Crazy Stable

Last entry, I posted a 1907 bird's-eye shot of Prospect Park South, and someone wondered about the source of the photo (which I grabbed off the web). Wow, glad you asked! First, here's a redo of the panorama, with Informative Labels By Me. Yes, that is a golf course between Stratford and Rugby Roads, south of the Parade Grounds; the march of development had already devoured the first hole, and the rest of the links weren't long for this world. CLICK THUMBNAIL FOR FULL-SIZED AWESOMENESS!

 Turns out, this is a rare New York shot by the ascended (literally) master of early aerial photography, George E. Lawrence (1868-1938). On the frustrating cusp of the era of aviation, this Illinois commercial photographer created crazy but effective contraptions to take panoramic pictures from the sky, including "captive airships" made of tethered kites and balloons. (He fell out of one such balloon, but then, he also experimented with flash charges for indoor photography and blew his child out a window. Both survived.) His daring extended to his personal life; the bounder ditched his first wife for his much-younger secretary.

Lawrence is most famous for his panorama of San Francisco lying in ruins after its great earthquake and fire. But he built a lucrative business photographing anything that called for a bird's-eye view. A glance at a gallery of his images evokes American values in the Teddy Roosevelt era. Bigger was better! He built the biggest camera in the world to capture a mighty steam engine, and shot political conventions, stockyards, factory floors, and military groups. But I'm particularly fond of his Big Crowds. Check out the sheer scale of the "Coliseum Gardens" somewhere, I think, in the Midwest:

Coliseum Gardens, 1905 (Geo R. Lawrence, Library of Congress)

 Can you imagine being a waiter in this place...or a dishwasher?

Banquets were another favorite subject; flocks of men in penguin suits paid Lawrence handsomely to record their festivities. This laugh-packed affair is a "party for Secretary Taft," and features, I believe, exotically costumed, long-suffering waiters (along with a centerpiece that redefines "farm-to-table eating"):

Secretary Taft's Party Dinner, 1906 (Geo R. Lawrence, Library of Congress)

Lawrence's services were expensive, and I wonder whether perhaps Dean Alvord, the developer of Prospect Park South, hired him to immortalize and promote the fabulous new development in Flatbush, which the Brooklyn Eagle termed "a rising colony of notables" in "a high class aristocratic suburb, the tone and character of which could not be disturbed or changed for a long period to come." (Job done!) I have found no information on what zany stunts were employed to capture the image, but I love the idea of the mustachio'd Mr. Lawrence, on a clear day more than a century ago, rigging up one of his "captive airships" over our sylvan streets.

Prospect Park South, 1907

Let's take a detour from the Lenten PrayerBlog Detour to welcome a new kid on the block: Ditmas Park Corner, a true neighborhood blog (which, for the moment, features your goofy-looking StableMistress weighing in on how much I love it around here). Photo: Ditmas Park CornerThe Corner is run by the well-liked and respected founders of the community's seminal blog, who have regrouped after its sad takeover by a not-very-welcome corporate parent. This strikes me as the Way Things Ought to Be, and I wish them all the luck, advertising, buzz, retwerping, eyeballs, et cetera in the world.

The bloggers may have hit on something deep with their notion of a "corner" (as opposed to, say, a "patch") as the working concept of community. We are blessed in Brooklyn to live in an urban space where people walk around a lot, and that's where you meet your neighbors—out on the street, in the places between your private spaces. Our corners are leafy and steeped in history (like this one, with its ancient surviving sign at the corner of Marlborough and Albemarle Roads). But they are also very public stages, a short hop from fractious subway lines, where we have encountered over the years every manner of curious person, from Hollywood film crews to the occasional mugger, from affluent stroller moms and dads to impoverished recent immigrants hunting in our recycling for bottles. Built as exclusive enclaves, the neighborhoods of "Victorian Brooklyn" (including Ditmas Park, Prospect Park South, and our slightly scruffier Caton Park on its northern edge) are verdant meeting grounds for any city soul who walks by.

Headstone, Flatbush Dutch Reformed ChurchSpeaking of souls: Back to my prayer-a-day diversion! I hunted around for a prayer for one's neighborhood or community, but those few I found were annoyingly bland. (I am curating these prayers for awesomeness. Besides, no one will ever mistake this for Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood.) Instead, "neighbor" led me to the awesome old-timey Catholic "Act of Love." I'm not a social-justice wonk, I'm all about one person at a time making things bearable for each other. And if we all managed this prayer's aspiration, our communities would be like earthly paradise.

An Act of Love

O my God, I love you above all things, with my whole heart and soul, because you are all-good and worthy of all love. I love my neighbor as myself for the love of you. I forgive all who have injured me, and I ask pardon of all whom I have injured.

