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“Poe’s Farmhouse,” a story by M. G. Turner

The house where Edgar Allan Poe lived in 1844, near the intersection of West 84th St and Broadway.

Peering through the pentagonal construction window the young writer gazed upon the barren wasteland that used to belong to one of his heroes. Poe’s farmhouse—or rather the apartment building that had once stood there—should have been designated an historical sight; yet the formerly empty structure had been flat-out demolished. There was nothing there now but rust-grey rubble and forgotten dreams—and of course a solemn-faced writer peering through the window and wondering what it must have been like for that giant of American fiction, that colossus of unhinged gothica, to have lived right on this spot.

The writer recalled his favorite stories. The Pit and the Pendulum. The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar. The Masque of the Red Death. Then he thought of the single novel that sickly scion had scribed, The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym. Had all these grand, beautiful, and at times horrifying ideas gestated here? Was there something about this locale that helped engender frightening dramas to bewitch the mind and harry the senses? The air was cool and crisp; it was autumn. He peered even deeper into the mists of time, trying to discern what could not be immediately discerned. Where had the house stood? Was it there, by the empty wall, stained by rot and mold? What about the animals, if he had any? Where did they graze, where did they frolic? Where did Poe’s horrifyingly young wife find herself in the morning while her husband still slept off the inky dissolution of the night before? What about the visitors? What about his parentage? His friends? His longings? His lies? His life!

His life was here amid the stones, amid the acrid dust and shattered pebbles. His life was in the breath of the sky and in the soughing of the wind and the drizzle of the rain. A movie theater stood nearby, the equivalent of the three-penny opera of his day—the type his actress mother might have played in—easy entertainments, easy evenings, easy exigencies, as opposed to what he’d tried to compose in the dark of the night. Perhaps he had seen ravens floating up past his window or circling in the sky; perhaps birds of prey had perched upon the house in the depopulated twilight—evil portents of his young wife’s demise.

The writer thought on all of this; then his thoughts turned to himself and to his own stories which whispered to him at inopportune times. Had E. A. Poe faced the same daily struggle? Had he put off engagements, social calls, daytime explorations, nighttime ventures, all in the service of his craft? We are all in thrall to something—in some cases it is the noble work of helping our fellow man; in others it is the timeless pursuit of perfection, artistic or otherwise which makes our bones quake and our eyes water and our hearts yearn, but nevertheless answers the age-old question, the shifting, drifting dreary query the universe is always posing to, and imposing on, our six senses; the question of, what shall we do with our life?

The house was there as these thoughts and more fled through the writer’s mind. These thoughts and more consumed him, to the point where he could almost see it: a slightly dilapidated gabled home, modest in size and style, that once contained a dream. He thought of his own dreams, his own missions, his own eager anticipations. Life was moving too fast for him, the daily clip of days was maddening, he rarely took a moment to rest. But there’d be time enough to rest in the grave, time enough to contemplate the great mysteries when soil and dirt and grime had covered over the last of our remaining solidness and rendered us forgiven.

Forgiven for what? Perhaps for the sin of existing at all, for the sin of taking from the land what we could. Perhaps art is how some of us pay our rent, the metaphysical rent required of staying on Earth. Amid all of that is the urge to let go, to go mad, to exhale, to die! When the farmhouse was destroyed to make way for the next modern monstrosity, was something lost or something gained? The answer did not come to the young writer then, whose mind remained a flurry of activity. The only word that echoed in his brain as he turned from that pathetic makeshift window, that dreaded depressing spectacle was nevermore. He laughed to himself as he walked on home, thinking the hour would soon be fit for ghosts—not men.

But who was to say? If a ghost is only the shell of a man, could the reverse also be true? Could Poe’s spirit feel the same dismay at the destruction of his home as a living breathing being? Could his spirit still yearn to pace its grounds, to walk its halls, to reside inside its chambers? What about telling tales? What about weaving lies? Did the urge to create extinguish at death, like a sorry candle being snuffed? Or did ghosts seek to unfurl lays, spinning stories to each other in the tomb? What great masterpieces then have been lost to practicalities of creation? What noble dramas have only played out to an audience of spirits and shades? Do we carry on or did we cease? Do we suffer in sorrow or in peace?

