Narrative Magazine: Lynn Arens, who has won Tony and Emmy awards for lyrics created by Seussical, Anastasia, school rock and other famous musicals, it is also a prose writer who has the talent to move the heart of life. In \"One-
The Man Show \"Ahrens put together photos of his photographer after his father\'s death, revealing his legacy in a loving way. One-
An article by Lynn Arens shows that the basement of our little blue ranch house in New Jersey has concrete block walls with low sound
Tile ceiling and asphalt tile floor installed in your 50 s.
There is a smell of mildew, dust and the sour taste of the photography developer, and even if all the overhead lights are on, it has a hazy feeling.
My mother has given this area of our home to my father, who has been his workplace for more than 40 years.
It\'s chaotic, but it\'s his place.
I never went downstairs when I drove to the shore to visit.
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My father, Carol sikind, is a photographer.
There is a famous photographer whose surname is the same, but he is another person and has no relation.
My father has never been famous, he has never become rich, he has never received the kind of recognition he desires, and he feels that he deserves it.
Over the years, he designed the darkroom, made prints for other photographers, taught photography lessons, and filmed everything from model shirt clothing in 1950 to industrial chimneys and steel mills ---
As long as it is related to photography, he does his best to support his family.
He makes a living.
But his job is to take pictures.
His work is art.
\"You have to organize my work when I\'m not there,\" My father would say . \".
\"Well,\" I knew he was only half-joking and answered without any doubt.
Soon after his death, my mother decided to move and the house was sold very quickly.
My husband and I were busy cardboard dumpbins up her stuff and preparing for her new apartment.
It\'s my mother\'s responsibility downstairs.
When I realized how overwhelming it was for her, we almost had a day of moving.
\"Don\'t worry,\" I told her.
\"We will deal with it.
The basement is a monument full of passion.
Packed in a corner, stored against a wall, tucked into a closet, crowded with paper shopping bags and plastic boxes filled with thousands of slides.
A pile of damp cardboard floor display boxes is overflowing with thousands of unmarked negatives stuck in plastic covers and glass envelopes;
Many themes are unrecognizable.
Hundreds of old black people. and-
White prints framed with broken glass and colored cushions pile together irregularly.
Moldy portfolio, used zoom in, Jerry-
Build racks and desktops, broken chemical bottles, reinforced polished brushes, scratched light boxes, filing cabinets full of yellow, tattered newspaper clippings, receipts and letters, broken and outdated cameras-
He fixed the damage with rubber bands, gaffer\'s tape and Elmer\'s glue, and he kept everything without distinction.
When we started opening bags one by one, boxes one by one, I felt sick and angry.
How could he do that?
How could he leave this untagged mess to us to solve?
So many negatives are repeated;
So many fingerprints have been damaged.
Some of the photos are very vague and very bad.
The others look spectacular.
I am familiar with some people, but many people I have never seen before.
I never realized how much my father took, how much he had to spend on cardboard pallet display
alone, and how much he produced.
The only legacy my father left me. -
A group of photos of New York in its 40 s and 50 s.
It will take me a year to absorb what is here.
I have three days.
I\'m not sure what to keep and what to throw away.
We try to be ruthless.
We take pictures of each other--\"Keep? \" \"No. \" \"Keep? \" \"Maybe.
\"I am trying to get each photo to appeal to me on my own merits without the panic, emotion or guilt getting in the way of me.
Again and again, from the ruins, an amazing image of a moving city is raised ---
Missionaries and militants in Union Square, stevedores at the pier, modern dancers on stage, Paulie homeless people lying on the sidewalk, soldiers and their girls, thin boys
Stroll around the Central Park, stroll around Coney Island, and sell goods at the racecourse.
Pull the trolley in the Lower East Side, the people who built the city and the people who were taken low by it.
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One picture after another, a portrait of a man appeared, the second of my father and the first of the photographer.
Seeing everything in such a fierce rush, he brought warmth to his subjects
He managed to record various topics.
