The former St. George Antiochian Orthodox Church, 915 N. Florence, was placed on Preservation Texas' list of historic properties in 2005.
Formerly known as St. George Antiochian Orthodox Church, the 915 N. Florence property faces what the Austin-based organization Preservation Texas calls serious danger. According to an El Paso Times article dated March 28, 2005, its owners (St. Clement's Episcopal Church) want to turn the property into a parking lot. But for now, this mission revival building, constructed in 1910 by renowned El Paso architect Henry Trost, is currently being rented out to a Maronite Catholic Church congregation.
I post this now because the local historical society has applied for endangered status for another building, which is about a mile away. The group and the city met last week to discuss the condition of The Albert B. Hall mansion. All agree the mansion is suffering "demolition by neglect."
Across the street, a house is under renovation; probably conversion into a law office.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Scout and Interestingness
Prediction :: A feature on Flickr will prove to be very addicting to me.
Scout, on the photo community's sidebar site called Flagrantdisregard, is a kind of barometric visual instrument that tracks how "interesting" any given photo on Flickr can turn out to be. Interestingness is the balance between several factors: how many views, how many comments, how many favorites. It is a popularity contest of the beautiful, the ironic, the surreal. Photoshopped or Picasa-manipulated images, such as this pix of Inky, are judged along side Holga shot prints, Nikon-shot scenics and models, and even camera-cell phones. All are equal under the law of numbers, comments, and eyeballs.
Scout, on the photo community's sidebar site called Flagrantdisregard, is a kind of barometric visual instrument that tracks how "interesting" any given photo on Flickr can turn out to be. Interestingness is the balance between several factors: how many views, how many comments, how many favorites. It is a popularity contest of the beautiful, the ironic, the surreal. Photoshopped or Picasa-manipulated images, such as this pix of Inky, are judged along side Holga shot prints, Nikon-shot scenics and models, and even camera-cell phones. All are equal under the law of numbers, comments, and eyeballs.
Friday, March 31, 2006
White on white over grey
Wednesday proved to be rather strange. First, I arrived at school early to finish my Latin translation. Currently, we are on Chapter 37 of the Oxford Latin course, which is Volume III of the series. All seemed to be going well, although a few too many ran into class late. It seems their cigarettes took a little longer to smoke than usual. As our professor called on us, one by one, no one seemed to be prepared. Most were trying to translate on the fly. One after one he called on them, and this was making his mood even worse. I could see this was going nowhere fast. Then, he called on one last girl and alas, she too was not prepared.
Like an ancient Greek philosophy master, he threw up his hands in disgust, said he didn't need to take this, that we weren't working hard enough, and that those who needed to do the work obviously didn't care. He said what the assignment was for Monday, walked out, and left us sitting there. Actually, it better that he did; I'm sure we can all use a break from each other. Thank goodness for Caesar Chavez's birthday because we have the day off. Now, we are past the point of dropping, and as many of us are cleared to graduate; in essence, we have no choice but to tough it out with him.
Of course, almost everyone left immediately, cheering as they went. A few of us stayed in the class to chat and look over our work. Actually, we looked over the work for about 2 minutes and talked for about 40. Afterwards, I went to the Academic Services Center and submitted my paperwork for the graduate program I'll be starting in the fall. Then I thought I would take a walk to MJ's office. Along the way, I was able to capture some interesting architectural details in this old neighborhood near El Paso High School.
Like an ancient Greek philosophy master, he threw up his hands in disgust, said he didn't need to take this, that we weren't working hard enough, and that those who needed to do the work obviously didn't care. He said what the assignment was for Monday, walked out, and left us sitting there. Actually, it better that he did; I'm sure we can all use a break from each other. Thank goodness for Caesar Chavez's birthday because we have the day off. Now, we are past the point of dropping, and as many of us are cleared to graduate; in essence, we have no choice but to tough it out with him.
Of course, almost everyone left immediately, cheering as they went. A few of us stayed in the class to chat and look over our work. Actually, we looked over the work for about 2 minutes and talked for about 40. Afterwards, I went to the Academic Services Center and submitted my paperwork for the graduate program I'll be starting in the fall. Then I thought I would take a walk to MJ's office. Along the way, I was able to capture some interesting architectural details in this old neighborhood near El Paso High School.
