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Tuesday, August 4, 2015

TOUCH: Ice Fantasies

Joe O’Donoghue—ice artist to the stars—drinks his coffee hot. When I arrive at the door of Ice Fantasies, his ice-sculpture carving studio in DUMBO, to meet “Joey Ice” on a recent sweltering morning, I find him outside, smoking a cigarette and sipping bodega coffee. Above him is one of his kinetic ice sculptures: metal letters spelling ICE and an arrow pointing to the door. The letters are coated in water that alternately melts and refreezes, at the flip of a switch, and on this morning they are already dripping.

The basement ice studio does not provide much of a chilly relief. Josh Kalin, who does the bulk of the carving (Joey Ice is the “artist, designer, and producer”), wears a T-shirt beneath his rubber overalls, and the cement floor is slick with puddles. As Josh explains, ice is easier to work with if it has been tempered in warm air for an hour or so. “It makes it less brittle. Summer is a nice time of year to work, but you have to move fast.”

Josh is about to get started carving a liquor-bottle holder for a party at the Pierre Hotel. Before he breaks out the chain saw, though, he unhatches the door to the fifteen-degree walk-in freezer, which this morning houses a set of frozen speakers, among other ice creations. As I stomp through a drift of ice shavings, I and feel the hairs on my arms bristle.

Joey Ice sets down his coffee to show me the freezers where he makes his own giant ice cubes.

Though Joey Ice loves collaborations (his favorite project, in 1997, was transforming Harlem’s Cotton Club into an ice cave for Versace and Absolut Vodka), these days, business is less about carving shapes than creating functional ice “décor,” like ice trays, and freezing objects into ice, like the speakers. “I haven’t had a bride ask me for a swan in a long time,” he says. He did, however, offer me a peek at an icy rendition of the Brooklyn Bridge.

It's time to make the bottle holder. Josh wrangles a block of ice onto a plywood platform, scores the surface with a knife, then revs up the chain saw and hacks into the cube. Ice chips fly into the air.

Once the shape is cut, he flips the ice over and bores into the surface with a drill to make a row of liquor-bottle-sized holes. Cylinders of crushed ice rise out of the holes and crumble to the floor. 

As we pass through the studio, Joey points out the slabs of plywood, used as a base for all the carvings, scored with happenstance chain-saw marks, water stains, and dirt: tactile footprints of his craft. He’s begun selling the wooden by-product as art in its own right.

Outside, Joey Ice douses his kinetic sign with a fresh layer of water from a Pepsi bottle. Ice is an unpredictable medium, he explains: you can design and plan and produce all you want, but it keeps changing until it disappears altogether. (Hes even designed a special drainage system for his sculptures to prevent floods.)  “There’s an adrenaline to figuring stuff out,” he says as the frosty air rises from the letters. “There’s a yabba-dabba-do to getting it on with ice, but it ain’t over till it’s taken down.

Follow Sense & the City on Instagram @senseandthecity.

Many thanks to Joey Ice for the tour of Ice Fantasies.

Tuesday, July 7, 2015

SMELL: The secret beaches of Manhattan

Riding the Q train through Midtown one Sunday night, I noticed a small mound of sand on the seat beside me. Ah, someone returning from a day at Coney Island, I thought, struck by the fact that in our city you can travel from sandcastle to skyscraper in just enough time for your bathing suit to dry.

Many New Yorkers don’t realize that it’s not necessary to travel to Coney Island to dip one’s toes in some sand. There are actually two sandy beaches right on the island of Manhattan—one on the East River and the other on the Hudson (though you might not want to build a sandcastle on either). 

The first beach—visible only at low tide—is at the end of East Twentieth Street, where it meets the East River (not actually a river but a saltwater estuary). After you cut through a parking lot under the FDR Drive, you’ll find yourself in Stuyvesant Cove Park. Joggers bounce past; men sun themselves on the boardwalk. The smell of rose hips fills the air. 

If you approach the railing and look down, you’ll notice a triangle of sand and some old dock pilings. The air smells of tar and saltwater and seaweed—and the waftings of Chinese takeout from a woman sitting on a nearby park bench. 

Leap over the fence and all of a sudden your toes are sinking into warm sand. You can even beachcomb! On the day I visited, I found a seashell, a small crab, and a piece of sea glass (estuary glass?). 

Add your bare footprints to the duck prints. 

Close your eyes and listen to the waves lapping—mingling with the thrum of the FDR drive just behind you.

Looking back toward the shore, you’ll notice a large rusty pipe jutting out from beneath the boardwalk: as it turns out, storm water from the city’s gutters flows out onto this beach. Suddenly standing barefoot in that white sand doesn’t seem quite so magical. Leap back over the fence and try your luck across town. 

Manhattan’s other sandy beach is in on the freshwater Hudson River, in Inwood, at the very end of Dyckman Street, tucked between a marina and an exit ramp off the Henry Hudson Parkway. An old mulberry tree shades the beach, and Canada geese wade in the shallows.

Goose droppings and crushed mulberries mingle in the gritty sand with sea glass (river glass?) and, on the day I visited, even a clamshell.

The breeze here smells lazy, like river water and plants—with the tracings of marijuana from a group smoking up in a grove that overlooks the beach.

There’s some sort of quasi-habitation or junk pile under some tree roots off to the side, but that doesn’t seem to concern anyone on this lovely morning.

Sit on one of the benches under the trees and watch an old man dancing on a rectangle of nearby grass, a harmonica around his neck, shaking a bouquet of maracas. The parkway roars past overhead, but it's no match for his music. He’s grinning at the water, the Palisades, the geese, and anyone who happens to know about this little beach on our big island.

