A Falling-Off Place: The Transformation of Lower Manhattan 9781531504403

Citation preview

A Falling-Off Place

A FALLING-OFF PLACE The Transformation of Lower Manhattan

Barbara G. Mensch

Empire State Editions An imprint of Fordham University Press New York 2023

Copyright © 2023 Fordham University Press All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher. Fordham University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate. Fordham University Press also publishes its books in a variety of electronic formats. Some content that appears in print may not be available in electronic books. Visit us online at www.fordhampress.com/empire-state-editions. Library of Congress Control Number: 2023905698 Printed in Italy 25 24 23 5 4 3 2 1 First edition

contents

vii

Foreword by Dan Barry

1 Introduction

5

Part 1 The 1980s: Making a Living on the Waterfront

49

Part 2 The 1990s: Setting the Stage for a Real Estate Boom

71

Part 3 The New Millennium: Managing Change

100

Talking about the Old Days

115 Acknowledgments

v

foreword

Long after the Fulton Fish Market of Lower Manhattan closed in 2005, long after its denizens were shoved off to more efficient but less evocative accommodations in the Bronx, its aroma lingered. Especially when the rain fell on South Street. Rain had the power to conjure the open waters from the concrete and cobblestones of Gotham—a piscatorial perfume born of 175 sea-salted years. Just inhale the wet air and there it was, all of it, again. The fish were laid out in coffins of wax, deadened eyes staring in judgment. The splotches of guts, gray, white, and scarlet on floors wet from ice melt. The late-night spills of coffee and early-morning spills of beer. The grappling hooks and beeping forklifts, the high-church blasphemies and what-the-fuck-you-looking-at stares. The brackish sweat of nocturnal men. And, somewhere, their good-luck Madonna, the weathered woman called Annie whose name wasn’t Annie. There she is, flashing her breasts for the odd laugh, hawking the wares in her cart—socks, newspapers, whatever you need, sweetheart— and calling out her siren song of reassurance. Yoo-hoo. Yoo-hoo. This briny Brigadoon seemed to exist only at night. By mid-morning, the trucks vii

and the fish and the men and Annie were gone, as if subsumed into the forever dusk beneath the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Drive until the next nightfall. The market was more than a gritty anachronism where fish were bought and sold. The place helped to ground New York City in its humble but raucous roots; to remind us that before Central Park and St. Patrick’s Cathedral and the Empire State Building and every other touchstone that makes one think of sleek New York, the metropolis was a Dutch-then-English scrum at the bottom end of an island, dependent upon the sea. Take one step south from its southernmost tip, and you fell off the earth. Now, if you venture to where the Fulton Fish Market once charged the air with aromas to turn the stomach and stir the imagination, you will find only the faintest co-opted remnants. One of the market’s old structures, the Tin Building, was disassembled and then reimagined as a rarefied culinary mall. It features upscale restaurants and shops offering fine cheeses, artisanal baked goods, expensive confections—and, yes, fish, staged behind glass as if to photograph more than to consume. There is no longer any scent of what was. Thankfully, though, there is Barbara Mensch, whose images are like the conjuring rain. She is the Brooklyn Bridge of the New York imagination, linking the now and the then. She sees the incremental turns in the city’s inexorable evolution, the obliteration of the past by gentrification, the irreversible dominion of profit over preservation. For nearly a half-century, this visual artist has explored the streets of Lower Manhattan, her boxy Rolleiflex camera—and then her iPhone—at the ready. As the photographs in this collection demonstrate, she has the eye and the ear. She both sees and hears the loudness in the stillness. She recognized early on that no place as wondrously crude and authentic as the Fulton Fish Market could survive the glass-and-steel creep toward the waterfront. But she also saw something else in its stalls and saloons: the dignity of hard work. viii

In the 1980s, Mensch showed up at the market, then kept showing up and showing up and showing up, until she was as much a part of the market as the faded lettering on the ancient brick. She saw, captured, and preserved. The fish toss. Those sunkenshoulder moments at the bar. The man-beasts of burden, hauling another load from the icehouse. The secret brotherhood. And Mensch did not go away. This was not some two-month art project; this was her life. She bore witness to the suits with their briefcases and proprietary air. To the ancient bricks coming down, piling like pieces of a puzzle beyond solving, and the girders rising, harbingers in the sky. To the weary, fatalistic expressions of those hard-callused fishmongers. A static city cannot survive. The story of New York is and always has been about change. Sometimes the change is necessary; sometimes, as in the case of the original Pennsylvania Station, it is unforgivable; and sometimes it follows in the wake of catastrophe. Here in this volume, the Twin Towers—only a few blocks west of the fish market—rise and fade into a dreamlike cloud cover over Lower Manhattan. And here they disappear again, only now the clouds are nightmarish, ominous, the product of an era-altering terrorist attack. It is a falling-off place. Determined to record—to remember—Mensch photographed Lower Manhattan from Canal Street south to Whitehall Street, as it grieved, processed, continued its transformation. All the while, she remained keenly aware of the surrounding waters. Dark, mysterious, and central to the origin story of New York, they stir and rumble in endless restlessness. Then, with no warning, they rise up to salt-slap our faces and remind us of our folly, our impermanence, our need to keep moving. Dan Barry January 2023

