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94 THIRD EYE NFL Draft Day Bling on Parade. photos by Suzy Allman 104 FICTION: GIFTED Our child was “unlike any creature born of man”. by Simon Rich 114 FICTION: PAISLEY MISCHIEF The white shoe bankers and lawyers of Park Avenue. by Lincoln MacVeagh
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departments 24 TRAIN OF THOUGHT My fantasy parents: Sonny and Cher. by Nancy Balbirer 33 THE LOCAL SCENE Fascinatin’ Neighbors. 124 IN GOOD TASTE Georgette Farkas, the Woman behind Rotisserie Georgette. by Kathleen Squires 132 I’LL TAKE MANHATTAN NYC anew. 140 DA MO DA MERRIER Construct Your Own Happy Place. by Simone 148 LIKE A ROLLING STONE Adventures around the world. 166 MODEL CITIZENS High Performance Outerwear. 176 THE BEST OF BOTH WORLDS Luxury lifestlye. 192 APPRAISED AND APPROVED Style and Substance. 217 INDEPENDENT SCHOOL GUIDE Institutions for all kinds of learning; Story Pirates take the stage. 272 COMMUNITY ROOM The Great Game of Women’s Tennis. by Christine Juneau
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“Each story in SPOILED BRATS opens with a brilliant comedic perspective that only gets funnier, more surprising, and more insightful.... ONE OF MY FAVORITE BOOKS FROM ONE OF MY FAVORITE AUTHORS.” —B. J. Novak, author of One More Thing: Stories and Other Stories
Alan and I knew instantly that our child was exceptional. He was just so adorable, with his pentagram birthmark and little, grasping claws. —from the story “Gifted” “The funniest thing I’ve read in a long time.” —Conan O’Brien, on the story “Guy Walks into a Bar,” via Twitter “Rich knows how to balance the smart with the funny.” —Patrick Cassels, New York Times Book Review “One of the funniest writers in America.” —Daily Beast
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CENTRALPARK WEST R ye W e s t o n UPPER EAST SIDE THE
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TRAIN OF THOUGHT
Sonny and Cher By Nancy Balbirer
ALP i NE W estchester
greenwich Westport NewCanaan hamptons Longisland Litchfieldcounty COUNTRY CAPITALIST
I spent an inordinate amount of time as a child lying in my canopy bed fantasiz- ing about Sonny and Cher being my parents. I’d imagine them wending their way down our long gravel driveway in the Con- necticut woods, to claim me in their VW bus, along with little Chastity, some stray dogs and cats, and a trunk, (emblazonedwithmy name), full of tie-dyed casual-wear, and miniature Bob Mackie gowns. I figured that while my parents would be a bit sad to lose me, they’d get over it; they had other kids and they’d conclude that I really was better suited to living with a pair of Hollywood Hippies. I had always been a bit “out there”; a sort of pint-sized rabble-rouser, marching to the beat of a different drum, and my parents had, without fail, wholeheartedly supported my myriad nutty endeavors. Once, in Kindergarten, we were asked to paint a life- sized self-portrait. Our teacher, Miss Cohen, had us all lie on individual rolled out white sheets so that she could trace our outlines; our task, then, was to simply paint in the specifics: hair; eyes; clothes, etc. Ostensibly, the point of this exercise was to notice, perhaps for the very first time, who we are, and how we are differ- ent. Even at the tender age of five, I thought the whole undertaking was a big yawn, so instead of filling in my outline with my ac- tual features (dark brown hair, green eyes, pale skin), I filled them in with the comedian Flip Wilson’s (kinky black hair; dark brown eyes; brown skin). Miss Cohen, being a literalist, was none too pleased by this abstraction; I was duly reprimanded for insubordination and ex- iled to “the corner” for the remainder of the afternoon. When my mother came to pick me up and was informed of my malfeasance, she asked to see the offending painting. “I don’t see what the problem is,” she said, perusing my handiwork. “Flip Wilson’s never looked better.” Later, at dinner, when my mother shared the story with my father, he took it as an opportunity to teach me the meaning of the word pedantic. And, that was that. But, as understanding and encouraging as my parents were of their child’s offbeat tem- perament, even they had their limitations. The