Plaza Theatre :: Celebration
On March 16, we went to the grand re-opening of the Plaza Theatre. After the initial hoopla by the officials, they lit the marquee, launched small fireworks, and opened the doors to the public. Although, we stood outside for about 20 minutes past the time and even had to wait because too many people had entered before us once the doors were opened. But in the end, it was worth the wait.
Interestingly enough, I discovered that you can photograph on spec, although many professional photographers would tell you not to do it. I was able to help the Community Foundation by supplying several photographs for a couple of projects for the theatre.
Interestingly enough, I discovered that you can photograph on spec, although many professional photographers would tell you not to do it. I was able to help the Community Foundation by supplying several photographs for a couple of projects for the theatre.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
The Plaza Theatre-beginning of Renovation
About four years ago, I took this photo; while I later saw the Plaza Theatre several times before the renovation began, one visit stood out above the rest.
Cynthia Farah-Haines was giving a presentation to the Historical Society about El Paso's theatres, which I had arranged. The last possible date was May because any time after that was much too hot—the Plaza had no functioning air conditioners. A reproduction Wurlitzer was delivered the day before and someone was going to play it for us.
Now, the society’s average member age must be around 70, and I was a bit worried they might have difficulties entering the building. However, any fears vanished as soon as I saw their reaction to the organ music. It was as if they were the children of Hamlin and the organist was the Pied Piper.
These children of The Great Depression slowly walked inside through a plywood door, which covered the original entrance. With canes, or arm-in-arm with their partners they cautiously walked along the long, open foyer with its red Spanish tile floor. They climbed a few stairs, and continued to an old concession stand. There, popcorn and red berry punch was set out for them. They chatted a bit about their youth and then they began walking into bowels of that ratty and dusty old theatre. Down the dimly lit aisle, and up to the front near the stage, they went. Looking around the near empty and cavernous palace, they saw their memories were safely stored away for them to retrieve that day.
Cynthia Farah-Haines was giving a presentation to the Historical Society about El Paso's theatres, which I had arranged. The last possible date was May because any time after that was much too hot—the Plaza had no functioning air conditioners. A reproduction Wurlitzer was delivered the day before and someone was going to play it for us.
Now, the society’s average member age must be around 70, and I was a bit worried they might have difficulties entering the building. However, any fears vanished as soon as I saw their reaction to the organ music. It was as if they were the children of Hamlin and the organist was the Pied Piper.
These children of The Great Depression slowly walked inside through a plywood door, which covered the original entrance. With canes, or arm-in-arm with their partners they cautiously walked along the long, open foyer with its red Spanish tile floor. They climbed a few stairs, and continued to an old concession stand. There, popcorn and red berry punch was set out for them. They chatted a bit about their youth and then they began walking into bowels of that ratty and dusty old theatre. Down the dimly lit aisle, and up to the front near the stage, they went. Looking around the near empty and cavernous palace, they saw their memories were safely stored away for them to retrieve that day.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Disappearing Ink
Finally, I uploaded my most recent photos to flickr, which allowed me time to think about what Mr. Gioia (head of the NEA) said about the downward turn in reading levels for all Americans.
At first, I disagreed, but of course, it's because I'm in school where it write and read for course, write this blog, read the blogs Curtie writes, and read Capote, Didion, and Zola. Well, doesn't everyone? Now that's all just bougie, self-serving rubbish.
Recalling various snippets of words between classes with student peers, I realized many pride themselves on how little they read. They smile, saying they "get away" with reading as little as possible.
One friend boasted she passed her Humanities and Literature courses by only using online synopsis she found. Or, she bought $5 blue or yellow-striped books when necessary; she also lamented she had to really read for a genre (Detective Fiction) class we took together. This was because the reading list was so specific and rather obscure that she had to read the books for the class.
Another friend told me he would start reading once he entered graduate school. Of course, he'd said that also thought the exact same thing when he was in high school: "I'll read when I get to college."