ix

x

A Falling-Off Place

introduction

June 2020. I woke up to another day of apprehension. Perhaps this would be the day when someone in cyberspace would convince me that the sky was not really blue; that it was OK to lie through your teeth or spew frightening conspiracy theories designed to scare a whole population. I was thinking whether the COVID pandemic would keep me isolated forever. It seemed that reality itself had been upended, rejected, and condemned. To fight against these dispiriting thoughts, I would go on a journey back in time. Reflexively, I stared up at the storage area above my darkroom. Amid construction materials, books, and toys, I was determined to find my early work. Hand-printed photographs, strips of negative film, and folders of typewritten notes were buried beneath other items. The material dated from the 1980s, when I moved to the waterfront in Lower Manhattan. Perhaps looking at this work, I thought, would rescue me from a downward spiral. But why? I remembered photographing in an unadvertised haunt located on Peck Slip, just a few steps from the East River. In a smoke-filled room late at night, grizzled-looking men were gambling at the far end, their grappling hooks resting on tables alongside 1

shots of anisette. In my mind’s eye I could see “Mikey the Watchman” sitting across a table from me. We engaged in a conversation, and I posed a question: “What’s your definition of doing something bad?” A sinister smile that showed absolutely no innocence crept up on Mikey’s beautiful face, and then he responded, “I can’t see walkin’ up to somebody and robbin’ dem outright . . . . Rob a big corporation, dey can swallow it. Why rob a poor guy dat’s got ta’ feed his family?” At that moment, I remembered how the workers at the old Fulton Fish Market spoke genuinely about who they were, defining their assured sense of self. There was a direct and honest response to my queries that contrasted with the present day, where many have come to accept less than the truth. I then found the unlabeled boxes. Some of the forgotten 8 × 10 prints were portraits of the men who had worked at the Fulton Market. Gazing into my camera, I sensed the subjects’ eerily communicating (to me) their inner truths. Other boxes of photographs contained contact sheets from decades of traversing, again and again, the familiar streets of Lower Manhattan—Chinatown, Tribeca, and the Bowery. I shot ruins of buildings, the demolition of famous waterfront saloons, ancient alleyways, and, in some cases, nineteenth-century buildings destroyed by mysterious fires (and soon after replaced with new developments). The boxes also contained images of floods and other Lower Manhattan calamities and catastrophes, culminating in the 9/11 attack on the World Trade Center. Together, they became my personal visual timeline. What did the passage of decades reveal to me? What dynamics were at play in my images of the same streets that I walked repeatedly for years? What fell off as the old was swept away by the new?

2

Lower Manhattan, with its sharp-edged shoreline of piers and landing docks that made New York City one of the busiest port cities in the world, ca. 1850s

3

part 1

the 1980s making a living on the waterfront

I’m proud I’m an East Side boy. You could look up and see the Brooklyn Bridge going over it. First came East Broadway, second came Henry Street, third came Madison Street, fourth came Monroe Street, fifth came Cherry Street, sixth came Water Street, seventh came Front Street, and the last came South Street. That’s where all the ships came in. . . . It was known as the Fourth Ward. I think Boss Tweed gave it that name. . . . It was the roughest neighborhood in the city and your life wasn’t worth a penny. They would hit you, throw you down the stairs. O l d J ohnny (fr om C her ry Str eet), r etired box er

5

Under the FDR Drive, the former Fourth Ward working-class district (today’s South Street Seaport neighborhood), 1980 6

Last days of the Paris Bar, 119 South Street (at the corner of Peck Slip), 1980. Just across the street from the Fulton Fish Market and the East River, this storied haunt was popular with local workers and wiseguys. 7

The Fishermen’s Federation building, 227 Front Street (near Peck Slip), in the Fulton Fish Market area, 1982 8

Waterfront lunch counter, inside the Paris Bar, 1981 9

Last scallop trawler to Beekman Dock, in the background the Fulton Fish Market’s historic Tin Building, 1982 10

Proud Lower East Side boy on a dumpster of shoes, 1982 11

I was born here. I worked here all my life. All of us in the neighborhood, we worked on the piers and the docks all our lives. Some guys, some of ’em, they worked “double headers,” they’d do two jobs. They’d unload the boats during the day and work the market at night. Retir ed Fulton Ma r ket wor ker , 75 at t i me of i n t erv i ew i n 1 98 2

12

Retired Fulton Fish Market worker, 1982 13

Inside the Beekman Dock icehouse on South Street, Pier 18, 1983. Ice was indispensable for the old Fulton Fish Market’s operation. 14

Workers hauling ice for local businesses, Beekman Dock icehouse, 1983 15

Destruction of Pier 17, 1982 16

Clearing the neighborhood of historic warehouses and saloons near Pearl Street, 1983 17