To these questions and their antecedents the young writer had no answer. But he was no longer compelled to find one. For upon the heath that constituted his lost and lonely neighborhood he realized something else: he had finally broken through. He had finally landed upon that grimmest of possible isles, though the north star itself had vanished. He had entered the realm of the dead, that hallowed harbor of goodbye, and immortality was there for the taking. All he needed to do was put pen to paper, before the resplendent lights of the workaday world went forever and finally out.

M. G. Turner
New York City
October 2023

Ruth Gruber: Friend, Mentor, Surrogate Grandmother by M.G. Turner

Ruth Gruber April 2007

A few months ago, while undergoing an ultrasound for something disconcerting I’d found on my body—which mercifully turned out to be, officially, nothing—I was suddenly hit by a wave of gratitude for an old friend: author and photojournalist Ruth Gruber, who despite our wide age gap was one of my closest confidants, and even at times a surrogate grandmother.

The reason for my gratitude was simple: in 1944, as a newly appointed general by the Roosevelt Administration she personally escorted 972 refugees to America; many, though not all, were Jewish. Among these refugees was a man named Alex Margulis who, as chronicled in Ruth’s 1983 book Haven, would go on to invent the CT Scan, MRI, and other examples of medical imaging technology which have saved an unfathomable and beautifully absurd number of lives. As I was having my procedure I couldn’t help but think of Ruth, and all she meant to me, and to the multitude of people who knew her. After passing away in 2016, at the age of 105—nerd that I am, I admit it’s titillating to use the actual numerals for her age, as in the Chicago Manual of Style only numbers under 100 are spelled out—she left behind a legion of admirers, followers, and yes, even fans. I consider myself as belonging to the latter category, but at the start my connection to her was a personal one. Yet beyond personal and professional appreciation lies my aforementioned feeling, gratitude: especially as the technician utilized that life-saving device and informed me with a wink that, because the doctor did not want to see any more, I was “good.”

***

I don’t recall the first time Ruth and I met, but it had to have been around my seventh or eighth year—as in 2004, when I was still very young I subjected her to an interview, filmed by my mother on a camcorder, one steamy day in August, while I was on summer vacation. I still have the video, rendered into digital form but no less evocative of that early VHS period: amid wavy lines there I am, in almost knee-high white socks, sitting lackadaisically in a stuffed armchair, rattling off a list of question I had memorized, forgotten, then memorized again; while Ruth herself, looking dignified and very well at just ninety-three, listened and nodded and tried with honesty and precision to answer my questions—the questions of an eight year old who was very much wowed by her, and kept repeating after her every statement “That’s a great answer!” in an effort to impress a woman who could not have been kinder-hearted or more willing to engage with a young person.

It is important to stress the reason for my early acquaintanceship with her which soon blossomed into a friendship: my father was her editor—and according to a quip she made on more than one occasion at dinner parties and events to the chagrin of some present, he was her favorite editor. This favoritism was likely rooted in her appreciation of his no-nonsense editing style, and his direct, fearless approach to publishing. It matched her own brand of journalism, which was in the words of one of her mentors Edward Steichen to “Take pictures with her heart.” Not only did she take pictures with her heart, she wrote with it too! As any of her readers know there is a declarative majesty to her prose that is only outmatched by her subject matter; she had so much to say and a great deal of life experience to back it up—whether becoming the youngest Ph.D. in the world, doing so in Germany in the mid-thirties and seeing the tail end of the Weimar Republic give way to Nazi Germany; or having tea with Virginia Woolf in London—the very subject of her thesis—and being struck by the author’s corrosive nonchalance, and low-grade anti-semitism, while still managing to hold a nuanced view of her; or when in 1944 she, as mentioned, escorted by ship nearly a thousand refugees who were escaping persecution in Europe, and fighting for them to be accepted by the virulently anti-immigrant State Department, despite President Roosevelt being considered a friend to the Jews.

This is to say, she had something unique—content. Like other, more famous writers and journalists of the time—Hemingway, Dos Passos, and Gellhorn come to mind—after literally living her stories, she put her experiences into words that could be understood by everyone. But her egalitarian style permeated not just her written work but the way she spoke about her career—this held even while speaking about it to me on that sultry day in 2004 when my mom and I stopped by to see her to conduct and impromptu interview. There would be many days and evenings like this, when we would look at each other, and one of us would ask: “Do you want to go see Ruth?” and the answer was always, invariably, the same.

