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Rough, grainy and cinematic: Retronaut puts together a stunning portrait of New York 1800-1890s.
Spotted on: This Isn’t Happiness.
HOLY vertical view on Manhattan ( New York, in 1944). By Andreas Feininger pic.twitter.com/sDutQ4WdSI
Charles W. Cushman, “amateur” photographer traveled extensively in the U.S. and abroad capturing daily life from 1938 to 1969.
I love his photos.
Read more here.
Bad Brains, Beasties, CBGB. It’s all amazingly simple – 80′s style.
(via: nyhc chronicles)
Another treasure trove of NYC photos:
NYC, c. 1985,” a group exhibition including artworks by Armand Agresti, Amy Arbus, Janette Beckman, Larry Clark, Janet Delaney, Andrew Garn, Nan Goldin, Arlene Gottfried, Keizo Kitajima, Catherine McGann, Jeannette Montgomery Barron, Mark Morrisroe, Christine Osinski, Gunar Roze, Les Simpson, Gail Thacker, and Brian Young.
Through a wide range of photographic images by both established and less-familiar artists, the exhibition represents a major metropolis in transition. Compared to the 1970s, a restrained optimism prevailed to a certain extent in New York City over the next decade with the Wall Street boom and a general decline in unemployment. However, such appalling blights as homelessness, violent crime, and racial tensions—not to mention the explosion of the AIDS epidemic—all served to shred the very social fabric of the city.
The tippy top of the Woolworth Building at 792 feet. The WSJ put together a slideshow here.
You knew this was bound to happen: ALL THE BUILDINGS IN NEW YORK by James Gulliver Hancock.
I was asking for something specific and perfect for my city,
Whereupon lo! upsprang the aboriginal name.
Now I see what there is in a name, a word, liquid, sane, unruly,
I see that the word of my city is that word from of old,
Because I see that word nested in nests of water-bays, superb,
Rich, hemm’d thick all around with sailships and steamships, an
island sixteen miles long, solid-founded,
Numberless crowded streets, high growths of iron, slender, strong,
light, splendidly uprising toward clear skies,
Tides swift and ample, well-loved by me, toward sundown,
The flowing sea-currents, the little islands, larger adjoining
islands, the heights, the villas,
The countless masts, the white shore-steamers, the lighters, the
ferry-boats, the black sea-steamers well-model’d,
The down-town streets, the jobbers’ houses of business, the houses
of business of the ship-merchants and money-brokers, the
Immigrants arriving, fifteen or twenty thousand in a week,
The carts hauling goods, the manly race of drivers of horses, the
The summer air, the bright sun shining, and the sailing clouds aloft,
The winter snows, the sleigh-bells, the broken ice in the river,
passing along up or down with the flood-tide or ebb-tide,
The mechanics of the city, the masters, well-form’d,
beautiful-faced, looking you straight in the eyes,
Trottoirs throng’d, vehicles, Broadway, the women, the shops and shows,
A million people–manners free and superb–open voices–hospitality–
the most courageous and friendly young men,
City of hurried and sparkling waters! city of spires and masts!
City nested in bays! my city! (For more information; stroll along Walt Whitman’s SoHo Historic District in New York City)
My City, my beloved, my white! Ah, slender, Listen! Listen to me, and I will breathe into thee a soul. Delicately upon the reed, attend me! Now do I know that I am mad, For here are a million people surly with traffic; This is no maid. Neither could I play upon any reed if I had one. My City, my beloved, Thou art a maid with no breasts, Thou art slender as a silver reed. Listen to me, attend me! And I will breathe into thee a soul, And thou shalt live for ever. - Ezra Pound