experience I could have as the tag-along daugh- ter of counter-culture Glamazons like Sonny and Cher would surely trump anything they could offer me in the pretty-but-staid woods of Connecticut. And so, with heads held high, they would agree to hand me off to the Bonos, whilst I kissed them good-bye tearfully, and promised to write postcards each week from the road. And then, Sonny and Cher would whisk me back to the VW and off we’d go on an endless, pleasure-seeking Summer of Love. When I was eight, and Sonny and Cher announced they were getting divorced, I was completely despondent; it clearly signi- fied The End Of Everything Good. I sort of never accepted it. Yeah, OK–they “split up”; Cher got with Gregg Allman; Sonny re-mar- ried and then re-married...blah, blah, blah… whatever. I just never was willing to believe that they stopped loving each other; that they were not soul-mates; that one day, in my (apparently romance-starved) imagination we’d, all of us, not be reunited as a “family.” I N MY EARLY TWENTIES , I PARTICIPATED IN A weekly poker game with Chastity Bono. One day, I shared with her my kooky early-child- hood dreams of her parents, and the very pro- found inferences I ascribed to the love that they had once shared. Basically, I told her the whole, ridiculous thing. She was standing in my tiny kitchen on Twelfth Street, making us all Sonny’s famous steak recipe for dinner, and as I recounted my tale, she chuckled, knowingly. “I felt that way about ‘Sonny and Cher’ too…” “You did??” “Sure,” she shrugged. “Of course.” Cutting into the meat to see that it was done to perfection, she added: “And, it’s good to have fantasies, Nance. But, you know what?” “What?” “It’s even better to have steak….” Nancy Balbirer’s first book, Take Your Shirt Off and Cry was published by Blooms- bury in 2009. She is currently at work on her second book, A Marriage in Dog Years. She lives in Manhattan with her daughter. *
Editor and Publisher Eric S. Meadow Editor Celia R. Meadow Art Director TimHussey Executive Editor Debbie Silver Travel Editor Susan Engel Editors at Large Paula Koffsky, Simone Meadow, Rich Silver General Counsel Bruce Koffsky, Esq. Contributors Bonnie Adler, JacobM. Appel, Natalie Axton,
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“The first great novel about post-crash American disillusionment, the flip side of The Wolf of Wall Street.” —NY1’s The Book Reader
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the local scene
Rural Palates by Christy Smith-Sloman Bobby Flay unwinds at home in the Hamptons Generations by Gretchen Vanesselstyn My Life Among Lobsters Speaker’s Corner byMary EllenWalsh Author/Teacher, Kaylie Jones 36 38
launches her own imprint. In Your Own Backyard by Alena Dillon ANudeAwakeningonFire Island Curator’s Corner 1970’s Photo Realismat the NassauCountyMuseumof Art The Next Chapter by Amy Ferris Causing a scene at Jet Blue Terminal Arts Long Island’s Gold Coast International FilmFestival; Suzanne Vega at Westhampton Beach Performing Arts Center Gallery Long Island Restaurant Week is back! 40 42 44 47 48
PHOTO BY MICHAEL CROOK
BOBBY FLAY ON TURNING 50 THANKSGIVING IN THE HAMPTONS AND CULINARY AWARDS by Christy Smith-Sloman
C hef, restaurateur, author, actor and TV personality Bobby Flay has his sauté spoon in many pans. The Iron Chef presides over a culinary em- pire that includes six high-end restaurants and 15 burger bars. His latest restaurant, Gato, in New York City’s trendy NoLita neighborhood, opened in March. On most nights you’ll find Flay manning the stove, creating Spanish-inspired dishes with Mediterranean flair with a sprinkling of tapas. In between shuffling to one of his many Food Network commitments and keeping a watchful eye on Gato, Flay frequently es- capes with his wife, actress Stephanie March, (you may have seen her as the uptight as- sistant district attorney Alexandra Cabot on Law & Order: Special Victims Unit) to their Amagansett getaway. It’s at this Gold-LEED certified, custom- built, shingled style home in the woods that
wouldn’t believe the ingredients there,” he says. “There are all sorts of ingredients you wouldn’t find in your everyday supermarket.” When he’s not Grillin’ and Chillin’, Flay grabs a bite at Bosticks, Nick & Toni’s, Tutto il Giorno and Harlow. The fall is Flay’s favorite time in the Hamp- tons. Possibly because he’s not a fan of tanning and prefers early morning walks on the beach. “I love cooking out here in the fall. You see a lot of pumpkin fields, I love the colors,” says Flay. “We’re going to have about 50 people out here for Thanksgiving dinner. We used to host Thanksgiving dinner in our Manhattan apart- ment but when we started having it out here everyone just followed us.” Last year Flay prepared two thirty-pound turkeys and cooked side dishes for several days, and this year it will be more of the same. Come December, Flay is looking forward to celebrating a milestone birthday. “Me and