Tuesday, June 2, 2015

SOUND: The steam engines of Pratt University

On a recent Saturday afternoon, ten strangers carrying bags of cat food gathered beneath a smokestack in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn. In about half an hour, passersby might have noticed puffs of white smoke issuing from the chimney and drifting over the rooftops of Pratt Institute.
Belowground, Conrad Milster, age seventy-nine, chief engineer of Pratt’s Victorian-era engine room, had just fired up the oldest steam-generated power plant of its kind in the northeastern United States. The room features an observation balcony overlooking three immaculately restored steam-powered generators from 1888.
The direct-current generators ran daily at Pratt until 1977, and they still run during the winter months, when their exhaust steam is fed into the university’s heating system. The steam is heated by an oil-burning boiler.

The engine room is also home to a crew of award-winning stray cats, who curl up among the pipes and in the corners. Conrad has suggested that his three generators have distinct personalities, much as his cats do, and he tends to both species with the same devoted affection.
Pratt’s chief engineer since 1958, Conrad has lamp-chop sideburns, aviator eyeglasses, and a hunched back. As he talks, he gesticulates with graceful fingers that one can easily imagine manipulating the levers and gears of the turn-of-the-century machinery.

Among the many impressive aspects of the Pratt engine room (the vintage chandelier and marble switchboard, the smell of steam and cat food), the most striking are the sounds.
A low, continuous hiss of steam fills the wood-paneled room, like a kettle kept on low boil. When Conrad switches on the generator by turning a spigot, water slaps onto the metal and then fizzes into steam. The pistons rumble and click into action, and the flywheel spins, faster and faster, chugging like an old steam train. The governor clangs; the flywheel wobbles. The gears turn in a wheezing singsong.

Conrad’s steam-powered gadgets extends beyond the generators. Each New Year’s Eve, for about fifty years, he played his collection of steam whistles, which includes train whistles, a handmade calliope steam-organ, and a whistle from the ocean liner Normandie. Today, he runs a stick over the cylinders, creating a cascade of metallic notes like a xylophone.
When he’s not tending to his full-size generators, Conrad creates scale-model generators in the machine shop below the power plant. The scale models replicate the sounds of their full-size cousins upstairs, but this afternoon they have to compete with strains of opera radio. “They’re playing Trovatore today—one of my favorites!” he says.

As the tiny generator begins to spin, it illuminates a strand of Christmas lights. Conrad is retiring this year. He expects that it won’t be long before the engine room is demolished; if that happens, he doesn’t want to know about it. He’s keeping one foot in the Age of Steam. Today, as he puts it, “the world isn’t what you’d want it to be.”
In the lobby next to the engine room sits the movement of a clock-tower clock that Conrad restored. Its steady ticking is the last sound today’s visitors will hear.

Many thanks to Atlas Obscura for organizing a tour of Pratt's engine room.

Tuesday, May 5, 2015

SIGHT: The only taxidermist in the five boroughs

It all began with a tiger-skin rug.

Family legend had it that my grandmother’s suitor had shot it for her in India and offered it as a token of his love. After decades spent in an attic, it needed a little TLC—and that’s when I headed to Middle Village, Queens, to see John Youngaitis, the only taxidermist in the five boroughs.

John has a trim white beard, sharp teeth, and piercing eyes. He took one look at our rug and said it was not worth repairing—yet in the way he cradled the tiger’s head in his tattooed hands, I could see his affection both for animals and for his craft.

I returned a few months later to watch him at work. He greeted me wearing a Harley T-shirt tucked into jeans, exposing his sleeves of tattoos. One project that day was finishing up a scene of a raccoon peering out of the knothole of a tree.

John was puzzled because the client had requested that the tail hang down from below the knothole. “It doesn’t make any sense!” he snorted.

A bifurcated raccoon isn’t the craziest request he’s had. “I’ve got stories,” he told me, reaching for a dusty photo album. He began his career in taxidermy growing up in East New York, as a child apprentice to his father.

He’s fashioned a lamp out of a moose spine, mounted a dog’s head on the dog’s favorite stick, refurbished a raccoon to go in a customer’s kitchen to scare his wife, and taxidermied everything from a baby elephant to a goldfish: “If you can think of it, I’ve worked on it.” John says his favorite jobs are creating scenes, or, as he puts it, “inter-reactions—where things are happening.” Then he gets artistic license.

The front of his shop is a showroom of mounts available for sale and for rent. The workroom is in back, behind a curtain, the walls lined with girly posters, tools, and mounted game. Boxes of animal hides rest adjacent to a bench press and the hubcaps of a truck he’s restoring. A list pinned on the wall inventories the animals in his freezer (including “2 bantam chickens” and “1 boar tail”). 

John says 80 percent of his business is from hunters; most of the rest is pets and, occasionally, road kill (a remorseful couple recently brought in a coyote they’d hit on the Taconic). People often don’t return to pick up their dogs and cats (“They just get new puppies and kittens”), but bird owners, for some reason, almost always return. “Lots of people have dreams, all these good ideas, then you never see them again,” John says.

His other job for the day is putting the finishing touches on a doe head. John touches up the tear ducts with white paint and combs blue LA Looks hair gel into the fur to smooth it. Clothespins attached to the ears help the hide mold to the plastic form underneath as it dries.  

While pet owners bring in photos, hunters have to resort to oral description: they usually want their mount to capture either the way they last saw their prey or its final wall position (gazing toward the couch, for example). John orders all his supplies from Van Dyke’s taxidermy catalog. In its flagged pages, one can find everything from a blesbok form to a warthog eyeball. 

John has no lack of work, but nevertheless, he says, “You know what it is? It’s a luxury business. If there’s a water bill, guess who’s going to get paid first? Not Johnny.”

I leave as his cuckoo clock tweets its reconstructed birdsong. The cemetery across the street is reflected in the shopwindow, superimposed on the immortalized creatures inside.