Making room for skyscrapers near Pearl Street, 1983 18

Cobblestones from the 1800s, appropriated for the Schermerhorn Row revitalization plan, 1983 19

Row of abandoned warehouses facing north to the Brooklyn Bridge, 1983 20

“Victoria Theatre Vaudeville” wall inscription, alleyway near Nassau Street, 1981 21

Entrance to the Tin Building, part of the Fulton Fish Market, South Street, 1984 22

Late-night fish delivery to Peck Slip, 1981 23

“Open for business,” Independent Fillet, Peck Slip, 1982 24

“Mikey the Watchman,” 1981 25

Deliveries and pickups on a rainy night in front of the New Market Building, 1982 26

Returning from deliveries, Fulton Fish Market, South Street, 1984 27

“Flying fish” on the sales floor (top) and pushing deliveries down South Street around 5 a.m. (bottom), 1984 28

Selling floor, Tin Building, 1984 29

“Mombo,” an unloader, inside the Tin Building, around 1 a.m., 1982 30

“Vinny,” an unloader, Fulton Fish Market, 1982 31

Salesman, Fulton Fish Market, 1982 32

Bobby G. of the Dynasty Fish Market, Fulton Fish Market, 1983 33

Governor Al Smith was born at 25 Oliver Street. That was right in back of my house, over the courtyard. Al used to hang out on the corner of the old saloon, they called it Meyer’s Hotel [future site of the Paris Bar]. Anyway, they would ask him, “What’s your occupation?” And he’d say, “I’m a salesman at the FFM.” R et i r ed f i shmon g er

34

Mortimer Woods, salesman, Fulton Fish Market 1983 35

Father and son, VJNL Unloading Company, South Street, 1982 36

Picking an able-bodied man for a night’s work, unloading zone, South Street, 1982 37

“Closely knit,” South Street (top) and workers on a break, Beekman Street (bottom), 1984 38

Destruction of Beekman Dock, 1981 39

Building a mall on top of the stalls across from the old Fulton Fish Market, South Street, 1983 40

Destruction of Beekman Dock, 1983 41

Keeping warm during the winter inside the New Market Building (top) and weighed down, winter on South Street (bottom), 1983 42

Crossing Fulton Market to Wall Street (top) and pedestrian traffic on South Street, around 7 a.m. (bottom), 1984 43

Upstairs locker room over Carmine’s Bar & Grill, Beekman Street, 1982 44

“Frankie’s couch,” upstairs, Fair Fish Co., South Street, 1984 45

Street traffic on the new Pier 17, 1985

46

Shoppers at the opening of new commercial complex, Pier 17, 1985 47

part 2

the 1990s setting the stage for a real estate boom fires, floods, and neglect

In the early 1990s, Lower Manhattan was in distress. The area was in the depths of what can be called a depression. Ca r l We i sb ro d, fo rme r pr es ident of the New Yor k Downtown Al l i an ce

49

A historic clock frozen in time, Duane Street, 1996 50

A security guard patrols along Schermerhorn Row, 1999 51

Interior of the Brooklyn Bridge approach, Dover Street, 1999 52

Construction site on Dover Street, 1999 53

Man is the creature of his environment. His outlook on life is conditioned by what he sees from his windows. Ro b e rt Moses , ur ba n pla nner a nd most power fu l N ew Yor k er of hi s t i me

54

Aftermath of an arson fire, Waterfront Alleyway, 1995 55

Arson fire in the Fulton Fish Market area, view of Lower Manhattan from the Brooklyn Bridge, 1996 56

Remnants of another arson fire that consumed the Fulton Fish Market’s century-old Tin Building, 1996

57

Demolition of tenements for a new hotel, Canal Street, 1998 58

Flooded streets after a storm, Peck Slip, 1993 59

Demolition of artists’ lofts on Desbrosses Street, Tribeca, 1999 60

New condominiums on Desbrosses Street, Tribeca, 1999 61

One idea behind gentrification is that everybody gets lifted up, but not everybody gets lifted up. In certain neighborhoods people have to move out or change their lifestyle. v i si t or t o n ew yor k

62

Petrella’s Point newsstand with directions, Canal Street and Bowery, 1996 63

Demolishing a building in the Bowery near Rivington Street, 1996 64

Employment center in Old Chinatown, Mott Street, 1998 65

Cash register repair shop, Bowery near Grand Street, 1999 66

Meat slicer repair shop, Bowery near Broome Street, 1996 67

“Close of business,” Essex Street storefront, 1999 68

Lingerie warehouse, Ludlow Street, 1996 69

part 3

the new millennium managing change anxiety, optimism, and the uncertainty of historic preservation

Dull, inert cities, it is true, do contain the seeds of their own destruction and little else but lively, diverse, intense cities contain the seeds of their own regeneration. Ja ne Jacobs, The Death and Life of Great American Cities

71

Each day approximately 50,000 people come to work in 12 million square feet of office, hotel, and commercial space in the “city within a city.” The south tower of the trade center welcomes visitors from around the world to the glass-enclosed Top of the World observation deck on the 107th floor. Many thousands of spectators ride the elevator daily to the top in just 82 seconds to take in spectacular views of the city. Facts and figures about the original World Trade Center, 2001