the celebrity chef is able to relax more than anyplace else in the world. “I’m a native New Yorker, so as soon as I enter my house in Amagansett my entire body decompresses and it basically goes on chill mode and I relax,” says Flay, “I sleep better here than in the city. Maybe it’s the air. I’m not exactly a hermit but I do spend a lot of time at home. It’s sort of like a dream come true and I love cooking in my kitchen out here.” That kitchen encompasses a commercial, 10-burner stove, two ovens, a fryer, a griddle and a Salamander broiler. Throw in two café tables and a farmer’s table and it pretty much resembles a restaurant. “I like food shopping in the Hamptons,” explains Flay. “I love the farmers markets in the Hamptons. They are some of the best I’ve ever seen.” He insists that the IGA supermarket is the most underrated store in the Hamptons. “You
Stephanie are thinking about doing a big party and calling it the 100 years of awesome,” grins Flay. “I’m turning 50, Stephanie is turning 40 and we’ve been together 10 years, and that equals 100 years of awesome. We’re not sure where it’s going to be yet.” Flay was recently the guest-of-honor at the James Beard Foundation’s annual fundraiser, Chefs & Champagne, in Sagaponack. Past honorees include Julia Child, Emeril Lagasse, Ted Allen and Martha Stewart. “It’s the James Beard Foundation so it’s a huge honor,” says Flay. “Cooking at the Beard House in New York is a very special experience and I have a long history with them.” On the horizon Flay has a brunch cookbook set to hit bookstores in the spring. “I have a show on the cooking channel called ‘Brunch at Bobby’s,’ I’m obsessed with brunch,” claims Flay. “I’m one of the few professional chefs who actually likes the idea of brunch. Most chefs don’t like brunch because Saturday night af- ter work brunch comes quickly. A lot of cooks have hangovers during brunch, but I love the idea of brunch. I love egg dishes. I like sweet dishes, pancakes, the waffles, the french toast. I just love the attention to details and of course I like the cocktails.” After Flay’s cameo in the HBO series Entourage, Flay decided acting wasn’t exactly his cup of tea. “I’m a terrible actor. But it was so much fun,” Flay smiles. “To be honest a lot of guys were pissed off at me because I was dating Ari’s (Jeremy Piven) wife. I was like, you hated Ari for eight years and now I’m dating his wife and you’re upset. It was pretty funny.” Flay is looking forward to catching the the- atrical release of Entourage, which is due to hit theaters in June 2015, but was mum on plot details. “I can’t say if I’m going to make an ap- pearance in the movie,” smirks Flay, “But you never know.” Christy Smith-Sloman’s writing has appeared in Marie Claire, The Hollywood Reporter, Essence, Yahoo! and CBSSports.com among other publications. Her play, “Negative Is Posi- tive,” will be produced at Theater For The New City in New York City in November 2014 for a one month run. *
PHOTO BY DANIEL KRIEGER
PHOTO BY DANIEL KRIEGER
MY LIFE AMONG LOBSTERS by Gretchen Vanesselstyn
I DON’T REMEMBER my first taste of lobster, but I can picture it. That phrase, “my first taste of lobster,” probably conjures visions of a child in an antique highchair, lace napkin tucked under her chin, a buttery silver spoon bearing an ivory morsel perched at her waiting, ruby lips. Instead it was a bit of rubbery claw meat, dangled from my father’s rough hand, his blue eyes watching to see if I was a true lobsterman’s daughter, or a mere landlubber. Legend has it that I laughed, and asked for more, thus cementing my fate, my life among lobsters.
peg into each claw’s hinge so it couldn’t snap shut. He’d bait the pot with a chunk of mackerel or bunker, then toss it back over the side. Sometimes the trap would be empty. Other times a spider crab or two–terrifying creatures with foot-long, eager claws–would wait inside. At the first sight of these sea monsters, I would run to the bow and hide my eyes until Dad said “All clear.” But I was never afraid of lobsters. Back at home, I’d watch them try to fight, try to snap me, each other, anyone. They were angry to be out in the fresh air, but a short, hot bath took care of that. We ate them boiled with melted butter,
In fact, the truth is somewhere in between. My father, despite his most fervent desires, was a paper execu- tive. Weekdays he would mull new cup designs, sit through meetings about desirable colors and scents for toilet tissue. But on summer nights and weekends, he got to take off his business suit, pull on his cutoffs, his stained T-shirt, and bait-shop hat, and pretend. The corporate world has its rewards: stable hours, decent pay- check, walls to shield you from the cold wind. But you really feel like a provider when you haul up a big load and hear the approving grunts of your fellow fishermen as you carry the pails down the dock. You lay them out on the lawn, just for show, then haul them into the house, where your city- born wife waits knowingly with a pot of boiling water and a pound of but- ter. Beats bringing home a piece of paper any day.