Well, ungraduate work is now over for him, though there is no doubt he'll attempt to do the same for his graduate courses; he'll scrape the internets or buy those yellow-striped or bright blue synopsis cheater books. Don't even ask me about conversations with current schoolteachers, taking graduate classes at night, who beam that they've found the holy grail of laminated literature, more plastic cheats at the UTEP bookstore. You know the rest.
Yes, Mr. Gioia, this is a nation of readers-by-proxy. We confine our reading to flat laminated sheets in order to pass our classes. For all our sakes, I hope this city runs with open arms to embrace your program, The Big Read.
At first, I disagreed, but of course, it's because I'm in school where it write and read for course, write this blog, read the blogs Curtie writes, and read Capote, Didion, and Zola. Well, doesn't everyone? Now that's all just bougie, self-serving rubbish.
Recalling various snippets of words between classes with student peers, I realized many pride themselves on how little they read. They smile, saying they "get away" with reading as little as possible.
One friend boasted she passed her Humanities and Literature courses by only using online synopsis she found. Or, she bought $5 blue or yellow-striped books when necessary; she also lamented she had to really read for a genre (Detective Fiction) class we took together. This was because the reading list was so specific and rather obscure that she had to read the books for the class.
Another friend told me he would start reading once he entered graduate school. Of course, he'd said that also thought the exact same thing when he was in high school: "I'll read when I get to college."
Well, ungraduate work is now over for him, though there is no doubt he'll attempt to do the same for his graduate courses; he'll scrape the internets or buy those yellow-striped or bright blue synopsis cheater books. Don't even ask me about conversations with current schoolteachers, taking graduate classes at night, who beam that they've found the holy grail of laminated literature, more plastic cheats at the UTEP bookstore. You know the rest.
Yes, Mr. Gioia, this is a nation of readers-by-proxy. We confine our reading to flat laminated sheets in order to pass our classes. For all our sakes, I hope this city runs with open arms to embrace your program, The Big Read.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
The Judge & Typewriter
...Poet Dana Gioia, on the other hand, uses his typewriter continuously, pecking out poems and correspondence. (The poems he writes out first in longhand.) "I've proven to people that I can write a letter quicker on a typewriter than they can on a computer," said Gioia, who is chairman of the National Endowment for the Arts. "I also like the physical feel of a typewriter. I like the noise it makes, I like to be able to physically put paper in it. It's as quick and efficient as a computer and much more sensuous, in a way."
Read the entire article here.*
Today, I missed Aesthetics (although I told my professor I would be absent) so I could sit and listen to a talk given by Dana Gioia, current head of the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA).
Unfortunately, I did not get a picture of Mr. Gioia because my camera went dead. But he did sign my copy of his book Disappearing Ink.
I soon left afterwards and returned to MJ's office, where I dug around on the internet for more information about this man of letters and public service. That's when I found the above quote from an Atlanta Journal Constitution article about the demise of typewriters. I don't know why, but I kind of thought it a counterpoint to Mr. Gioia's 1991 book-length essay, "Can Poetry Matter?" Back then, the book raised this art's ghostly specter as if it no longer seemed to have any raison d'etre in today's world. At the time, poetry seemed to be at death's door, retreating into either the world of street, cowboy, or the academian towers--where coded reams of creative writing programs and peer-reviewed journals dwelt.
Of course he had to write that essay, he was then living the life as undercover artist--seller of jello by day and poet by night. But I digress, because I'm happy to say that poetry has kind of recovered, brought back to the hands of everyman/woman. It is this very recovery which he writes about in his book, which he signed for me saying Best wishes, signed in permanent ink.
Aside from being asked to come speak, I believe he was also here on a promotional road trip for a new community NEA reading program called, "The Big Read," which is being rolled out in May. As he signed my book, I asked if he had contacted Dave Eggers about his 826 Valencia Street writing project for children. He said he would be meeting with him in conjunction with the Big Read program. I think there can be great synergy created by these two ideas coming together and hope all the bilingual kinks get worked out so that it is a success.