72

An uneventful sail down the East River, 1999 73

World Trade Center attack, the moment the second plane hit the South Tower, September 11, 2001

74

The Twin Towers engulfed in smoke and flames, September 11, 2001

75

Draped flag over Lower Broadway, September 12, 2001 76

“A glimpse of hell,” view of Ground Zero, September 12, 2001 77

One year anniversary of 9/11: spreading a conspiracy theory (top) and consuming conspiracy theories (bottom), 2002 78

Protest against the planned Islamic Center across from Ground Zero, 2004

79

Walkway to West Street as the rebuilding of One World Trade Center commences, 2003

80

Walkway to West Street, 2003

81

Maiden Lane and Fletcher Alley, 2003. Centuries ago, a babbling brook ran through here; today this location is the site of a new luxury tower. 82

Christmas eve: Tourists have returned to Wall Street, 2004 83

The Bowery in decay, 2020 (top); “Chinatown nights,” barbershop near East Broadway, 1999 (bottom) 84

“Joes Candy” kids, Madison Street, 2005

85

My prognosis for the [Fulton Fish] Market is that it will not remain. The Market is like a very delicate ecosystem. If you alter the water temperature by a few degrees, eventually all the fish will die off or migrate to another ocean. R ic ha r d Futr ell, ha nd tru c k r epai r m an , shi p car p en t er

86

Winter night before moving day, Fulton Fish Market, 2005 87

Last day of Fulton Fish Market: office worker (top) and journeyman on a break (bottom), 2005 88

Last day of Fulton Fish Market: two brothers filing receipts inside the office of a family-run business (top) and moving day on South Street, 7 a.m. (bottom), 2005 89

Calm before the storm, October 2012 90

Minutes before Hurricane Sandy made landfall, October 2012

91

Aftermath of Hurricane Sandy: debris collected near Brooklyn Bridge (top) and tourists on SH Row (bottom), 2012 92

Aftermath of Hurricane Sandy: tubes carrying hot air to help dry out a water-damaged building in Lower Manhattan’s Financial District, 2012

93

Deteriorating New Market Building, South Street, 2019

94

Remnants of the sales floor in the New Market Building, 2019

95

Peeling walls, second floor of the New Market Building 2019 96

Inside the decaying New Market Building: broken wall (top) and view down the hallway (bottom), 2019 97

Destruction of the Tin Building, 2020

98

Rigging used to demolish the New Market Building, 2020 99

talking about the old days

Several years ago, I received a Facebook message from someone who had stumbled upon some of my photos of Lower Manhattan in the 1980s and wanted to meet me. She too had spent a lot of time on South Street and the waterfront, and, as it turned out, we even knew some of the same characters I had photographed. For me, it was another opportunity to go back in time to a place I’ve come to miss. She agreed to sit down with me for an interview on the condition of anonymity: two women remembering what it was like years ago and commenting on how the politics of urban renewal and one man’s crusade upended an iconic New York institution and unraveled its community.

How did you find my work? The fact that your pictures, and specifically “Vinny the Unloader,” garnered hundreds of likes on Facebook sparked my interest. My personal history added to my interest in following your work because I was emotionally attached to the same man who, as you confided in me recently, helped shepherd your work to completion on South Street in the Fulton Market years ago. Because of the clandestine nature of his life and work, it is intriguing to me that we both came to know this man in such a meaningful way at different times and under different circumstances. Also, my mother’s ancestors were among the first to migrate to the New World from England. In the late 1600s, they were early settlers to Lower Manhattan. During the 1700s and 1800s, this location was filled with bustling maritime activity, the piers wrapped around the lower island. My ancestors became important business and community leaders. Around the time that I discovered your photographs, I decided to walk over to South Street and the East River, where the Fulton Market was located. Now, it’s so commercial, so “SoHo.” I 100