corn and potatoes on the side. As a young child I learned to break open lobster shells and extract the meat without using tools, though crackers and picks were always available for guests. Snapping off the tail plates, then pushing my fingers into the niche to force out the meat is a party trick that still impresses, though people now figure that I learned it in cooking school. Rejecting the disgusting green goo in the body cavity, we ate claws and tail first, then sucked the juice from the small, prickly legs. In summer, we ate from the sea. Huge bluefish steaks, whole roast- ed striped bass, tiny deep-fried snappers, and whole dynasties of lobsters fed the VanEsselstyns year after year. From May through Sep-
tember, we lived the life of kings, the life of lobstermen. The rest of the year, Mom got dinner on the table every evening after teaching first-graders all day. Because she attended graduate school at night and raised us two kids, dinner was mostly Hamburger Helper, SPAM, and boxed macaroni and cheese. But it was dinner, and we liked it, and let’s forgive those meals for the sin they seem now to be, the heart surgery they brought my father, the thirty extra pounds that stick to my frame no matter what I do. Dad ate strange concoctions: jellied consommé from the Campbell’s can, which was kept in the refrigera- tor, topped with Worcestershire sauce; peanut butter, mayo, and ketchup sandwiches; and hardboiled eggs sliced into a bowl, topped with a gener- ous spoonful of mayo and a sprinkling of cornflakes. My brother David liked fried eggs, I liked scrambled. For four
It was the 1970s, and Long Island Sound was still rich with food: bluefish, fluke, weakfish, stripers. We had twelve pots in the water, which meant three or four lobster dinners a week in the high season. The sum- mer days were long, spent waiting to hear Dad’s car pull into the drive- way, then waiting again until we were out on the water, salt splashing on my face, wind tangling my hair. We’d cruise up to one of the empty bleach bottles that marked our pots, and the anticipation would build as I watched my father’s tan, muscled arms work, pulling up the line and resting the pot on the boat’s ledge. Sometimes we’d bring up a pot teeming with them. Dad sized them, checked for eggs, and tossed the illegals back over the side. The legal ones would go in the boat, and I’d hold my breath as he forced a white, ribbed
months, once, I ate only soup, inspired by Rus- sell and Lillian Hoban’s Bread and Jam for Fran- ces. But all winter we’d bide our time, waiting for that taste of summer, the flavor of salt and sea, of butter and sunshine, that was the first lobster of the year. WHEN I WAS twenty-five, I met a wonderful man, the funniest person I have ever known. We laughed, we ate Chinese food, we fell in love. And I foresaw a day when I would never eat lob- ster again. A wedding dress, a canopy. Poached salmon. Roast chicken. My father, a yarmulke sliding off his sun-freckled bald spot. My mother clapping her hands as I teetered above her on a chair, held up by strangers and friends, clinging tight to a handkerchief. On that day, I would trade steamed clams for companionship, oysters for love, lobster for a new way of life. Danny, my new love, was an Orthodox Jew. I caught him in a rebellious phase, and had great fun introducing him to the pleasures of Saturday morning cartoons, necking in public, and cheeseburgers. When my August birthday rolled around, I took him to Connecticut to meet my family. My dad had sold his lobster pots years before, but we piled into the car and drove to a casual shore restaurant, and sat, looking out onto the Sound. When the wait- ress came around, my dad said, “Beer, Danny?” He glanced at me and nodded. ‘We’ll have two pitchers of beer, steamers all around, and four lobster dinners,” Dad told her. Danny politely passed on the steamers–shellfish, including lob- sters, are not kosher. “It’s okay,” I whispered to him. “You’ll get corn and bread and a potato. I’ll eat your lobster.” “No, I’ll eat it,” he told me. Feeling more than a little guilty, I watched him take his first taste of lobster. “Oh my god. How can anything taste this good?” he asked me. I boiled a lot of lobsters for him over the next year, falling deeper in love with each passing month. At the Guggenheim Museum gift shop, we found a poster of the Picasso painting Lobster and Cat. “That’s you,” he told me, pointing at the spiky, gray lobster, “and that’s me,” he said, pointing at the brown cat, its fur on end, terrified. “Thanks a lot,” I told him, as he paid for the poster. He hung it on his apartment wall, and I’d look up at it sometimes and real- ize that he was right. Lobster and Cat. We were about as alike,