It is funny that this should even be needed. On XM's BBC Radio, we've been listening to readings of the short list for the BBC's World Service Short Story Competition. These are wonderful, exotic stories that are read by excellent actors/readers. I hope they publish the stories with a CD because there are a few I would like to listen to again, especially "One Night in Bangkok" by Tracey Martin (Phnom Penh, Cambodia), which was a runner-up in the competition.
*get a bugmenot login here if you can't read the entire article:
Read the entire article here.*
Today, I missed Aesthetics (although I told my professor I would be absent) so I could sit and listen to a talk given by Dana Gioia, current head of the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA).
Unfortunately, I did not get a picture of Mr. Gioia because my camera went dead. But he did sign my copy of his book Disappearing Ink.
I soon left afterwards and returned to MJ's office, where I dug around on the internet for more information about this man of letters and public service. That's when I found the above quote from an Atlanta Journal Constitution article about the demise of typewriters. I don't know why, but I kind of thought it a counterpoint to Mr. Gioia's 1991 book-length essay, "Can Poetry Matter?" Back then, the book raised this art's ghostly specter as if it no longer seemed to have any raison d'etre in today's world. At the time, poetry seemed to be at death's door, retreating into either the world of street, cowboy, or the academian towers--where coded reams of creative writing programs and peer-reviewed journals dwelt.
Of course he had to write that essay, he was then living the life as undercover artist--seller of jello by day and poet by night. But I digress, because I'm happy to say that poetry has kind of recovered, brought back to the hands of everyman/woman. It is this very recovery which he writes about in his book, which he signed for me saying Best wishes, signed in permanent ink.
Aside from being asked to come speak, I believe he was also here on a promotional road trip for a new community NEA reading program called, "The Big Read," which is being rolled out in May. As he signed my book, I asked if he had contacted Dave Eggers about his 826 Valencia Street writing project for children. He said he would be meeting with him in conjunction with the Big Read program. I think there can be great synergy created by these two ideas coming together and hope all the bilingual kinks get worked out so that it is a success.
It is funny that this should even be needed. On XM's BBC Radio, we've been listening to readings of the short list for the BBC's World Service Short Story Competition. These are wonderful, exotic stories that are read by excellent actors/readers. I hope they publish the stories with a CD because there are a few I would like to listen to again, especially "One Night in Bangkok" by Tracey Martin (Phnom Penh, Cambodia), which was a runner-up in the competition.
*get a bugmenot login here if you can't read the entire article:
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Break on through to the other side
Recently I've been going through my images and found this one. I shot it last summer while wandering around the Union Depot Entertainment District. It is a detail of what I call the Ghost Wall.
After seeing images of the Shiite masque that was destroyed today, I realized that this sad event took place in Baghdad. It was at that point that I thought I better find out how Salam Pax is doing these days. Originally, I (as did what seemed the entire world) used to read his blog, where is raed?, when I first started back to school.
I checked (thanks wikipedia) and found he is writing a newish blog here.
After seeing images of the Shiite masque that was destroyed today, I realized that this sad event took place in Baghdad. It was at that point that I thought I better find out how Salam Pax is doing these days. Originally, I (as did what seemed the entire world) used to read his blog, where is raed?, when I first started back to school.
I checked (thanks wikipedia) and found he is writing a newish blog here.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
1985 or so and a lyric that does not apply but says a lot
somehow, i always new this song would never apply to me, curie, or her sister, the judge:
1985, ~ Bowling For Soup
Debbie just hit the wall
She never had it all
One Prozac a day
Husband's a CPA
Her dreams went out the door
When she turned twenty-four
Only been with one man
What happened to her plan
She was gonna be an actress
She was gonna be a star
She was gonna shake her ass
On the hood of Whitesnake's car
Her yellow SUV is now the enemy
Looks at her average life
And nothing has been alright since
[CHORUS:]
Bruce Springsteen, Madonna
Way before Nirvana
There was U2 and Blondie
And music still on MTV
Her two kids in high school
They tell her that she's uncool
'Cause she's still preoccupied
With 19, 19, 1985
She's seen all the classics
She knows every line
Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink
Even Saint Elmo's Fire
She rocked out to Wham
Not a big Limp Bizkit fan
Thought she'd get a hand
On a member of Duran Duran
Where's the mini-skirt made of snake skin
And who's the other guy that's singing in Van Halen
When did reality become T.V.
