photography angle. Finally, I settled for the corner of 41st Street and 7th Avenue, looking north. I was right at the front of a thin row of people facing a clear half-block of open space to the next corner where the 
balloons, coming straight down towards us from the park, would turn east.
Then we waited. The gigantic balloons appeared on the horizon - 18 blocks above our location - long before they reached the corner, and long telephoto lenses sprang into action. The weather was overcast but rather mild and pleasant, the light subdued; a pale cloudy sky, however, made for a harshly bright background that would be hard to reconcile with much darker buildings and balloons.
Then for hours, the show went on and on, balloon after balloon. Eight thousand people were taking part in the parade, either controlling the helium-filled crafts or just showing off like people do at such events. I couldn’t really see them nor did I care. I was looking up high at the cartoon figures flying by neon signs and framing themselves gracefully between the long row of 7th Ave’s tall buildings.
Apart from a very annoying little girl (blame it on the parents) who kept sticking her fingers on my lens from her dad’s constantly moving shoulder, the crowd remained tame and civilized. Even the cops were in a seemingly good mood and well mannered. They appeared to 
enjoy the show.
I made my exit a few balloons early to avoid the final assault on subway lines and found my way back to Brooklyn. Everywhere else, the city was still asleep, enjoying what in French we call « la grasse matinée ». Back in the peaceful Cobble Hill ‘hood, I looked around me, surprised. Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I never would have believed that 3 million people were tightly packed against each other on sidewalks and street corners a mere 5 miles from me. It was as if the balloons had been a dream.
I pinched myself. It hurt. I’ll be smurfed, I said out loud, so I really did see a smurfly big Smurf in the Manhattan smurf*.
*Schtroumpf alors, j’ai vraiment vu un schtroumpfement gros Schtroumpf dans le schtroumpf de Manhattan. Let’s not forget that the Smurfs are originally from Belgium and speak French, in which language it is all much funnier.
Here are - following no particular order nor theme - a few more grainy glimpses of the City, day in, day out.
Well, fame will have been short for the newcomer SexyLightbox. At 1:30 AM the same day, I have just decided that Shadowbox was stronger, more polished and better built.
Inspired by SexyLightbox’ rounded corners and colour schemes, I’ve adjusted Shadowbox to resemble it using CSS3’s new border-radius property. It’s a work in progress, but Shadowbox prevails...
Starting with the previous post « Taming Coney Island » and on, all slideshows will be powered with the SexyLightbox script, replacing Shadowbox - at least temporarily. It’s not necessarily better but looks very slick and was worth a try since I am always on the hunt for new tools. Click on these links or the images below, have a look, and please don’t hesitate to leave feedback!
There’s no way around it, the place is a zoo. Too close to the city to be off limits yet far enough to yield a vague disorientation, Coney Island is the closest ocean-front beach as the famous crow flies from Manhattan - and that bird doesn’t fly so well.
For those unfamiliar, Coney is no longer an island. A creek separating the peninsula from the mainland was filled long ago and what had been the southernmost barrier island of Long Island was integrated and tamed. Its name is widely accepted to be of Dutch origin and would mean Rabbit Island. These are long extinct. Man is cruel. And hungry.
Yet if summertime Coney Island is a wildly animated place with its amusement park, aquarium and beaches, come fall the madness subsides. Doors are closed, metal curtains lowered and locked, rides deserted and the beaches, left empty. A cold wind blows, garbage piles up on abandoned streets and the wild cats become braver.
At that point, if your eyes are curious and your mind awake, a walk about turns into a pleasant expedition across a strange land. Walls remain painted in loud colors and complex murals, old signs await in silence the return of summer, 
rare people hurry past, the waterfront sleeps. You’re in the other Coney Island.
On my last visit, with sunset in mind, I set out for the Easternmost tip of Coney Island, walking down Neptune Ave and onto the beach as soon as I could reach it. On my way back from the point, as darkness was gaining, bizarre « No Trespassing » signs seemed to restrict access off the beach, but I found a gap and ventured back into a residential neighborhood. Strange high fences were cutting right through the area and I couldn’t figure out why. The houses looked identical on both sides yet razor wire separated them. A few people gave me suspicious looks as I walked along hurriedly with my photo back-back.