“Take… apart?” “So you’ve never done this,” he said, staring at me. “I guess not.” He grabbed two towels, held the front sec- tion of a lobster in his left hand, the back sec- tion in his right, and twisted, hard. In a second, there were two squirming lobster halves on the table. “Got it?” he asked me. “Got it,” I said through clenched teeth. I had boiled dozens of lobsters without a thought, but somehow dismemberment was another story. They’re bugs, I told myself Big, ugly bugs. You can step on a cockroach, right? So you can kill a lobster. I wound the towels around my hands and approached the smallest, most sluggish lobster on the pile. I flinched, let a tear drop down my cheek. The chef saw it, but said nothing. I picked up the lobster, twisted. “Harder. Do it fast. Twist. Now!” I did it. Made two pieces of lobster out of a live lobster. “Good. Now do the next one.” The second one was hard. The fifth was almost easy. And the tenth was like chop- ping a carrot. Freedom from compassion in ten easy lessons, thanks to a hard-ass chef. Four months later, I found myself working the garde-manger station at a lively East Vil- lage bistro. The lobster salad was a very popu- lar summer item, and within a few weeks I could turn a dozen cooked lobsters into salad meat in ten minutes flat. Dragging my tired body home on the subway late one night, I realized that the crowds of riders were giving me a wide berth. That exotic undersea per- fume in the air–that was me. I was mortified. And a little bit proud. Saltwater runs through my blood, after all. That first taste of lobster had contributed more to my fate and my choices than any-one might have guessed. I am the daughter of a lobsterman/paper executive and a first-grade teacher who can cook a mean loaf of SPAM. My plate runneth over with sweet corn; a brown Russet potato slashed open to reveal floury, buttered insides; a crisp sour-dough roll; and a bright red Long Island Sound lob- ster, claws dangling over the side, just waiting for me to dig in. Gretchen VanEsselstyn is a writer and edi- tor who lives in Brooklyn, NY. She is working on a novel about sex, psychotherapy, and res- taurant kitchens. *
similarly contentious. One night, after a few drinks, my brother took me aside. “You guys are getting really se- rious, huh? If you want, I’ll convert with you so you won’t be the only Jew in the family.” I imagined the canopy, and I knew I had been fooling myself. Danny was taking a vaca- tion from his life: dating me, eating shellfish, watching cartoons. He wasn’t going to give up his faith for lobster. I saw my revised plate for the years to come: baked potato, corn, a roll. And Danny. Was it enough? In the end, it didn’t matter. The relationship sputtered, faded into something else. I got to keep my friend Danny, and I got to keep my lobster. Sometimes I still wonder what my decision would have been. LOBSTERS FADED INTO the background of my life for a few years, barely causing a ripple of memory when I saw them on menus. Life in the corporate world took its toll on my joy and my health, and I, like my father so many years before, realized that I needed an escape. I left my job and enrolled in cooking school, taking the first step on a path that would lead me back to lobsters. Day Ten of cooking school. Already I have dumped a quart of chicken stock into my part- ner’s knife kit, slashed my finger open and bled all over a case of onions. But I, who have been known to get weepy because of a rude mail car- rier or a maudlin long distance commercial, am determined not to cry. My chef-instructor asks the class, “Has anyone cooked lobsters before?” I raise my hand. Finally, something I can do. Boiling lobsters never threw me. I’d watched my parents do it so often that I didn’t flinch the first time I threw my own Chinatown-bought lobsters into a boiling pot in my kitchen on Av- enue A. It wasn’t exactly the Maine coast, but they still tasted good. Lobsters were my first indication that, for me to eat, something had to die. Though I was a painfully sensitive child, the cold facts of carnivorism didn’t bother little Gretchen in the slightest. The lobsters went in the pot kicking and came out delicious, and that was the way of the world. “Okay, so you know that the tail and the claws should be cooked separately, right?” the chef asked. “Um, okay…” “So you’ll need to take apart these ten lob- sters for me.”
