A Tale of Two Cities

August 21, 1998

Harlem is about as black a neighborhood as you can get. I was up there for the first time Wednesday to meet a gallery director on 125th Street.

The gallery was way over on the east end of 125th Street, but I took the wrong train and ended up on the west side of Harlem. It took me 20 minutes to walk to my destination. During that time, I did not see a single white face.

I didn't see any stereotypes either.

There weren't hoodlums roaming the streets and crack whores peddling their wares. Police sirens were silent and burned out cars remained invisible. What I saw were serious-faced, working-class folks quietly and hurriedly going about their business. When I stopped a woman and asked for directions, she was very kind.

Now the bad stuff. Other than a few girls, I didn't see anything pretty in Harlem. The buildings were old, dilapidated, and dirty. Trees didn't grow. Like a town outside an army post, there were a lot of pawn shops and check-cashing stores. It's an ugly section of Manhattan.

Good folks. Shitty neighborhood. That, to me, is Harlem. Yeah, they've got bad apples, too. Those are the kids who terrorize the streets at night. (At least that's what the TV tells me.) But affluent, white neighborhoods have their bad apples too. Angry black kids in Harlem end up in jail. Angry white kids in New Canaan end up in boarding school. (Or at West Point.)

The physical space of the gallery in Harlem wasn't much to look at. One big room. Low ceiling. White walls. Gray carpet. No air conditioning. There was a big oscillating fan sitting on the director's desk thirty feet from the front door.

The paintings weren't all that. Mostly earth-toned images of muscular black men and big-titted black women embracing erotically. There were lots of paintings with leopards and panthers in them. Black people love the big cats. I recognized an Ernest Watson piece from the opening credits of the 1970s sitcom, "Good Times." (Starring a young Janet Jackson as Penny.) The painting depicted more muscular black men and big-titted black women jumpin' and jivin' (and keepin' their heads above water) in some 1940s Harlem dance hall.

The gallery director's name was Mohammed. Nice guy. Middle-aged. Wearing a shirt and tie about a decade out of style from Sears. Just a regular, working class Joe...or "Mo" in his case. He was pleased to have someone from The Times come all the way up to his neck of the woods soliciting business. "There's money here" he told me with a smile, "People are just too afraid to come up here and ask for it."

We talked about art for a bit. But we mostly talked about Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky. As he was filling out my contract, Mo made a mistake with his pen and pulled some White Out from his lap drawer. He accidentally spilled some of the liquid paper on his brown tie. I quipped, "Looks like you've got the Presidential Seal." He laughed.

Later that day, I was on the wealthiest strip of commercial real estate in the World: the north side of 57th Street, between 5th and Madison. Rodeo Drive pales in comparison. In an eighth floor, air-conditioned, navy-blue-suede-colored-walled, art gallery along this luxury lane, I sat with the rotund, rosy-cheeked owner and munched on six-dollar hamburgers in his office for two hours while we made lewd remarks about Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky. (When he spilled mayo on his tie, I quipped, "You've got the Presidential Seal!") He thought that was funny. He was a pleasant older guy who liked to laugh a lot. We talked about the Web for all of five minutes. At the end of the call, he bought our most expensive package.

The paintings on display in this gallery were all images of late 19th Century French peasants; the white, European equivalent of the residents of modern day Harlem. The men and women in these pictures were pitching hay and tilling the soil. The artists who painted these images were themselves, poor; having never achieved artistic recognition or financial compensation for their work during their lifetimes. Today, however, these works sell for 150 Grand. Rich white folks seem to like spending a lot of money to look at paintings of impoverished laborers.

Two men. One black. One white. One rich. One poor.

Two neighborhoods. One black. One white. One rich. One poor.

Two art galleries. One with panthers and leopards. One with peasants and laborers.

What is the moral of this story?

Our President is a joke.

Have A Great Weekend,

Broadway Jim Jenkins

		A Tale of Two Cities
		August 21, 1998 Harlem is about as black a neighborhood as you can get. I was up there for the first time Wednesday to meet a gallery director on 125th Street. The gallery was way over on the east end of 125th Street, but I took the wrong train and ended up on the west side of Harlem. It took me 20 minutes to walk to my destination. During that time, I did not see a single white face. I didn't see any stereotypes either. There weren't hoodlums roaming the streets and crack whores peddling their wares. Police sirens were silent and burned out cars remained invisible. What I saw were serious-faced, working-class folks quietly and hurriedly going about their business. When I stopped a woman and asked for directions, she was very kind. Now the bad stuff. Other than a few girls, I didn't see anything pretty in Harlem. The buildings were old, dilapidated, and dirty. Trees didn't grow. Like a town outside an army post, there were a lot of pawn shops and check-cashing stores. It's an ugly section of Manhattan. Good folks. Shitty neighborhood. That, to me, is Harlem. Yeah, they've got bad apples, too. Those are the kids who terrorize the streets at night. (At least that's what the TV tells me.) But affluent, white neighborhoods have their bad apples too. Angry black kids in Harlem end up in jail. Angry white kids in New Canaan end up in boarding school. (Or at West Point.) The physical space of the gallery in Harlem wasn't much to look at. One big room. Low ceiling. White walls. Gray carpet. No air conditioning. There was a big oscillating fan sitting on the director's desk thirty feet from the front door. The paintings weren't all that. Mostly earth-toned images of muscular black men and big-titted black women embracing erotically. There were lots of paintings with leopards and panthers in them. Black people love the big cats. I recognized an Ernest Watson piece from the opening credits of the 1970s sitcom, "Good Times." (Starring a young Janet Jackson as Penny.) The painting depicted more muscular black men and big-titted black women jumpin' and jivin' (and keepin' their heads above water) in some 1940s Harlem dance hall. The gallery director's name was Mohammed. Nice guy. Middle-aged. Wearing a shirt and tie about a decade out of style from Sears. Just a regular, working class Joe...or "Mo" in his case. He was pleased to have someone from The Times come all the way up to his neck of the woods soliciting business. "There's money here" he told me with a smile, "People are just too afraid to come up here and ask for it." We talked about art for a bit. But we mostly talked about Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky. As he was filling out my contract, Mo made a mistake with his pen and pulled some White Out from his lap drawer. He accidentally spilled some of the liquid paper on his brown tie. I quipped, "Looks like you've got the Presidential Seal." He laughed. Later that day, I was on the wealthiest strip of commercial real estate in the World: the north side of 57th Street, between 5th and Madison. Rodeo Drive pales in comparison. In an eighth floor, air-conditioned, navy-blue-suede-colored-walled, art gallery along this luxury lane, I sat with the rotund, rosy-cheeked owner and munched on six-dollar hamburgers in his office for two hours while we made lewd remarks about Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky. (When he spilled mayo on his tie, I quipped, "You've got the Presidential Seal!") He thought that was funny. He was a pleasant older guy who liked to laugh a lot. We talked about the Web for all of five minutes. At the end of the call, he bought our most expensive package. The paintings on display in this gallery were all images of late 19th Century French peasants; the white, European equivalent of the residents of modern day Harlem. The men and women in these pictures were pitching hay and tilling the soil. The artists who painted these images were themselves, poor; having never achieved artistic recognition or financial compensation for their work during their lifetimes. Today, however, these works sell for 150 Grand. Rich white folks seem to like spending a lot of money to look at paintings of impoverished laborers. Two men. One black. One white. One rich. One poor. Two neighborhoods. One black. One white. One rich. One poor. Two art galleries. One with panthers and leopards. One with peasants and laborers. What is the moral of this story? Our President is a joke. Have A Great Weekend, Broadway Jim Jenkins