***

Ruth had been living in the Eldorado—a quintessentially regal Central Park West apartment building—for several decades when I first became acquainted with her. Just going over there was a grand experience for me; at the time I had not yet glimpsed New York’s magisterial splendor; the lobby looked like an art deco palace. But visiting Ruth was the start of something more than architectural or stylistic appreciation. I can easily recall these visits as the first time I considered an importance beyond the aesthetic; or rather, that the aesthetic and the moral and meaningful could coalesce into something highly impactful: the notion that one’s life could be an adventure.

Ruth Gruber embarking on the voyage to bring nearly 1000 refugees to America in 1944. They sailed from Naples, Italy, crossing the Atlantic protected by a convoy of US warships. The story is told in her book, “Haven,'” and the 2000 CBS miniseries of the same name, with Natasha Richardson cast as Ruth.

It was this adventurous spirit that Ruth embodied, as well as a presentation of self that prized dignity and demeanor. Whenever we saw her—it didn’t matter if we had come on three consecutive Sundays—she got dressed up; always with her light gold hair perfectly coiffed; her jewelry always tasteful; her greetings broad and demonstrably delighted, as if she wanted us to know, really know, how glad she was that we had stopped by. And we stopped by many times, whether to simply have tea and talk, or to take her out to Central Park, or even have dinner with her.
It was on these nights that my conception of an intellectual community was formed—namely that such a thing could exist, and that I could be a part of it. This feeling carried over into my schooling; in college I had the unique experience of going with my archives class to visit the New York Public Library to see Virginia Woolf’s diaries, which my friend had been mentioned in, however unkindly by the sadly disturbed writer, whom Ruth saw as a woman trapped by her own mind. Though Woolf used an anti-semitic slur in her journal to describe Ruth, she did not hold a grudge beyond feelings of sadness and disappointment.

Ruth Gruber photo “The Embrace”

While I stood with my class looking at Woolf’s pages—most of which were written in a flourishing lavender hand—I knew that among them were those referring to my friend.

Despite Woolf’s callousness, I cherish these kinds of synchronicities. Growing up in New York brings one into the vicinity of great people, particularly if your parents happen to know some of them. These same great people can in their own way sum up entire eras, especially if the person in question is a centenarian. Ruth was born under President Taft and died in November of 2016 while Barack Obama was mercifully still President—though about to leave office to make way for the degraded eventuality that was to come. In one final act of goodness, to add to her litany of mensch-like deeds, the recently turned 105-year-old was taken by her daughter to the polls and cast her last vote for Hillary Clinton. It is unclear whether in the coming hours Ruth was cognizant of the election results, or fully grasped their implication, but it didn’t matter, for she had raised her voice one more time. This was something she’d grown accustomed to, whether from her efforts to counter the anti-semitism and isolationism of the United States government; or in 1944 reporting for the NY Post on the fate of refugees on the ship Exodus; or her early contributions to the newly-named field of Feminism in the 1930s.

***

Ruth Gruber is showing me a hinged, painted case my mother, artist Kyle Gallup, made. Inset in the case is a collage Kyle also made comprised of photos Ruth took documenting the refugees on the Exodus ship. It became part of the cover art for Ruth’s book—”Exodus 1947: The Ship that Launched a Nation”—which my father published with Ruth in 1999.

Despite her far-reaching influence, my dearest recollections of Ruth remain rooted in more personal soil. She was simply an older woman whom I cared for, and who at times felt like a surrogate grandmother to me. Given that my biological grandparents lived far away and I did not see them often, Ruth became a special friend, who was not relation nor teacher, but a figure whose influence was hard to define or put into a single box. It was in fact so unique, that, due to my own immature faculties at the time, I was unable to fully comprehend how lucky we were to know her and be close to her.