SPEAKER ’ S CORNER
KAYLIE JONES MAKING AN IMPRINT ON THE PUBLISHING WORLD by Mary Ellen Walsh
JUST WHEN the publishing world turned upside down, author/ teacher Kaylie Jones took a bold step and launched her own imprint, Kaylie Jones Books (KJB) www.kayliejonesbooks.com. Rave reviews continue to pour in from Publishers Weekly and Kirkus Reviews and American Library Association of KJB’s first titles. The July release of Sing in the Morning, Cry At Night, by Barbara J. Taylor hit 1,000 e-book sales on Amazon in one week. Kaylie Jones is a survivor. A second-degree black belt in mixed martial arts, with a string of novels, award-winning screenplays, and an honest memoir, Lies My Mother Never Told Me (HarperCollins/William Morrow, 2009) establishing her position as a revered writer, no challenge proves too big or too risky. “It’s more like a grassroots movement with writers taking back control,” says Jones. “We have a saying in Taekwondo, when we’re
sparring—not to judge ourselves. Just think without emotion.” Jones’ sense of place is strong both in literary history (daughter of James Jones, From Here to Eternity) as well as the Sagaponack she holds dear to her heart in a Camelot mystique. With her imprint, Jones has created a home for literature by helping talented authors publish their work. While teaching memoir and novel-writing classes at various MFA programs, including Stony Brook Southampton MFA in writing and literature in the Hamptons, Kaylie had met many struggling authors and wanted to do more than just mentor. Jones knew Johnny Temple, former bassist of the punk band Boys Against Girls, who founded Akashic, the Brooklyn-based indie label with the “Rad” attitude that features books and music, www.akashicbooks.com. “I felt like I wasn’t doing enough. A few years ago, I called Johnny and said I have to do something bigger to help writers. I suggested we open
Book, by Nina Solomon, We Are All Crew by Bill Landauer, and Little Beasts by Matthew McGevna. Jones’ next novel she penned herself, The Anger Meridian, will be published by Akashic in June 2015.
was world-famous by then, but wasn’t part of the literary scene. “WeliveddownthestreetfromGeorgePlimpton, WilliamMorris, JohnKnowles, Kurt Vonnegut and
an imprint,” says Jones. The imprint, with tagline: DedicatedWriters Taking a Stand, is a collaborative effort, writers helping writers with jacket copy, reviews, social media and moral support. Jones tries to mirror the older paradigm of author, agent, and editor relationship that spans an entire career. “It used to be a leisurely commitment. Agents would take on a writer for life, not just for one book. Now, MFA programs are offering a chance for that closer bond, ” says Jones. It was during the 2006-07 Wilkes University low-residency program out of Pennsylvania when student Laurie Loewenstein met Jones. “She was one of my very first professors. She’s so encouraging and a devoted teacher,” says Loewenstein. After Loewenstein graduated with a Master of Arts, she began to attend Jones’ private workshops and wrote a second novel about a little-known dress reform advocate from the 1920s. The novel, set in 1917 in rural Illinois, on the verge of US involvement in WWI, touches upon hot-button issues of race and women’s suffrage, oppression and bigotry. “With Kaylie, you come to understand that writing is collaborative. You need other people who are knowledgeable in writing. Kaylie is a wonderful teacher to learn from,” says Loewenstein. “I’m a Midwesterner like her father. My first writing was quiet without a lot of tension. Kaylie has a gift of spotting what’s missing in the story or manuscript as well as pinpointing what doesn’t work on the page.” Loewenstein’s novel became the imprint’s flagship release in January 2014 and became a best pick for summer reading. “There’s no ego. She feels that writers need someone on their side. She has intense passion and will fight if she thinks it’s worthwhile. She goes in there like a soldier—a warrior of literature.” Kaylie Jones is no stranger to the literary world. Her father is James Jones, world- renowned author most notably praised for From Here to Eternity and TheThin Red Line. She remembers reading her first novel at 12 years old while living in Paris. “I pulled a book off the shelf and read in French, The Flight Crew, by French journalist and novelist Joseph Kessel. My father saw what I was reading and we discussed the novel. Then, I read Kessel’s The Lion. I was hooked and amazed that you could do that with language.” Raised in Paris in an ex-pat life, the Jones family came to live in Sagaponack when Jones was a teen. Many artists had settled in eastern Long Island during the late 1970s, where she says it was peaceful. Her father, whom she adored,
Peter Matthiessen. But, it was quiet. A good place for them to work.“ She attended East Hampton High School as James Jones’ health declined. While attendingWesleyan and struggling with coming to terms with his death, she began to pursue her own writing career. After graduation, she studied in Russia, then earned an MFA at Columbia University with many emerging writers like longtime friend, Beverly Donofrio, author of Riding in Cars with Boys. Soon after, Jones published her first novel, As Soon As It Rains (Doubleday, 1986) and a string of others, including A Soldier’s Daughter Never Cries (Bantam Books, 1990) which, in 1998, was adapted into a Merchant and Ivory movie, starring Kris Kristofferson. Being a writer-in-residence in New York City public schools through the Teachers and Writers collaborative and workshops at The Writer’s Voice ignited her passion for teaching. In 1997, writer Roger Rosenblatt invited Jones to help develop the MFA program at Long Island University, now headed by Stony Brook University.