revisited your pictures to understand what this area was in the past and tried to understand what it is now. It’s so emotional, really. For these reasons, I wanted to find you. Tell me about your ancestors. My mother is a Daughter of the American Revolution. My mother’s family can be traced back centuries. They were oyster farmers based near Pearl Street and then migrated to Long Island, while another ancestor, my tenth-generation great-grandfather, was a watchmaker whose shop was located at 204 Queen Street, which became Pearl Street, now in the Seaport area. He also founded and funded Fire Engine Company 18 with friends, including the future mayor of New York City Walter Bowne and his brother, Robert, who established in 1775 a printing company in the area. That they lived and worked in this area of Lower Manhattan is remarkable. I assume all this information has been accessible through old photos and facts researched by members of your family and you? Yes. Describe your childhood and early years growing up in our “infamous” borough of Brooklyn, another shared experience! My mother and father were consistent and responsible. My mother was always home and never left us with babysitters. My grandparents lived on the same block, and we were very close. As kids we all liked to work doing whatever we could do to make cash—shoveling snow or mowing grass. There was a serious focus on education. What memories stand out? My mother didn’t allow newspapers in the house when we were young, because NewY ork City in the 1970s was a bit of a mess. I did know about Son of Sam but not about the everyday crimes. I knew about the Mafia—my father (even though he was a “law and order” honest guy to the extreme) admired how they could park their Cadillacs outside in Brooklyn without fear of their getting stolen. My mother was less forgiving of them. When I was a child, if I wanted to put money in a gumball machine, she claimed that the Mafia owned them, and she wouldn’t give me change. Same thing with the local amusement park that she said was owned and operated by the Mafia. They weren’t getting her money either. She went as far as to say that the Catholic Church was controlled by the Mafia. She was Protestant, though, and not religious. How did you get involved with “wiseguys”? In 1987, I got a job during college at a beauty parlor in Queens. There, I met a young woman my age who was dating a high-ranking mob guy in his forties. All of my friends were college students like me, living at home, going to school and working. But this young woman appeared to be very grown up, outgoing, savvy, and clever. She drove a new Buick Riviera, lived in her own apartment, wore beautiful clothes and expensive jewelry, and carried a Chanel bag. We started meeting for dinner, and 101

I met her boyfriend and eventually got into the club scene with them. She explained that to become part of her circle there would be no indulging in drugs and no getting drunk. I had never used drugs so that was fine with me. She said we would eat in the best restaurants, go to the hottest clubs, and get VIP service. We were only twenty years old and these guys were decades older. I was all “in”! How did you meet your former boyfriend, and what drew you to this person? I met him in November of 1987 at a nightclub in Brooklyn. I was hugging the bar as my friends danced. I was standing by myself dressed in conservative banking clothes. I had on very little makeup; my hair was combed to a straight length; I wore a skirt that reached below my knees and a blouse buttoned up to my chin. I was kind of shy. A tall, handsome man with blue eyes came up to me. He was very polite and probably was wondering what I was doing there. I didn’t really fit in. We spent the evening talking. After the club closed, he invited me and a small group of friends to Chinatown for breakfast at 4 a.m. I went with him. It was fun, and he was fun to be around. He asked me for my number, and I gave it to him. He called the following week, and we went out. At the time, I had started a job in finance. The company paid for me to go to school to finish my degree: I studied nights and on weekends. I was pretty busy, but I still found time to see him. He went out of his way to make my life easier by picking me up at night school and then dropping me off at home. My family did not do anything to make my life easier. They did nothing, even though I lived at home, and they could have picked me up from school during the late evening hours. I made the dean’s list in my final year of college in 1990, and none of my family members recognized the achievement . . . but he did. On reflection, I guess this older man, my boyfriend, was a father figure. My Italian friends, growing up, had fathers who adored them. Their fathers went out of their way for their children. My father did not. This man loved me . . . . I had a lot of admiration and respect for him, and I enjoyed the validation he gave me that my family did not. He always tried to make my life happier. I admired him as a boyfriend because he was strong, successful, and respected. He could solve any problem and make anything happen. His overall presence was commanding. He was not intimidating to me. But to others . . . well . . . he could have been. Did you ask what he did for a living? The aspect of what anyone did for a living didn’t really register with me. I knew he had influence, but I didn’t initially realize his formal role in any organization like the Mafia. At first, I knew he had a business in the Fish Market, and my friend who brought me into this sphere told me he was an “important person” in that world. Eventually, I did hear he was an alleged capo. I did know at that point that there were two kinds of gangsters: the kind who rise to capo because they make money and avoid violence if possible, and the kind of men who are just there for violence. I knew he was the former. I confronted him on it, something like, “Why did you never tell me you were a capo?” and he answered, “I never wanted it.” 102

Expand on that. I asked why he had no choice. He responded, “I had to take on the business of my father.” In retrospect, I am certain that “going off the reservation” to seek an alternative would not have been tolerated. Staying in the “family” is rooted in their tradition. Did you have any other boyfriends prior to meeting him? I had only one boyfriend before I entered that world. We met in high school, but nothing lasted. Were you ever afraid of anything in that period when you shared a relationship and you knew about his clandestine profile? For me, there was always a combination of apprehension and fear. These feelings contrasted with the need to explore the mysterious world he inhabited. The overwhelming zeal with which I approached my work would usually win out. I recall photographing him in a smokefilled interior, even taking charge and rearranging the lighting and office furniture, avoiding any dreaded thoughts or panic. What were some of your experiences? We had an argument once about a friend of his, and he made inappropriate remarks at a dinner table. It was out of character for him to allow any kind of talk that would be embarrassing to women, but he had. I threw something at him and he laughed. He never got mad at me, and he never lost his temper—and I could be a bit of a brat. I long felt that he had a special adoration for women and that women could never, ever be a threat. So, no, I was never afraid. In fact, with the passage of time, I realized something very important. Perhaps it is my own character flaw, but being around this person, I became more confident. Why do you think that was? Well, it was his own confidence, he was very assertive. He just believed in himself. There was never an element of self-doubt that he communicated to me. Just hearing his voice would make me feel empowered. I can’t think of one single person I have ever met who made me feel that way. He never communicated “fear.” Having spent time with these types of men who worked on South Street, I am curious to know more about your fascination. In my own experiences, my interest also centered on the men in the market whose life circumstances prompted them to live outside the law. They were a mixture of guys who came from families with mob ties, some were “hitmen,” some were former prison inmates. I will always remember a great quote from one of the fishmongers: “That’s the one thing that bothers me, be a liar, be a thief, be a crook, be whatever you want but at least be honest about who you are.” The more I got to know them, the more I understood the meaning of survival as they defined it. Their tribal nature often involved certain definitions of “family.” The wiseguys were older and obviously more mature than the boys I was in school with at the time. They did not use drugs or abuse alcohol. They were always in control and dignified. That is really what stood out. They never cursed, and, remarkably, they weren’t always trying to get laid. My boyfriend never talked about himself. His behavior belonged in the past to a certain breed of 103