Eventually, I reached a heavily fortified checkpoint - and realized I was coming in from the inside of the restricted zone. I approached a policeman at the gate and apologetically asked where on Earth I was. « This is a gated community, » he said. « So I’m in the wrong place? » I asked. He smiled and nodded. I looked up. The huge sign crowning the entrance said « Seagate ». I’d never heard of such a community in New York. My suspicion rose exponentially as I analyzed the implications of such a thing. But since I was persona non grata, I thanked and moved on.
Further research has revealed a self-contained municipality founded around 1900 and allowed its own laws and police force. It’s about 10 blocks long by 5 blocks wide and includes everything west of W 37th St. If you are a resident, you need a permit to enter, all your beaches 
are private (a major crime if you ask me, waterfront should never be private) and if you’re expecting visitors from the real world, you must report them to Control or they won’t be allowed in! Weird. Has anyone seen Les rivières pourpres (The Crimson Rivers)? Remember the Faculty, living in autarky and selecting their... But I’m getting carried away.
The bottom line is this: Coney Island is full of surprises, some good, some bad. That alone, in my opinion, justifies a visit. And of course, there’re all the cats. Wild, it would seem, and given food by good-hearted souls. Cats, as you can imagine, know no gates. How lucky they are.
The following is a longish photo essay on the « other » Coney Island. Piers, beaches, sand, signs, doors, colors, cats and skies. The few people shots go back to early fall. The rest are from this week. Enjoy!
New York, as it turns out, is plagued with late season-blooming mosquitoes. As the temperature rose yesterday to 18°C and is now hovering around 15°C, the little bastards manage to rise again and again, like Peter Sellers failing to die in the hilarious opening scene of « The Party ».
By late autumn, one grows weary of slapping around frantically - and often missing. Fly swaps are messy and leave red stains on the walls. So let me give you a trick that has done wonders for me lately, especially for the late night buggers that won’t let us sleep - a mosquito buzzing around your head in a dark silent room is like the sound of bombers approaching London during WW2. Or so I imagine.
So my trick in two words: shaving cream!
No, seriously! It’s instant mosquito glue. Rub around a bit of cream on the palm of one hand and merely wave your hand close to the insect. Make sure to be in its path as it takes off. It’ll stay stuck as surely as if the shaving cream was contact glue. Wash your hand up. You’re done.
« Dying, that doesn’t frighten me...
It’s losing my life that would make me sad. »Le grand Marcel Pagnol
I know I’m not posting much these days. It’s just that, there’s that thing. It’s sneaky. It comes in stealthily and creeps into daily momentum, coating all things great with a fuzzy interference blanket. It’s a kind of existential static, the white noise of life that sometimes obstructs clear line of sight to the essential stuff that Saint Exupéry confirmed invisible to the eyes any way.
Like a fog bank over complicated shores, existential static renders simple navigation tricky and makes my ship vulnerable to shoals. It blurs perspective and adds a grainy texture to the sequence of events that make life. That static 
is born from routine and the repetitive small tugs of trouble at my sleeves. I become annoyed and concentrate on the sleeve rather than on wearing the coat with grace and confidence. When perspective is lost, it is replaced by a series of uninterrupted obstacles challenging me like a horse on a difficult course.
The approach of Christmas, bureaucracy bearing down on sore shoulders, a sense of purposelessness, receiving a lot and not being able to give much back, miscellaneous computer issues, a cold and another and some laziness, urban distraction, much to see and do, still, well these all contribute to the static.
I do promise the blogging rhythm will eventually pick up, but first it will slow down even further - you see, growing nearer every day on a shimmering horizon is our next episode of travels. Quebec and South Africa are booked and hooked, and there’s yet another road trip brewing.
Then at our return to the US, critically important and exceptionally busy days await. So it will be a while. But posting will resume. In the meantime, I will do my very best to keep the blog from going into random mode. Have mercy.
Note: QRN sur Bretzelburg was an album of the Spirou et Fantasio comics series by Franquin and Greg. It featured the fantastic Marsupilami and was set in a fantasy European dictatorship-kingdom. The term QRN is taken from the old radio-communications « Q » code and means there is static in the transmission.
