Two Buildings


I reached the point with the Zazzle posters where I think I’m ready to order one for my own walls.  I really don’t have any of my own prints on the walls, and for some strange reason I feel more comfortable with a calendar (ordered) or a poster.  Cards came today as well and they were beautiful (the one with the kid looking at the gingerbread house).  I suppose I’ve got a very sentimental side.

Next up – Lester suggested a Dog calendar.  I do have lots of good dog shots.  So it’s fun now to narrow them down.  Which was how I came across this shot.  I was looking for dog shots and found this.  Recently someone wrote asking if I had any photographs of fire-escapes and alleys.  That he was a collector of that sort of image.  It seems funny when someone writes with such a specific request – but it just so happens that I completely understand that and am also fascinated with alleys and fire-escapes.  What I continue to find intriguing about subject material is that it doesn’t change over the years.  One of the first images that I ever framed was an alley between two buildings with fire-escapes.  Maybe I was 13.    And to boot there were clotheslines.  That’s something I miss on the upper-east side.  No clotheslines.

You know – it all goes back to what made an impression on me as a kid.  The kitchen window looked out across a concrete space that was strung with clotheslines.  It was one of the chores I didn’t mind helping my mother with.  Lines went all over the place and besides hanging clothes, we’d pass notes from one apartment to another.  You’d think you couldn’t get into trouble with clotheslines, but my friend and I once strung water balloons from the line, and moved it so that it was directly in the middle of the alley where the super and his daughter entered the building.  We didn’t have bb guns (not allowed) but we had bb’s and pea shooters and – well you can guess the rest.  It wasn’t a direct hit on the super’s daughter but of course she looked up at the busted bit of balloon and immediately knew it was us – and there was another pretty good spanking for that.

I didn’t mind a spanking.  Compared to getting that “I’m ashamed of you” talk – a spanking was nothing.  You walked out with your dignity intact.  It was those long father and son talks that I dreaded.  Words were much more dangerous than spankings.


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My name is Dave Beckerman. I am a fine art photographer working in New York City.