men. He kept to himself and was subdued. In contrast, the men depicted in movies like Goodfellas were loud, aggressive, and outwardly violent. The Goodfellas guys were soldiers, street guys, not necessarily made men. I didn’t hang out with low-level guys like that. My guys were mob royalty . . . they didn’t get their hands dirty. What else stood out? An evening out with them was an “event” and went on for hours. We would go from dinner to a nightclub through early morning, always ending up in a diner or someplace for breakfast. These men liked being out in a group of people and were very social. They lived in another era; it was like the 1950s in a way. These men didn’t even curse in front of women. They were conscious of their masculinity from the point of view that women should always be revered and protected, but certainly they (the women) had to remain in their “place.” Of course, that was not the case with me, because for some unknown reason I was included in some serious discussions. For a long time, women involved with the Mafia were considered victims because they had no voice in their husbands’ affairs, nor, for that matter, did their girlfriends. After numerous studies done on the subject, that turns out to not be completely true. What kind of discussions or involvements did you have? Well, I had an education. I think that resonated. At the time, I was studying finance and its relationship to criminal law. I shared my points of view on RICO laws, which gave the government carte blanche to go after syndicated criminal enterprises. Perhaps in their minds, I was offering free legal advice, because I had an education and information that could help them. Sitting at a table with forty-plus-years-old men in my early twenties who took what I had to say seriously and treated me like an adult was appealing. I was in the company of men, not boys. I was more on their maturity level and more mature than guys my own age. The wiseguys, like my boyfriend, in my view, were not struggling to find a suitable career or experiencing psychological conflicts about whom to marry or answering philosophical questions about their place in the universe. They were gentlemen, unlike, for example, the St. John’s lacrosse team, which was accused of raping an African American girl during those years. Did you think you were protected? For me, I was allowed to store my photo equipment in the boss’s office on South Street, so the cameras would never get stolen. That concept goes back to the cavemen. Yes, of course I felt protected. There was no problem that my boyfriend could not fix. Can you give me an example? I was driving a beautiful white Cadillac that I had just bought. Do you know the overpass as you drive under the Queens Expressway toward the Midtown tunnel? Well, they were painting the metal-lined overpass green, and paint dripped all over my new car; it was awful. The car was ruined. After that happened, I communicated my agony to him, but then, as if it were a miracle, my boyfriend had someone come to fix the auto. The poor guy was out there scraping off each splatter 104

of paint, removing each and every spot with a razor blade. This process took about seventeen hours straight. Can you imagine? The car was left spotless. Did you have serious relationships with other men involved with the Cosa Nostra? I cannot mention that. It is off limits. Well, then, tell me about your boyfriend’s incarceration during the Giuliani years. Given everything you personally experienced, and having strong feelings for this man, what would you like to share? If you are a capo, you are responsible for the underlings below you. Perhaps it is a corporate way of looking at things. Ultimately “the boss” is held responsible. In his case, the charges involved extortion, and the punishment became especially harsh during the treacherous Giuliani years. By 1993, I had moved to Manhattan. After that we gradually lost touch. He was arrested in 1995/96, and he went away for more than a decade. What happened after that? We weren’t in touch, except for intermittent phone calls from prison. I recall one instance that really affected me. After he aged into his sixties, in the prison where he was serving time, he was in the yard, as was routine for the inmates, and he suffered a heart attack. If not for the quick thinking and compassion on the part of an EMS worker—who was called at the last minute—his life could have ended right there. Instead, he was moved to a local hospital and immediately shackled to the operating table while the doctors performed triple bypass surgery. That is how they handled criminals. I just have a visual image of an aging prison inmate handcuffed to an operating table. . . . We have seen almost thirty years pass. Let’s reflect on the word accountability when looking at the ironic twists and turns in our culture when we address criminality and corruption. Well, the first thing is my recollection of how the wiseguys considered Donald Trump. Back then, he was referred to as “Donald Chump.” What do you suppose that meant? Well, it sounds like someone who was easily taken advantage of, someone who is a lightweight and perceived to be a weak negotiator. What are your thoughts about Rudy Giuliani? In the early 1980s and 1990s, his crusade to take down the mob coincided with the destruction of the New York waterfront below the Brooklyn Bridge. The plan was to replace the piers and structures of the Fulton Market with a commercial mall. The ones who stood to lose the most were members of the Fulton Market community. As mayor, Giuliani continued to wage wars. Everyone was in his crosshairs: teachers, tennis fans, and squeegee men. The mayor targeted street vendors, taxi drivers, and his own police chief. Giuliani announced his divorce to his wife in a press conference and ranted against cultural institutions such as the Brooklyn