Yet where nomenclature fails, one recollection appears to sum up this relationship. And it was that, in my third grade year, she took it upon herself to attend Grandparents Day on my behalf. While most children had their family relations with them, Ruth was at my side, explaining who she was to the awed faces of the class. I remember my mother thanking her, and Ruth saying it was her pleasure—in her parlance everything was almost always “her pleasure”—and walking her back to her Central Park West apartment building where I knew we would soon have another one of our special get-togethers. Sometimes the canvas of memory is confused, disjointed, opaque; but not my memories of Ruth. There is a single beam of clear light which is cast upon all my imagistic renderings of her, and it starkly illuminates the privilege of having sat in her company, of hearing her stories that always seemed to conclude thematically with the victories of dignity over oppression, of passion over indifference—I took these tales to heart without deciding to, for there was something so indelible about her influence. Among her many gifts was the ability to make you feel that life could be made better by the simple act of putting pen to paper, or pressing the camera shutter. Sometimes the simplest actions have the greatest impact; sometimes saving one life can save many others.

Ruth’s influence transcends an easily measurable calculus; many close to her said if she had been a man she would have won the Noble Peace Prize, but Ruth herself did not think in those terms. She simply did the work she was passionate about, and believed to be right, and encouraged others to do the same. For a long life well-lived what more can anyone ask?

M.G. Turner

October 1, 2022

Sold—Public/Private: My Life with Joe Papp at the Public Theater
by Gail Merrifield Papp

Delighted to announce that our literary agency Philip Turner Book Productions has sold PUBLIC/PRIVATE: My Life with Joe Papp at the Public Theater by Gail Merrifield Papp to Applause Theater and Cinema Books. News of the deal appeared first in Publishers Weekly’s Deals column today.

The author has worked in the theater world for most of her career, starting at the Repertory Theater of Lincoln Center, and then at producer Joe Papp’s New York Shakespeare Festival/Public Theater from 1965-1991. As Director of New Plays and Musicals Development, she was responsible for some of the Public’s best-remembered productions. Gail Merrifield and Joe Papp married in 1976 and were together until his death in 1991. She lives in New York City.

To offer readers of this blog a sense of the book, below is a portion of the pitch letter I sent to publishers.

Gail Merrifield Papp has written an engrossing and highly entertaining book that blends an affecting memoir of her life alongside the founder of the Public Theater Joe Papp with a behind-the-scenes portrait of the influential theater’s dazzling history. She opens with the Public Theater’s beginnings more than a half-century ago in a narrative that spans the decades-long association the couple enjoyed until Joe’s death in 1991. During that span, the Public mounted hundreds of productions, from Shakespeare in the Park to such plays as for colored girls who have considered suicide/when the rainbow is enuf and Sticks and Bones, to the musicals Hair and A Chorus Line—with many actors whose careers were launched at the Public, including James Earl Jones, Meryl Streep, Kevin Kline, Colleen Dewhurst, Martin Sheen, Gloria Foster, George C. Scott, Diane Venora, Morgan Freeman, and dozens of others.*

In a witty conversational style, the author paints a comprehensive portrait of the creative process of one of America’s most acclaimed theater artists, highlighting the innovative ways the Public operated, driven by Joe’s ambition to create a year-round producing home focused on original plays and musicals from new voices, while employing non-traditional casting which made it a home for scores of the most creative people in American pop culture. In  Public/Private she traces the founding of the Shakespeare Festival, when its role was for a time limited to small venues around New York City, later moving into Central Park where its Shakespeare renditions became an indelible feature of summer in the city, and the Public’s evolution toward cultural renown and national significance, a beacon for social change.

New aspects of Joe Papp’s many battles with the establishment are also highlighted, from tilts with Robert Moses to theater critics to conservative poohbahs in the US Congress. The scourge of AIDs is also documented, in the form of people close to Joe and Gail, Larry Kramer’s play The Normal Heart, and in the toll it exacted on Joe’s son, Tony.

Her touching remembrances lend the narrative a keen, emotional edge, which will captivate readers and bring a human side to the legendary figure whose theater continues to thrive today, operating at both the Delacorte Theater in Central Park, in the theaters on Astor Place and at Joe’s Pub, a live music venue dedicated in his honor.

At a time when America remains divided over issues of race, identity, and sexual orientation, Public/Private reminds us that theater is a powerful force for social change and community-building, a place for people to gather.

*A marvel of the book will be its impressive appendices of more than thirty pages appearing under the headings: Featured Actors, Choreographers, Composers, Directors, and Playwrights.