You feel the curiosity and romance of this man with your camera.
This is the life of New Yorkers.
Here\'s New York. -
There are skyscrapers, docks and beaches.
Here are light and shadow studies, photos of trees, rocks and water, parades of clowns, flea markets, children, folk dancers and street musicians ---
All works of an anonymous photographer have been made for decades.
You will never know he has a physical disorder other than the occasional sloping horizon, because it is clear that he is moving around.
In 1917, the youngest of the six children was born in New York, and their parents were Russian immigrants Sadi Heping Kas.
They call him \"Collie\", the pampered baby of the family, who is the most loved and watched ---he was curly-
But his body is crooked.
Until today, I don\'t know if he has a birth defect or if he has been abandoned by one of his sisters.
I heard it all.
His right hip was somehow dislocated during infancy and has never been repaired, and the situation distorted his body so much that 1 feet had little contact with the ground.
Clumsy black lace
The boots he wore most of his life, one of which was four
The inch Sole gave him a little peace, but his limp became apparent when he swung his legs forward.
His mother Sadie gave him the first box camera Kodak Brownie.
For an uneducated woman, giving such a extravagant gift to a son who is not as fast as a friend is an insight.
From that moment on, my father\'s identity was forged.
Photography is a sport he can do.
When he grew up, he began to take the subway everywhere, walking in the five boroughs, and recording everything he saw.
He graduated from a clunky Lorrie twin.
The lens reflects, and when he shakes it, it never hits his chest.
We stumbled upon some pictures of my father when he was young.
Some may be taken by friends or students;
For some, he may have used the timer and taken a picture of himself.
Several people have captured his pride, enthusiasm and sense of humor.
In other ways, he posed as a serious \"entertainer.
\"These pictures were probably taken in his 20 s, he\'s already teaching in the Photo League, a left-back
Photos represent the tendency of the staff to organize photographers.
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This is where he met my mother, Diana Heller.
She was 19 years old and skinny and fled to New York from her immigrant family.
She is also the youngest of the six children, but compared to my father, she is the youngest child to be ignored, not the child to be worshipped.
She did not perform well at school and was afraid of most teachers.
She said that the first time she saw my father, he stood in the middle of an enviable circle of students and laughed loudly.
She found a teacher in him who thought she was very clever;
He\'s an arrogant man.
The confident clown who pulled her out to make her laugh.
He has been the center of her universe for years.
Judging from the number of portraits he took her (
Including a few photos of her lying naked on the iron chain Bed)
He was completely fascinated.
They moved to a five. flight walk-
In the kitchen of hell, it used to be the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel.
I pushed my Wicker wagon up and down the Ninth Avenue, passing through the vegetable stands, pasta shops, and opened the storefront showing the shelves of beef hanging and the long lame rabbit body
My parents and their friends often gather to drink, play music and argue on the roof of my parents\' apartment.
When we were young, everyone was ambitious and ready to eat New York ---
Photographers, writers, socialists and filmmakers including sculptors Hugo robs and photographers Harold Corsini and Vigi.
I remember him dancing for Weegee in a crepes cardboard pallet display duck costume and holding him in his arms.
His cigar stinks.
When I looked at his ears, I thought it must have been a pigeon pulling shit in it. -
It is dirty and inlaid.
I am too young to know what their friendship is.
Photography is clearly a bond.
Intense photos and graphics from Weegee.
In the darkest moments of people\'s grief or panic, he did not hesitate to point the camera at them.
They revealed that he was a cynical man, a man with sm mouth in a disaster.
My father\'s picture is softer, more lyrical and less direct.
When people don\'t look, he catches them in sports.
They often have fun, dance and hang out on the beach or in the park.
Weegee works stronger.
My father is more compassionate.
My father couldn\'t understand his voice.
Friends with mouths managed to get such recognition.
He is convinced that this is due to Weegee\'s self-reliance.
Publicity and the gimmick of the round stamp on the back of his photo, \"Weegee the Famous \".