105

Museum. He also persecuted New Yorkers for jaywalking. He railed against Yasir Arafat and Fidel Castro. Shall I continue? It is just so ironic. Here is a man that lost his way. Facing the truth about one’s life is always a profound and somewhat painful experience. The fact that his own father was incarcerated in Sing Sing prison and used an alias to disguise his real identity could have affected Giuliani’s psychology. In his descent into the “dark,” Giuliani became part of a conspiracy to overthrow our government, all the while supporting charlatans, crackpots, and grifters and remaining faithful to Donald Trump. In his relentless need to remain viable and visible, his shameless conduct continues to this day. I am filled with rage; Giuliani has yet to be punished or held accountable for his lies and crimes. Without sounding sympathetic, the antics of the mob pale in comparison to those of this one man, Rudolph Giuliani. The title of this book, A Falling-Off Place, is a metaphor. By interpreting the photographs, one can see the title as being about a neighborhood, town, or community that fell victim to the wrecking ball. The title also evokes the passage of time, suggesting the physical and cultural changes that transform a neighborhood. As a book, “a falling-off place” underlines the power of corporate influence: the new juggernaut of the twenty-first century. The recent land grabs in Lower Manhattan have resulted in a building boom creating large-scale buildings that one can consider architecturally nondescript; condominiums often left “people-less.” The title also implies, in the abstract, an erosion of moral character, judgment, and accountability, sadly reflecting the state of our present culture. What is your interpretation of the title? I can’t help but to revert back to 9/11 and its aftermath. For me, the title has to do with protection, or the lack thereof. I don’t believe that Giuliani proved himself to be our hero of 9/11. After all, as mayor, he should have known better than to place our police command center in a prime location in the World Trade Center towers. The Center collapsed during 9/11. “America’s Mayor” was ill advised and made a horrendous decision that eliminated our first line of defense. His closest associate, his second police chief, Bernard Kerik, was debased and entangled in many corruption cases. On his watch, Giuliani failed to track the activities of “The Blind Sheik,” who was responsible for the bombing of the World Trade Center in 1993. In my opinion, Giuliani misdirected his energy by putting so much effort into destroying the mob in the Fulton Market. He ruined people’s lives and livelihoods instead of focusing his efforts on keeping New Yorkers safe, particularly after the 1993 World Trade Center attack. His mismanagement contributed to the tragedy of 9/11. The aftermath of the collapse of the towers and thousands of deaths resulted in a war of aggression in the Middle East that lasted for twenty years. When I look back, we spent trillions of dollars that could have been used to fund universal health care and public education and modernize our infrastructure. Instead, men’s egos and thirst for power drove us off a cliff. That is the real “falling-off place.”

106

The mayor with the black glove: Rudolph Giuliani at his inaugural cake cutting ceremony, 1994

107

New construction on Park Row, 2007 108

A new addition on top of an old structure, Tribeca, 2020

109

New constructions near Broadway, 2022 110

Building a Chinatown condominium, 2022 111

An unusual condominium, the Jenga Tower, Church Street, 2022 112

View of the east side of Lower Manhattan, 2020

113

East to west across Lower Manhattan, 2022 114

Acknowledgments In dedication to the late Evelyne Z. Daitz: art dealer, curator, great friend and supporter, and director of the Witkin Gallery in New York. Grateful acknowledgments go to Dan Barry; Bonnie Yochelson; Phillip Lopate; Edith Gould; Victor and Sarah Kovner; Roger Guillen; Claire Gilliam; James and Amanda Opinsky; Linda and Jay Hellstrom; Ben Breard, owner, Afterimage Gallery; Nicolas Humbert and Simone Furbringer; Rhoda Brooks; Jesse Liss; Norangel Riera; Gregory Curry; Laumont photographics; Tom Hurley; Geraldine Lucid; Monica Mohan; Esteban Mauchi; Phillipe Laumont.