What ever happen to sitcoms, game shows
[CHORUS]
She hates time make it stop
When did Motley Crew become classic rock
And when did Ozzy become an actor
Please make this stop
Stop
And bring back...
1985, ~ Bowling For Soup
Debbie just hit the wall
She never had it all
One Prozac a day
Husband's a CPA
Her dreams went out the door
When she turned twenty-four
Only been with one man
What happened to her plan
She was gonna be an actress
She was gonna be a star
She was gonna shake her ass
On the hood of Whitesnake's car
Her yellow SUV is now the enemy
Looks at her average life
And nothing has been alright since
[CHORUS:]
Bruce Springsteen, Madonna
Way before Nirvana
There was U2 and Blondie
And music still on MTV
Her two kids in high school
They tell her that she's uncool
'Cause she's still preoccupied
With 19, 19, 1985
She's seen all the classics
She knows every line
Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink
Even Saint Elmo's Fire
She rocked out to Wham
Not a big Limp Bizkit fan
Thought she'd get a hand
On a member of Duran Duran
Where's the mini-skirt made of snake skin
And who's the other guy that's singing in Van Halen
When did reality become T.V.
What ever happen to sitcoms, game shows
[CHORUS]
She hates time make it stop
When did Motley Crew become classic rock
And when did Ozzy become an actor
Please make this stop
Stop
And bring back...
Remains of the daycare...
Along the way on my walk to the Plaza, I passed the day care where we used to take The Judge and her sister, Curtie. Curtie only went during her middle school years after school, but originally, she attended original Esprit Day Care located on Atlas Street in northeast El Paso. The Judge started out as Esprit Day Care from 6 months.
For the owners of the daycare, the clientele of the daycare changed little-by-little over the years, especially after the big purge at EPNG. It was then that they felt it was time to “retire” and get out of the daycare business altogether while the getting was good.
As I passed the building, I was surprised to see the space was now an "indoor parking garage." In the entranceway, where the children used to play in a sandbox area with climbing equipment with enough room to ride a tricycle or two, there was now a garage door and an arm restricting entrance. Yet a person on foot can walk right in and see it all free.
The oddest bits left over were the ones I immediately remembered—a street scene on a wall looked out from where children used to drive their tricycle “cars” upon streets once paved with street and alleyway carpeting. Now there are concrete yellow stops for real cars, which for some reason were nowhere to be found.
Upon painted brick walls, remnants of classroom decorations remained: little pictures of animals pasted upon one wall, with a yellow arrow pointing the way back outside, another wall held cartoon lions and tigers and more yellow arrows. Other murals still perched upon the bright blue beams that had been originally salvaged by the day care's owners—a souvenir of a museum exhibit that had run its course over 15 years ago. The murals still looked as good as they did when they were first installed. In all, the combination made for a very surreal exhibit of a place where there are no children, parents, or teachers—no people, cars, or sounds.
Where once were children crying, yelling, laughing, playing, there is nothing but the sound of an aging building, turning into something else all over again.
For the owners of the daycare, the clientele of the daycare changed little-by-little over the years, especially after the big purge at EPNG. It was then that they felt it was time to “retire” and get out of the daycare business altogether while the getting was good.
As I passed the building, I was surprised to see the space was now an "indoor parking garage." In the entranceway, where the children used to play in a sandbox area with climbing equipment with enough room to ride a tricycle or two, there was now a garage door and an arm restricting entrance. Yet a person on foot can walk right in and see it all free.
The oddest bits left over were the ones I immediately remembered—a street scene on a wall looked out from where children used to drive their tricycle “cars” upon streets once paved with street and alleyway carpeting. Now there are concrete yellow stops for real cars, which for some reason were nowhere to be found.
Upon painted brick walls, remnants of classroom decorations remained: little pictures of animals pasted upon one wall, with a yellow arrow pointing the way back outside, another wall held cartoon lions and tigers and more yellow arrows. Other murals still perched upon the bright blue beams that had been originally salvaged by the day care's owners—a souvenir of a museum exhibit that had run its course over 15 years ago. The murals still looked as good as they did when they were first installed. In all, the combination made for a very surreal exhibit of a place where there are no children, parents, or teachers—no people, cars, or sounds.