\"His admiration for wiggi always smells of jealousy.
His picture was posed.
\"He would move a hat of the dead to take a better picture,\" he would complain . \".
His negatives are full of fingerprints.
There are cigar ashes in the chemicals. He\'s a slob.
Wilma Wilcox, wiggi\'s wife, is a close friend.
If Vicky is a trace of cigar ash, Wilma is a broom ---
A tall and glasses-clad Quaker, a missionary in Africa every year.
I call her Aunt Wilma.
In her early 50 s, before my brother was born, we often went to Wilma, where she was staying at the reclining little sailor\'s house on the City Island.
I put marbles on the wood floor and watched them roll into the corner or catch fireflies in her cluttered garden.
Sometimes we go to Orchard Beach, avoid the circular jellyfish we call jelly donuts, and eat seaweed pods.
I also have a picture of my father posing with a seaweed beard, and when I run to him I can hear his admonition, wet and sandy: \"Don\'t put your finger on the lens
\"The beach is a recurring theme in his photo.
Many of his pictures were taken on the boardwalk, not on the beach.
It may be easier for him to walk there.
In the pictures of Coney Island, he captured the walking crowd, the juggling vendors, the meaty swimmers, and the sweaty enthusiasts, from which many of them can be seen.
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Of course, Wiji defeated my father with the most famous pictures of Coney Island ---
There are a lot of people on the beach, they all smile at the camera.
But there\'s a short film in the Archives of the Museum of Modern Art. -
This is a jazz, free-to-do tribute to the day of the salty New York town.
My father is a film photographer.
Coney Island has a cool jazz score and a cold voice created by Albert Hague --
The director is a gentle man.
A bearded man named Valentine Shirley, wearing a velvet smoking jacket.
Because my father was a friend of mine and even though my father had never used a movie camera before, Val hired him to make the film.
Dad surprised the movie.
The style of distortion, rotation, and fragmentation is not a post-production trick, but \"in the camera \".
\"The Crazy day will turn into a lyrical night, and the ghost skydiving process will rise and fall in the sky of cobalt.
My father may be a novice photographer, but the era of the film has been advanced.
It won an award at the Edinburgh Film Festival, and the lovely frame certificate hangs on the wall of our living room, which is the first thing anyone can get into our home.
In 1995, our friend Larry Cadish, a senior curator at the Museum of Modern Art who knew my father was involved in the film, he and his family were invited to attend a screening in memory of the death of his famous editor, Ralph Rosen bloom.
We brought some friends and relatives because few people had a chance to see it.
In the end, there was a polite applause from the audience, but our team stood up and cheered, not for editing, but for my father.
All of a sudden, this incident belongs to Carol Sekin--
To be his glorious moment in the spotlight;
He stood up and graciously accepted the applause of the whole crowd as if it was just for him.
My father\'s heart is always curly.
Pet dragging head, eager to pay attention.
When he was watching my musical Ragtime on Broadway, among the many characters in the play, he was most identified with the \"Little Boy \", the audience saw the beginning of the 20 th century through their precocious eyes.
\"You know, I saw Harry Houdini,\" My father said . \"
\"I saw Emma Goldman.
\"He put himself directly in the middle of the stage and made my show his story.
Everything he does is such a childlike, jubilant nature, so selfish, but so cute.
He likes music and is eager to dance.
I remember looking down at his black man.
My feet and my little patent
Leather shoes trying to follow, one-two-three, one-
He taught me two or three waltzes.
He collects musical instruments. -
Drum, tube, Wood gong in Africa--
And encourage all of us to make noise and laugh at his laughter between screaming and beeping. Play with me!
Be sure to pay attention!
His work has indeed attracted some attention over the years.
In 1996, he held an exhibition called \"mainly people\" at Soho gallery in New York.
His lovely New Jersey wetland collection was funded and visited the state at the exhibition.
During World War II, he worked as a volunteer photographer in the canteen of the stage gate. His prints--
Soldiers, volunteers, waitresses and celebrities-
Now in the Archives of the American Theatre producers union in New York.