Bridge fragments, Prospect Park

Too many of my friends are struggling and in pain these days, it seems. "Tough economy" doesn't begin to describe what it means to find yourself out of work, interminably, after years of sharing your expertise, experience and dedication. It doesn't touch what it means to drag yourself to a job you live in gut-wrenching fear of losing, or one where the ground feels shaky under your feet. And it doesn't hint at the corrosive anguish of wondering how the hell you will make ends meet, for months or years on end.

This is a "tough topic" in Lent, when we are called traditionally to fasting, prayer and almsgiving. That last one in particular: What are we called to do for "the poor" when we worry about meeting our own needs and those of our families? I sometimes want to shake Jesus and remind him that the "lilies of the field" never had to feed or educate their kids, pay for health care, or survive retirement. Yes, I know—giving alms can involve "time and talent" as well as, or instead of, "treasure." But it can be tempting to despair that your time and talent are valued by no one, at least in worldly coin. No easy answers, except that it sucks, and that by now I have a stumbling hope that God is closest to us when things suck the worst.

Here is a morning prayer steeped in the hope of compassion. As someone who struggles horribly with mornings, I love its acknowledgement that some days will be harder than others. Thanks to Mary Margaret Cannon of my faith community, the Oratory Church of St. Boniface, for posting it online today; it is attributed to St. Boniface, a British missionary to Germanic tribes who once hacked down an oak tree worshipped by pagans and who surely had his share of discouragement.

Eternal God,
the refuge of all your children,
in our weakness, you are our strength,
in our darkness, you are our light,
in our sorrow, you are our comfort and peace.
May we always live in your presence,
and serve you in our daily lives;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Late have I loved Thee,
O Beauty so ancient and so new,
late have I loved Thee!
For behold Thou wert within me, and I outside;
and I sought Thee outside and in my unloveliness fell upon those lovely things that Thou hast made.
Thou wert within me, but I was not with Thee.
I was kept from Thee by those things,
yet had they not been in Thee, they would not have been at all.
Thou didst call and cry to me and break open my deafness; and Thou didst send forth Thy beams and shine upon me and chase away my blindness; Thou didst breathe fragrance upon me, and I drew in my breath and do now pant for Thee; I tasted Thee, and now hunger and thirst for Thee; Thou didst touch me, and I have burned for Thy peace.

That is a prayer by St. Augustine of Hippo (354-430, and no, there is no "1" missing from the beginning of those dates). Check out his burnin' love in this none-too-subtle allegorical painting by Baroque artist Philippe de Champaigne (I love the label, VERITAS, in case we'd miss the point).

St. Augustine, of course, is most famous for the mad sexy sins he described (remorsefully, of course) in his autobiographical Confessions, from which this ravishing prayer is taken. I tried to wade through it once in my teens, like a lot of readers, expecting it to be a bit more salacious than it was, but I never forgot this prayer. I love the lush antiquarian cadence of this translation by F.J. Sheed (of the Catholic publishers Sheed & Ward). But if you prefer a version without "Thees" and "werts," this English translation was given by the Vatican when Benedict XVI quoted the prayer in an address in 2008. It still, fortunately, includes "panting."

Late have I loved you, beauty so old and so new: late have I loved you.

And see, you were within and I was in the external world and sought you there, and in my unlovely state I plunged into those lovely created things which you made.

You were with me, and I was not with you. The lovely things kept me far from you, though if they did not have their existence in you, they had no existence at all.

You called and cried aloud and shattered my deafness. You were radiant and resplendent, you put to flight my blindness. You were fragrant, and I drew in my breath and now pant after you. I tasted you, and I feel but hunger and thirst for you. You touched me, and I am set on fire to attain the peace which is yours.

To start the week, a prayer from beloved spiritual author Henri Nouwen. I often actually find my fists clenched and find it almost impossible to relax my hands, even at rest; I am loathe to speculate on what this implies about my spiritual life, but this beautiful invocation may help.

Dear God,

I am so afraid to open my clenched fists!

Who will I be when I have nothing left to hold on to?

Who will I be when I stand before you with empty hands?

Please help me to gradually open my hands

and to discover that I am not what I own,

but what you want to give me.

And what you want to give me is love—

unconditional, everlasting love.

Amen.



Henri Nouwen (1932-1996) was a Dutch-born Catholic pastor, professor, and author of more than 40 books developing his "theology of the heart." His is a radical spirituality, not watered-down therapy. For example:

"Maybe someone will say to you, 'You have to forgive yourself.' But that isn’t possible. What is possible is to open your hands without fear, so that the One who loves you can blow your sins away." For more of his wonderful insights on unclenching our fists, go here. If you, like Henri and me, have struggled with depression, you might want to start wtih The Inner Voice of Love: A Journey Through Anguish to Freedom, one of his most intensely personal works. Have a blessed week!