Living in New York, one tends to forget. When daily routine is deeply impregnated by the constant sound of emergency vehicle sirens, the furious honking of horns, the growling of hovering choppers, the roaring of an underground 
train, the trepidation of manic cab rides, when one gets accustomed to meeting 50 people at a street corner and taking on 100 more when the light changes, when boarding a ferry in five minutes along with half a thousand others becomes casual, when, navigating the evening sidewalks in a sea of heads and hats one
takes comfort in the brilliant glow of flashing neon signs the size of
buildings, concepts like peace, silence and nature are driven far into the recesses of an urbaneer’s mind, frozen and kept intact for future use, but so deep and remote one tends to forget them.
So when we rented a car and headed north a few weeks ago to show Marie’s mom our countryside, the abstraction had not yet taken shape as we left the city. Our Brooklyn trees were lazily rehearsing their fall appearance, still dressed in dull tones and sheepish tints. We picked our passenger up at the infamous Inn on 23rd and left Manhattan in the same stride, joining the Henry Hudson Parkway in very manageable traffic. I had planned to customarily follow I87 north as indicated by the 
Establishment of Google Maps and various other sources but Marie convinced me at the last minute to trash my plan and cross into Jersey at the George Washington Bridge. The sooner away from the city, the better, she figured.
She was so right. As soon as we’d crossed the river and turned north onto the Palisades Parkway, the largest American city instantly vanished around us replaced by a perfectly paved highway slicing its way through thick woods that were no longer promising but delivering the fall colors we’d hoped for. We weren’t going far and took our time on the road, stopping at a family farm stall and picnicking at their very garden table, still confused by our New York armor and attempting to reconcile such friendly and open simplicity. We hadn’t heard honking in a couple of hours and were sliding into a languorous stupor.
By the time we reached Woodstock, the kaleidoscope had become really exciting. We were pointing right and left like children at a zoo and maples were competing with oaks for our attention. We drove into the small town with curious eyes, uninitiated visitors awarded audience to a legend. We had turned into tourists again, in this eternal 
cycle that enhances our curiosity and tolerance levels while we travel and explore the world, but returns us to a defensive stance as we get back closer to home.
Our shelter for the next few nights was located just outside of town, surrounded by beautiful trees and flanked by a chilly stream that flowed light and clear: a simple motel-style inn, but well kept, pretty, clean and incredibly quiet. This was another world, a mere two or three hours from the madness of New York. We might as well have been on another planet.
The next couple of days were lazily laced with delicious meals, sumptuous picnics, scenic drives, mountain streams, incredible fall colors, the wind in the trees, birds chirping, cats, peace signs and a growing desire to stay forever. Then we relocated not very far on the outskirts of Kingston, to an old 
stone house turned B&B where the wooden floors creaked endlessly and walls were as thick as a fort’s.
We explored some more, met some fog and rain - both surprisingly turning the landscape into an even prettier gallery, drove far into the silent Catskill Mountains and like Gollum foraging deep into the Earth for an untold time, we were forgotten to the world.
But the short trip still had to come to an end and soon we were aiming south towards home, immersed into rapidly thickening traffic on the eastern bank of the Hudson. Honking resumed, the world spun around us in an urban frenzy, we had returned to the City.
But our eyes were filled with bright reds and yellows, our minds with awe and our ears with the brushing of leaves in the wind and the message of raindrops in a perfect silence. So near and yet so far, there remains a 
countryside to New York City, an antidote to brutal civilization and endless opportunity. May it live forever and provide us with sanity in times of need.
And yet may it instill in us the ability to appreciate in contrast the harsh striking beauty of Manhattan’s urban core and the hyper-futuristic displays of Times Square, gone far beyond salvage, out of reality and into science-fiction, into extremes so maddening they are elegant, into a corruption of space and an aggression of the senses that force us to grow into mutants, to become better than we might be and to cope and adjust and appreciate what we still have - and most of all to tolerate one another because, for better and for worse,
this is the apogee of civilization.
...
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