He also gathered a group of students who had been in contact for many years.
There is a wonderful picture of him and the class. -
He was obviously teaching flash photography because the students were frozen in the middle. leap.
My father was jumping, laughing in his mouth, and his arms were open.
But only his feet are still on the ground, almost floating, but not completely floating.
He is becoming less and less the center of a circle.
His students were reduced, his business was over, and his family was spinning on other tracks. -
I had a drama career in New York and my brothers moved to the southwest and my mother started writing and taking classes.
Every time I go home, dad shows up, his crutches carry the weight of his slight tilt and his fingers beckon.
Before I drop my bag or say hello to my mom, I have to look at his recent work.
It may just be a crooked snapshot of the flowering weeds in the backyard, but for him it was a masterpiece and I should have responded to it.
Now, every conversation must surround him in some way.
If not, he will soon be bored and angry.
My mother is tired of his childish need to pay attention.
His competitive power and the way he returned my achievements hurt me.
\"I bought a new camera, Dad.
You see, it\'s a good shot, right?
\"I was taking a sunset photo when I was 15.
\"Dad, I just got Tony\'s nomination!
\"Someone on my side wrote \'ting-a-Ling-a-
Ling is on the phone.
You got the music gene from me. \" \"Hi, Daddy.
Guess what just happened?
\"Let me put it on your mother.
She told me everything.
\"I find it difficult to empathize with him, to laugh sincerely, and to praise every effort he makes.
I rarely tell him about my new situation.
After Wilma Wilcox\'s death, she left the film and print series of Weegee, which she organized and planned for many years, to the international photography center.
In the basement of Manhattan\'s shabby brownstone, where she has lived for many years, there are still several boxes.
When Wilma\'s brother knew that my father was his close friend, he gave him the boxes.
They have some Weegee prints.
Some of them are very good, but most of them are damaged or not particularly notable.
Nevertheless, many people still own the famous Weegee stamps, which will make them ideal for collectors.
These photos are the focus of my father\'s life at the end.
As we rummaged through the contents of the basement, we found a folder full of newspaper clippings ---
Weegee interview Weegee ~-
And a lot of notes written by my father, recording the photos he had.
There are also countless letters sent to curators, collectors, museums and galleries asking about the value or sale of these pictures.
Obviously, he wants to make money and start doing business again.
His eyes can no longer take pictures of himself.
He has nothing to do.
The photos were the only connection he had with the past.
Maybe he hopes that some of the honors of his famous friend will be reflected in him.
In the end, he sold the best print to dealers for a price far below its value.
The last time I saw my father, he told me that he saw the angel.
This could be a mosquito in his almost blind eyes, or a lack of oxygen in his brain, heralding the onset of heart failure in the next few days.
He asked me to turn his chair around so he could look at \"his tree\" in the light later in the afternoon \".
It took me a day to listen to the same story.
I have tickets for the theater. I\'m on my way back to New York.
My mom just got home and can take over now.
When I left, he sat quietly, staring through the windows at the sass trees scattered in the backyard, capturing the sun later in the afternoon.
At my father\'s memorial service, we showed only one picture of him.
The rest is his black man. and-
White Art Photo
Many old friends and relatives who came to honor my father were fascinated by them.
The song we played was his favorite. -
\"What a Wonderful World\" by Louis Armstrong.
That\'s what it is-
The Man Show he always wanted.
My father gave me the task of saving everything he left behind, but in the end, I helped fill bags of dozens of huge black plastic contractors to get them taken to the dump.
In doing so, I feel like I have erased part of him from the world.
We keep a small, almost perfect picture.
My favorite is a willow tree in Central Park.
I looked around for it in the park, but I don\'t know which one it might be or if it\'s still there.
Maybe it was cut a long time ago.
This is a beautiful painting.
It reminds me of my father, who is rooted in the depths of the city, twisted limbs and stretched out his hand to capture the light.
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