To read more about Gail Merrifield Papp and what you can expect to discover in her upcoming book, visit GailPapp.com.

 

 

 

 

A Raucous Salute to Doctors, Nurses, Frontline Workers

Over the past seven weeks, most nights of the lockdown imposed during the pandemic, when 7pm rolls around—the time when New Yorkers have been saluting essential workers—I’ve been in my apartment on the upper west side of Manhattan, where I ring a small bell I have, or bang a letter opener on my metal travel mug. However, tonight I had gone out for a walk around 6:40, and stayed outside to experience tonight’s clamor at the top of the hour from ground level. It’s an enjoyable release when everyone gets to share their appreciation of people who can’t stay locked in, who go to work, save lives, drive public transit, and make sure we can buy food. When this is over, there won’t be much to miss about it, but I’ll be happy to remember the raucous celebrations.

 

Broadway Restaurant, a NYC institution on the Rebound

2024 Update

Sadly, Broadway Restaurant closed for good a few months ago.

June 27 2018 Update

If you’re a friend, associate, or perhaps one of my authors, I may have invited you to meet for breakfast or lunch at Broadway Restaurant, near my office on the upper west side of Manhattan, on Broadway btw 101st & 102nd St. It’s a stalwart survivor of the golden age of NYC coffee shops from the early 1970s, a vanishing breed that’s hanging on even in a time when so many small businesses have gone under. Amid the tumult of yesterday, with a Supreme Court vacancy opening alarmingly, I am excited to announce some positive news from my own micro-locale: the operators of my favorite local diner, the Broadway Restaurant—Chris, Angelo, and Tony—have reopened following the fire their establishment sustained last winter. Here are some pictures from today’s opening, with the building front bedecked in pennant flags.  I’m sure I’ll be having a meal there very soon, so let me know if you want to meet up. I’m happy I can go back to giving them my custom. #community #thirdplaces

Amid the tumult of today, with a Supreme Court vacancy opening alarmingly, I am excited to announce some positive news from my micro-locale: the operators of my favorite local diner, the Broadway Restaurant—Chris, Angelo, and Tony—have reopened following the fire their establishment sustained last winter. Here are some pictures from today’s opening, with the building front bedecked in pennant flags. The restaurant is on Broadway between 101st and 102nd Street, if you want stop in. I’m sure I’ll be having breakfast there very soon!


Original post from March 22, 2018

Happy to see one of the metal shutters raised at the stalwart Upper West Side diner, Broadway Restaurant, with renovations now underway on its fire-damaged interior. The fire happened sometime during New Year’s week, and both shutters have been down ever since. In January, a neighboring merchant told me he’d heard that the owners plan to renovate and reopen, and I’ve been happy recently to see signs of activity. The establishment dates back to the early 1970s at a time when Greek-style coffee shops were common in NYC, though they have become much more scarce over the years. It has been my go-to place to meet clients for breakfast or lunch in the neighborhood. The veteran staff, Chris, Angelo, and Tony, have become friends, along with others who work there, and I’m hoping to see them all again sometime in the Spring.

In case you wonder about the location, here’s some info. They have great reviews on Yelp, including one I wrote:

Broadway Restaurant
2664 Broadway
New York, NY 10025
b/t 101st St & 102nd St

Broadway Restaurant
2664 Broadway
New York, NY 10025
b/t 101st St & 102nd St

Seven Years On, Saying Bye Again to my Brother, Joel Turner

Just before it popped in to my Facebook feed today, this photo of my late brother Joel, a career bookseller—which ran with a Cleveland Plain Dealer obituary of him on this date in 2009—I happened to have only a moment earlier responded to a bookselling-related job posting. Unlike Joel, I branched in to editing and publishing after being in the stores together starting in 1978, but I’ve remained tied to bookselling, too. In 2015, I worked for Rizzoli and helped them reopen in New York City, after the wrecking ball took their midtown store. Undercover Books, the small bookstore chain that Joel and I—and our sister Pamela Turner, and our late parents Earl and Sylvia—founded and ran in Cleveland beginning in 1978 really gave me my career and allowed me, in 1985, to move to NY.
You want to know something kind of amazing? For a long time, the number of years I lived in Cleveland always exceeded my briefer term in NY, but a couple years ago that began to turn over, as I have now lived in NYC more than half my life. Here’s the math: I was born in 1954, and moved from Cleveland to NY when I was 30, in 1985. When the calendar turned to 2015 and 2016, after I’d turned sixty, it occurred to me one day that NY had now been my home for more than half my life. Does that mean I’m not a Clevelander anymore? Sort of, but then there are still my sports team preferences (Go CAVs!). Am I a New Yorker? More and more, but not fully that either (I still can’t believe the way people in the tri-state area drive, like in the Midwest no one will ever drive on the shoulder of a highway amid a long jam and construction backup; here in the NY area, people do it all the time!)  
 The photo of Joel—who died unexpectedly, age 58, on December 8, seven years ago—popped up today in one of Facebook’s memories reminders, a feature which I am of at least two minds about. I don’t like that it tempts me to look to the past too often, but it also reminds me of the precious. Here’s the eulogy that I wrote about him on December 9, 2009, the day after my sister and I learned he’d died, and screenshots of that post as it appears elsewhere on this blog. 

Twilight Cruise on the Hudson and NY Harbor

My sister Pamela and her good friend Billy visited NY the past couple days, and last evening she took us on a Classic Harbor Line cruise in NY harbor with an AIA-certified guide, Scott Cook, who spoke very knowledgeably about NY buildings and the Manhattan, Brooklyn, and NJ waterfronts. It was far superior to NY’s more well-known and trafficked Circle Line!  The docent Cook, one of six architecture professionals who work these cruises for Classic Harbor, was very good, a fluent speaker, quick to deliver interesting information on individual buildings, their locations, the architects responsible for them, and details of their design and especially their ‘green’ features. He described NY’s waterfront as our “sixth borough,” an idea that really appeals to me, and he broached urban issues, from climate change to how the Hudson River Park and Brooklyn Bridge Park are permitting high-rise development in exchange for resources for upkeep of these newly created public spaces. 3 Lounge

The docents have to be quick because the boats of Classic Harbor are so-called ‘motor yachts,’ and they cruise at quite good speed. The vessel we sailed on was the Manhattan II, nicely appointed with teak and mahogany and lots of clean, clear wrap-around glass. Inside was a lounge with many comfortable seats at wide tables, quite a roomy space. The copy on the brochure and map they handed out (pictured below) suggests that these NY Harbor cruises are the least crowded of all the lines offering these boat rides, and I believe it—nothing at all like being on the subway, an unfortunately apt comparison for the ride I took a couple years ago on the Circle Line. Out on deck there’s some bench seating, and enough room to walk and stand comfortably, though carefully, leaning on rails and holding on to pieces of the ship. The captain was a rather young mariner, who helmed the yacht very ably, coming to a floating rest a number of times, near the Statue of Liberty, the shore of Governors Island, the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges, and Battery Park City.  Figured in to the price of a ticket is a free drink, so Kyle and I welcomed the discovery that Yuengling’s light beer is very drinkable!

A coincidental sidelight made me eager to go on this tour: when I was executive editor with Times Books at Random House in the late ’90s, I acquired, edited, and published the 4th Edition of the AIA Guide to New York City, an essential handbook that has been published continuously since 1967, with a new edition out roughly every decade. The edition I published—by architect and pithy writer about buildings and public spaces Norval White—included entries on more than 5,000 of the metropolis’s buildings in all five boroughs, a book I still treasure.

I hope at some point to take Classic Harbor Line’s cruise that circumnavigates all of Manhattan, a three-hour trip, twice the duration of the trip we took Sunday night. Given my personal interest in the GWB, aka The Great Gray Bridge, and The Little Red Lighthouse, I’m sure I will enjoy that tour even more. Here are lots more of my pictures, with commentary in the captions, though it’s a dead certainty I’ll come nowhere recalling most of the buildings and architects that Scott Cook named, but the day was so clear with abundant light, I think you’ll be able to appreciate many of the views and buildings anyway.

NYC & Hudson River Views, March 5-6, 2015

4 Shore SnowPictures taken on walks in my Manhattan neighborhood March 5-6, 2015. On Thursday, there was wind-driven snow from midnight till evening with about 7 inches accumulation, when I took the first two pictures posted here. Today, Friday, was bright and sunny, a good day for a walk along the Hudson. All pictures here.