“A Treasure of Lower Manhattan: The Surrogates Court.” Photo by Barbara Mensch

Special thanks go to my publisher, Fred Nachbaur; book designer, Mark Lerner; and managing editor, Eric Newman. I would like to express my deepest appreciation to editor Michael Koch’s keen instincts and skill in shaping all the moving parts of this book. 115

Select titles from Empire State Editions New York’s Golden Age of Bridges. Paintings by Antonio Masi, Essays by Joan Marans Dim, Foreword by Harold Holzer Daniel Campo, The Accidental Playground: Brooklyn Waterfront Narratives of the Undesigned and Unplanned John Waldman, Heartbeats in the Muck: The History, Sea Life, and Environment of New York Harbor, Revised Edition John Waldman (ed.), Still the Same Hawk: Reflections on Nature and New York Gerard R. Wolfe, The Synagogues of New York’s Lower East Side: A Retrospective and Contemporary View, Second Edition. Photographs by Jo Renée Fine and Norman Borden, Foreword by Joseph Berger Joseph B. Raskin, The Routes Not Taken: A Trip Through New York City’s Unbuilt Subway System North Brother Island: The Last Unknown Place in New York City. Photographs by Christopher Payne, A History by Randall Mason, Essay by Robert Sullivan Kirsten Jensen and Bartholomew F. Bland (eds.), Industrial Sublime: Modernism and the Transformation of New York’s Rivers, 1900–1940. Introduction by Katherine Manthorne Stephen Miller, Walking New York: Reflections of American Writers from Walt Whitman to Teju Cole Tom Glynn, Reading Publics: New York City’s Public Libraries, 1754–1911 Craig Saper, The Amazing Adventures of Bob Brown: A Real-Life Zelig Who Wrote His Way Through the 20th Century Dorothy Day and the Catholic Worker: The Miracle of Our Continuance. Edited, with an Introduction and Additional Text by Kate Hennessy, Photographs by Vivian Cherry, Text by Dorothy Day Robert Weldon Whalen, Murder, Inc., and the Moral Life: Gangsters and Gangbusters in La Guardia’s New York Joanne Witty and Henrik Krogius, Brooklyn Bridge Park: A Dying Waterfront Transformed Sharon Egretta Sutton, When Ivory Towers Were Black: A Story about Race in America’s Cities and Universities David J. Goodwin, Left Bank of the Hudson: Jersey City and the Artists of 111 1st Street. Foreword by DW Gibson Nandini Bagchee, Counter Institution: Activist Estates of the Lower East Side Susan Celia Greenfield (ed.), Sacred Shelter: Thirteen Journeys of Homelessness and Healing Elizabeth Macaulay-Lewis and Matthew M. McGowan (eds.), Classical New York: Discovering Greece and Rome in Gotham Susan Opotow and Zachary Baron Shemtob (eds.), New York after 9/11 Andrew Feffer, Bad Faith: Teachers, Liberalism, and the Origins of McCarthyism Colin Davey with Thomas A. Lesser, The American Museum of Natural History and How It Got That Way. Forewords by Neil deGrasse Tyson and Kermit Roosevelt III Wendy Jean Katz, Humbug: The Politics of Art Criticism in New York City’s Penny Press Mike Jaccarino, America’s Last Great Newspaper War: The Death of Print in a Two-Tabloid Town Angel Garcia, The Kingdom Began in Puerto Rico: Neil Connolly’s Priesthood in the South Bronx Jim Mackin, Notable New Yorkers of Manhattan’s Upper West Side: Bloomingdale–Morningside Heights

Matthew Spady, The Neighborhood Manhattan Forgot: Audubon Park and the Families Who Shaped It Robert O. Binnewies, Palisades: 100,000 Acres in 100 Years Marilyn S. Greenwald and Yun Li, Eunice Hunton Carter: A Lifelong Fight for Social Justice Jeffrey A. Kroessler, Sunnyside Gardens: Planning and Preservation in a Historic Garden Suburb Elizabeth Macaulay-Lewis, Antiquity in Gotham: The Ancient Architecture of New York City Ron Howell, King Al: How Sharpton Took the Throne Phil Rosenzweig, 12 Angry Men: Reginald Rose and the Making of an American Classic Jean Arrington with Cynthia S. LaValle, From Factories to Palaces: Architect Charles B. J. Snyder and the New York City Public Schools. Foreword by Peg Breen Boukary Sawadogo, Africans in Harlem: An Untold New York Story Alvin Eng, Our Laundry, Our Town: My Chinese American Life from Flushing to the Downtown Stage and Beyond Stephanie Azzarone, Heaven on the Hudson: Mansions, Monuments, and Marvels of Riverside Park Ron Goldberg, Boy with the Bullhorn: A Memoir and History of ACT UP New York. Foreword by Dan Barry Peter Quinn, Cross Bronx: A Writing Life Mark Bulik, Ambush at Central Park: When the IRA Came to New York Matt Dallos, In the Adirondacks: Dispatches from the Largest Park in the Lower 48 Brandon Dean Lamson, Caged: A Teacher’s Journey Through Rikers, or How I Beheaded the Minotaur Francis R. Kowsky with Lucille Gordon, Hell on Color, Sweet on Song: Jacob Wrey Mould and the Artful Beauty of Central Park Raj Tawney, Colorful Palate: A Flavorful Journey Through a Mixed American Experience Edward Cahill, Disorderly Men Joseph Heathcott, Global Queens: An Urban Mosaic Maximo G. Martinez, Sojourners in the Capital of the World: Garifuna Immigrants For a complete list, visit www.fordhampress.com/empire-state-editions.