Where once were children crying, yelling, laughing, playing, there is nothing but the sound of an aging building, turning into something else all over again.
Friday, February 10, 2006
A Walk Down Oregon to the Plaza
Wednesday was cabin fever day. Yes, I could sit at Jamocha's or the student union cafe, cramming for Latin after the class ended at 10:30. That meant I would then have until 4:30 to wait for my Aesthetics class with Dr. R. Now I know I should study, but if I did that, I would certainly crash during R’s lecture.
Instead, I decided I would walk to the Plaza, go to Jack's for lunch, and take the trolley (all of 25 cents) back up the hill to school. So I did and took several pictures of apartment buildings along Oregon Street on my way into downtown. It was a beautiful day and productive for I discovered what became of the daycare where my daughter’s went while I worked.
After lunch I waited for the no. 10 trolley and I spoke with an older woman who had dropped her cane at my feet. I handed the cane back to her and she began talking to me. She was short, round, white-haired and very cheerful. She wore a navy sweat suit and told how she got to El Paso.
She told me she had driven semi-trucks hauling volatile fuels for 33 years and after 3 heart attacks, the state of california revolked her trucker's driver license. Because of this (and other things, I'm sure,) her abusive husband pulled a gun on her one night.
After she calmed him down, she told him she was going to take a walk and get a cup of coffee. She did, but she also didn't return; she just kept going. She hitchhiked to El Paso and has been here since, which to me sounded like it had been at least 3 years. She doesn't drive now and either hitches or takes the bus. She said that she has taken about five or six computer classes at EPCC. When she said this to me she beamed with pride. She also said that on Sundays she hitches to one of the big truck terminals at the edge of town so she can attend the "trucker's service."
I don't care about whether or not she goes to church, but I do know that i'm glad I decided to take a walk downtown yesterday. Although I'm sure Dr. L would rather i stayed on campus and studied my Latin.
Later that day, I posted my pictures from the walk in a set on Flickr and I want to take more of the trolley ride; the no. 10 which goes all the way to the bridge, back to the plaza, then heads up the hill, through Sunset Heights, and finally enters campus at the Southern entrance. Not bad for 25 cents; 50 if i took the trolley both ways.
Instead, I decided I would walk to the Plaza, go to Jack's for lunch, and take the trolley (all of 25 cents) back up the hill to school. So I did and took several pictures of apartment buildings along Oregon Street on my way into downtown. It was a beautiful day and productive for I discovered what became of the daycare where my daughter’s went while I worked.
After lunch I waited for the no. 10 trolley and I spoke with an older woman who had dropped her cane at my feet. I handed the cane back to her and she began talking to me. She was short, round, white-haired and very cheerful. She wore a navy sweat suit and told how she got to El Paso.
She told me she had driven semi-trucks hauling volatile fuels for 33 years and after 3 heart attacks, the state of california revolked her trucker's driver license. Because of this (and other things, I'm sure,) her abusive husband pulled a gun on her one night.
After she calmed him down, she told him she was going to take a walk and get a cup of coffee. She did, but she also didn't return; she just kept going. She hitchhiked to El Paso and has been here since, which to me sounded like it had been at least 3 years. She doesn't drive now and either hitches or takes the bus. She said that she has taken about five or six computer classes at EPCC. When she said this to me she beamed with pride. She also said that on Sundays she hitches to one of the big truck terminals at the edge of town so she can attend the "trucker's service."
I don't care about whether or not she goes to church, but I do know that i'm glad I decided to take a walk downtown yesterday. Although I'm sure Dr. L would rather i stayed on campus and studied my Latin.
Later that day, I posted my pictures from the walk in a set on Flickr and I want to take more of the trolley ride; the no. 10 which goes all the way to the bridge, back to the plaza, then heads up the hill, through Sunset Heights, and finally enters campus at the Southern entrance. Not bad for 25 cents; 50 if i took the trolley both ways.
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