When asked what advice Jones would give to budding authors today, she says it comes down to discipline. “My father worked hard writing everyday of his life until the day he died in 1977. Don’t judge. Sit down and write and never, ever give up.” Mary Ellen Walsh from Syosset is an award-winning journalist and fiction writer who teaches creative writing at various universities in the New York area. *
FROM LEFT TO RIGHT:
JOHNNY TEMPLE, FOUNDER OF AKASHIC
“After decades of working with students to cultivate the story inside, the one they just have to tell, I’ve seen glitches in the creative process. The idea for this imprint came organically from watching their struggles.” Jones continues to oversee the annual James Jones First Novel Fellowship, which awards $10,000 to an American author of a first fiction novel-in-progress, by the James Jones Literary Society. FromHere to Eternity, the musical opened in London in spring 2014 to rave reviews. When she’s not writing, editing, or advising, Jones is likely to be found practicing mixed martial arts with her daughter, Eyrna, which keeps her focused on what’s important. The next books from KJB are: The Love
BOOKS, BARBARA J. TAYLOR, AUTHOR OF
SING IN THE MORNING,
CRY AT NIGHT
AND KAYLIE JONES AT TAYLOR’S BOOK SIGNING
AT BLUESTOCKINGS BOOKSTORE ON NEW YORK CITY’S ALLEN
STREET. TAYLOR’S BOOK HAS JUST GONE INTO SECOND
PRINTING AFTER ONLY ONE MONTH.
BOOKS BY KAYLIE JONES Edited: Long Island Noir (Akashic, 2012) Author: As Soon As It Rains (Doubleday, 1986) Quite the Other Way (Doubleday, 1989) A Soldier’s Daughter Never Cries (Bantam Books, 1990/Merchant-Ivory movie 1998) Celeste Ascending (HarperCollins, 2000) Speak Now (Akashic, 2003) Lies My Mother Never Told Me (HarperCollins/William Morrow, 2009).
in your own backyard
BY ALENA DILLON
THE NAKED TRUTH T here are nude beaches fifteen minutes from where I live in Long Island. This is a fact I wish I knew before setting out for an afternoon in the sun.
Friends were visiting for the day. Up until that point, their previous visits could be filed into the following categories: the time we went to the pitiful winery whose owner was so surprised by our arrival that he said, “Do you realize there are real vineyards only forty minutes from here?” and gave us free cheese nips for our trouble; the time we drove all the way out to the “real vineyards” and I selected the one tasting in a garage; and the time we
“When you’re ready, join us,” he said, and then continued on his leisurely stroll. “Thanks,” I choked out in the next wave of giggles. We quickened our stride, trying to create as much distance between ourselves and the oiled up Adonis at our backs. We started to relax, started to unclench. My giggles even changed from nervous to relieved. We were in the clear. We could look people in the eye again! But then we saw another naked. And then another. And, suddenly,
his lower legs and—OH NO—he was not squatting, but bending over. We saw one coming straight for us, and the sun glinted off his special area. He was pierced. Oh boy, was he pierced. We saw one lying casually on a towel among four fully clothed friends. How can you be comfortable lounging in the buff when your pals obviously prefer bathing suits? We saw one sitting naked in the surf, letting the ocean lap at…. himself. I don’t know how we didn’t notice it sooner, but the nakeds were
paid sixteen dollars for the Fall Harvest and Seafood Festival, which consisted of joining a crowd of hillbillies of unknown origin to watch crabs race in a kiddie pool. In an effort to avoid any further debacles, I refused to make any plans beyond the elaborate meals we prepared to compensate for our visitors’ risk in venturing from Connecticut, over the Throgs Neck Bridge, and into Long Island. After we ate, we decided to visit the beach. I’m happy to report that I was not the one who suggested we explore Fire Island’s
Howoften do you stroll around public property and encounter another human being without any clothing?
there were too many to count. Instead of retreating, we had entrenched ourselves further inside the heartland. If these people were of one nude nation, we’d just entered their Tribal Belt—a belt that didn’t hold up any pants. We passed a bodacious babe shaking a booty so vast her dance threw off the tides. We passed a man wearing a shirt and no pants—a human Donald Duck—standing with his hands on his hips, pelvis thrust forward. We passed a naked drum circle. Yes, a naked drum circle. We passed a sand sculpture—and even she was naked! We passed a woman with maybe two percent body fat walking, if I recall correctly, in slow motion through the surf. She looked like the African goddess of intimacy; even I stared too long. We passed a naked Jerry Garcia. Eventually, we did emerge, but we left a piece of ourselves behind on the beach that day. A naive piece. A trusting piece. Our friends have yet to return to Long Island for another visit. And we? Well, we’re still here. And perhaps we were not meant to leave. Perhaps, like the man with the eyeglasses seemed to believe, we were meant to join them. No, that isn’t it. Alena Dillon is the author of the humor collection, I Thought We Agreed To Pee In The Ocean: And Other Amusings From A Girl Wearing Sweatpants. *
everywhere. We were surrounded. “I don’t think we’re on a regular beach anymore,” someone whispered. Then we saw what appeared to be a mirage: a glimmering man in impeccable physical condition, hands on hips, standing proudly, with no tan lines. He looked as if Michelangelo carved him from bronze. His presence was palpable. His physicality deafening. He didn’t have to say anything— we knew he was the king of his sandcastle, the sun of this solar system. We felt the gravitational pull, and we didn’t like it. It was suddenly clear that if we got too close to him, we’d never be able to leave. We’d get sucked into the mechanism. We’d be caught in the rip tide and pulled out to sea. We’d be no match for this Lighthouse Beach David. “We have to get out of here right now,” my friend Joe said. And we all heard the unspoken end of that sentence: before it’s too late. Our car was still a mile away. We’d wandered too far from the beach grass trail, so we turned on the shore and headed toward what we thought was the exit of this disrobed dimension, toward what we thought was freedom. Aswebeganourescape,amanwearingnothing but eyeglasses and confidence approached us, casually flipping through a magazine. I’m not sure what the magazine was, but I’m guessing it wasn’t a Men’s Wearhouse catalog. He stopped and looked us up and down.
emblematic lighthouse, but I also did nothing to stop it. Fire Island is vehicle-free, so we drove to the parking lot closest to the lighthouse, parked, and walked a mile-long trail through beach grass. When we arrived, we climbed it, descended, and then wandered onto Lighthouse Beach, where we immediately spotted a beacon even brighter than the one we’d just scaled: a blatantly naked man. How often do you stroll around public property and encounter another human being without any clothing? We were startled and confused, but also a little giddy. Intrigued by the novelty of his brazen nakedness, we ventured in for a closer look. My husband Phil, who just had eye surgery, squinted and said, “He can’t be naked. He must be wearing a flesh colored bathing suit. He can’t be naked.” But he could, and he was. Beginning from that moment and continuing for the next twenty or so minutes, I was one long nervous giggle. As we moved closer, my unencumbered giggling frightened the nude creature, and he curled up inside of a blanket and hibernated. At first we were a little disappointed that we scared off this lone animal, when the sighting of one is so rare. But as soon as this one went into hiding, we spotted another in the distance, and this specimen appeared far bolder. He was applying suntan lotion to
CURATOR ’ S CORNER
Still Life displays works associated with Photorealism—a movement compris- ing painters who took photography as their subject and sculptors who recreated the human body with surprising accuracy. A significant trend in art of the 1970s, Photorealism has sometimes been described since then as a more mechanical off- shoot of 1960’s Pop art. However, the works in Still Life make a compelling ar- gument that Photorealists captured life in the 1970s with a grittier honesty than has previously been acknowledged. These works have renewed relevance as the ability of photography to capture “the real” has undergone dramatic changes and continues to develop in unanticipated ways. Among the leading artists whose work is included in Still Life are Audrey Flack, Ralph Goings, Duane Hanson, Malcolm Morley, Ben Schonzeit and Idelle Weber. Nassau County Museum of Art presents Still Life: 1970s Photorealism through November 9, 2014. This exhibition was organized at the Yale Uni- versity Art Gallery by Cathleen Chaffee, now curator at the Albright Knox Art Gallery in Buffalo, New York. The museum will present a full schedule of related public programs that will serve to enhance and amplify the experience of the exhibition. For information, call (516) 484-9337 or log onto nassaumuseum.org/events * STILL LIFE: 1970 S PHOTOREALISM
DUANE HANSON ((AMERICAN, 1925-1996))
MAN IN CHAIR WITH BEER,
FIBERGLASS AND POLYESTER RESIN, OIL PAINT, AND MIXED MEDIA
GIFT OF RICHARD BROWN BAKER, B.A. 1935
RALPH LADELL GOINGS (AMERICAN, BORN 1928)
GIFT OF DR. AND MRS. SAMUEL S. MANDEL, M.D.
CLOCKWISE FROM TOP:
YALE UNIVERSITY ART GALLERY
GIFT OF DR. AND MRS. SAMUEL S. MANDEL, M.D.
IDELLE WEBER (AMERICAN, BORN 1932)
OIL ON CANVAS
RICHARD BROWN BAKER, B.A. 1935, COLLECTION
JOHN BAEDER (AMERICAN, BORN 1938)
OIL ON CANVAS
RICHARD BROWN BAKER, B.A. 1935, COLLECTION
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