The portfolio of ≤urr
This year I studied Typography with Nic Taylor, Computers in the Studio with Jason Sienkwicz, Visual Literacy with Richard Wilde and Graphic Design with Peter Ahlberg.
≤y work from Nic’s Typography 1 class.
The New York Times
CITY KITCHEN LIFE BEFORE NOMA A GOOD APPETITE WINES OF THE TIMES
Critic’s Notebook Pleasure to Dine With You
Pork skewers, tapas style. A 1953 dinner in Denmark still looks avant-garde. Hosting vegetarians with fresh tomato-basil soup. The panel tastes St.-Joseph
2 3 4 5
By Jeff Gordier By Sam Sifton hen Jacques Pépin slices a baguette, there is a distinct sound he restaurant was Chinese in theory, with Continental accents, that seems to be imbued with six decades of experience in the and wedged into a basement in Midtown. There was foie gras in kitchen. The knife goes through, and you hear a little schloomp. the dumplings. The music was the sort one hears in elevators in By contrast, many amateur cooks keep their knives far too dull, cities far from home. One of my guests happened to be a dead ringer he said, and have a habit of crunching the blade downward on the for the actor Matthew Broderick. crust, like a handheld cider press, which only squishes the white interior of a baguette into a fluff-less layer. “Instead of going down and forward, people press down like this,” Mr. Pépin said, standing at his kitchen counter last week. “That way, you have to reinflate each piece with a little pump.” Then he demonstrated a faulty technique that I recognized, with silent embarrassment, as my own. I had traveled to Mr. Pépin’s house in this Connecticut town, just east of New Haven, to talk about all the little details that go into the precision and majesty of that little schloomp. In other words, our topic was technique. This month marks the arrival of “Essential Pépin” (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, $40), a cookbook that gathers together hit recipes “I have waited on you many times,” the waiter said to him, excitedly. from the arc of his career, from his childhood deprivation in France “No, I don’t think so,” my guest said. during World War II and his teenage apprenticeship in an array of “Oh, yes, I understand,” the waiter said. “You wish to be quiFrench restaurants to his eventual ascent to fame as one of the first et about yourself, I see.” The waiter pointed at me. I had just chefs who went on television to teach Americans to cook. coughed a half-eaten dumpling into a napkin and was drinking The book, his 26th, comes with an instructional DVD, coincides water to get the taste out of my mouth. with the start of a new 26-episode TV series of the same name, “Like him! He cannot say who he is, either!” and overflows with more than 700 recipes. Such is the life of the restaurant critic for The New York Times, a At the root of each one lies a deep-tissue database of skills that job I have held for the last two years. (On Monday, I joined the newscan’t be picked up by flipping a few pages. In case anyone needed paper’s national desk, as editor.) Every night, dinner with friends, cola reminder about the importance leagues, sources, readers, acquainof technique, Mr. Pépin himself had tances made on airplanes or on the hand-painted tiles in his kitchen road. And every night the possibilwith mantralike slogans: “Great ity of greatness, or despair. cooking favors the prepared hands” Between the two poles, I expewas one. “A great chef is first a rienced an unrivaled view of New great technician” was another. York’s dining scene. “All the great chefs I know — All criticism is argument. Mine Thomas Keller, Jean-Georges Vonghas been from the start that restauerichten — they are technicians first,” rants are culture, and that there is said Mr. Pépin, 75. no better perch from which to exSome of them, in fact, picked amine our shared values and beliefs, up that technique from Mr. Pépin behavior and attitudes, than a seat
There’s the Wrong Way and Jacques Pépin’s Way
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18 October 2011
California’s Olive Oils Challenge Europe’s
himself. Tom Colicchio, the chef bein a restaurant dining room, observhind Craft and other restaurants, ing life’s pageant in the presence of remembers receiving Mr. Pépin’s food and drink. standard-setting 1976 book, “La What follows is an accounting Technique,” as a gift from his father of some of the highlights I expewhen he was a budding 15-year-old rienced, as well as some of my facook in New Jersey. “It changed the vorite images and experiences at way I looked at food and thought the opposite end of the scale. (Chief about food,” Mr. Colicchio said. among those: Nello Balan spitting “You felt like someone was looking into the daffodils set out in front of over your shoulder teaching you his restaurant on Madison Avenue. how to do these techniques.” So “Game of Thrones”!) He set aside books full of recipes Sometimes I was recognized by and focused on teaching his fingers a restaurant’s staff. Once, at the the true tricks of the trade, honing Four Seasons, a diner pointed me his knife skills and simmering chickout to Julian Niccolini, who is one en bones to make stock. Looking of the restaurant’s owners and its back, Mr. Colicchio compares it to voluble host. playing the guitar: learning to play Continued Page 6 one song doesn’t mean you’ve mastered your instrument. “Once you learn the technique, then you can be a creative cook,” he said. And yet in this age of exploding gastronomic consciousness, with entire By JULIA MOSKIN television channels devoted to cooking, people seem all too eager to merican food lovers have long taken for granted that only sidestep the rigorous monotony of basic manual dexterity in order to olive oils from the Mediterranean are worth buying — preferleap right into expressions of creativity. ably with an olive tree, an Italian flag and some words like That can grate on Mr. Pépin, especially when he finds himself teaching “authentic cold pressed” on the bottle. a room full of students who are restless to get ahead to the superstarBut in the last decade, California producers have mounted a machef part. (He is a dean at the French Culinary Institute in Manhattan.) jor new effort to bring back the domestic olive oil industry, planting “You have no choice as a professional chef: you have to repeat, re- thousands of acres, building new mills and producing oils that can peat, repeat, repeat until it becomes part of yourself,” he said. I cer- be fresher, purer and cheaper than all but the finest imports. tainly don’t cook the same way I did 40 years ago, but the technique The California olive oil trade, started by 16th-century Spanish remains. And that’s what the student needs to learn: the technique.” missionaries, was almost dead 10 years ago, except for small-scale To that end, my morning lesson with Mr. Pépin didn’t begin with food. producers along the Pacific Coast and in the wine country. It began with knives. A cook should have knives, he said, that glide with “Many people loved the romance of olive oil,” said Deborah Rogquick, delicate ease through the skin and pulp of a ripe tomato. ers, an owner of the Olive Press, a mill and orchard in Sonoma, Calif. “People always ask me, ‘What is the best knife?’ ” he said. “I say, “But no one could figure out how to make any money at it.” ‘A sharp one.’ ” Less than 2 percent of the olive oil consumed in the United States I thought about when I had last sharpened the knives in my kitchen. is produced here. But that figure is nudging upward as companies Then I remembered: never. In the course of two decades of delusionally like California Olive Ranch, Corto Olive and Apollo have produced casting myself as a decent cook, I had sharpened my knives not once. oils that are priced to compete not only in specialty stores, but in If Mr. Pépin was appalled, he was too gracious to show it. He sim- supermarkets. They’re using two powerful tools: intensive farming ply grabbed a sharpening steel and demonstrated how to run a knife systems already in wide use around the Mediterranean, and a selfblade along the wand, which he did without flicking his wrist. “Like imposed bureaucracy that has tried to set a new domestic standard a conductor,” he said. “You have to keep the angle constant.” That for purity, just as imported olive oil has come under increased scruangle needs to be about 20 or 30 degrees in relation to the steel.That tiny. angle needs to be about 20 or 30 degrees in relation to the steel. You At the California Olive Ranch north of Sacramento, where last can pull the knife toward you, across the steel, or away from you, week was the beginning of the annual harvest, most of the trees Continued Page 7 are less than a decade old. But with 13,000 acres under cultivation, Continued Page 3
A Scanner Darkly
Otis Redding by Jan Tschichold
CONSTANTS 06 08 10 25 27 29
PROFILE Ernesto Bazan
FEATURES 12 16 21
PROFILE Weejee’s New York
EDUCATION Which is the right Lens
CAREER Successful Portfolio
WANT Summer Equipment Guide
editor in chief managing editor
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Ernesto Bazan’s Self-Publishing Megan Gibson
For every boon that Ernesto Bazan has received, he can point to a parallel moment where he gave to someone else. “I strongly believe that in life, the more you give, the more you get back,” the Sicilianborn photographer said. “There’s no doubt that that’s the way it should be.” This philosophy was something that Bazan saw again and again during his 14 years living in Cuba, especially in the five years he spent shooting rural life. He found that instead of the conflict-ridden urban place he often saw portrayed, the Cuba he lived in was one with a strong sense of community and charity. “There is a lot of Ernesto Bazan editing at the computer during a workshop in Sicily last year. He wrote to them, requesting help with the editing, production and funding that would be required to turn his photographs into two self-published works. Though he said he had no idea what kind of response he would receive, more than 50 of his students joined together, each contributing their talent and money, to help make the photographer’s dream a reality.
daily life taking place on the streets,” he said. “Neighbors talk to one another if they need a favor, if they need some matches or garlic and the exchange of several things.” The Cubans Bazan encountered may not have had much, but what they did have, they shared. The camaraderie was so strong, so palpable, that Bazan was reminded of his own early, cozy childhood in Palermo. That spirit of reciprocity also crept into his work. The dreamy, hazy images that fill the pages of Bazan’s latest book, called Al Campo, portray hard-working farmers, boisterous children and modest but colorful homes. The scenes reveal poverty, yes, but more noticeably they reveal resonating warmth. Farmers with wiry frames band together to work the land; small children dressed in little to no clothing lend one another a hand. And more than just permeating the content of the pages, Bazan’s philosophy helped him actually publish the work. Both Al Campo and Bazan’s previous photography book, entitled Cuba, were self-published, a feat which would have been impossible without help from the photographer’s beloved students. While in Cuba, Bazan had spent several years teaching in-depth photography workshops, around 10 or 11 a year, and consequently became very close to many of his students. In 2006, calamity struck when the Cuban government cracked down on the photographer’s practice of teaching, and he was forced to leave the country. It was then that he realized, after giving so much to his students, that he would need help from them.
Bazan may have devoted his time and energy to educating his students—not to mention sacrificing his Cuban home because he refused to quit teaching—yet he feels that all his effort has come back full circle. “It was a great privilege for me because I think I’m the only one with this incredible student support,” he said. “Basically, I feel that, thanks to giving all of myself, I’ve been getting so much back.”
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New York Noir Holland Cotter
atchman, what of the night? “Whadda you kidding? It’s a zoo out there. Two deli stickups at 12 on the dot; one of the perps getting plugged. I got the picture. Roulette joint bust on East 68th. Society types. You shoulda seen the penguins run. Three a.m.: Brooklyn. Car crash. Kids. Bad.” “Four a.m., bars close. Guys asleep in Bowery doorways. But just before dawn is the worst: despair city. The jumpers start, out the windows, off the roof. I can’t even look. So that’s the night, New York. Ain’t it grand? What a life.” The imagined speaker is Arthur Fellig, better known, and very well known, as Weegee (1899-1968). From the 1930’s into the 1950’s, he was a photographer for New York tabloids, the kind of papers Ralph Kramden might have read. Tireless, loquacious, invasive, he cruised the wee hours. For him the city was a 24-hour emergency room, an amphetamine drip. You’ll find him these days at the International Center of Photography in a show called “Unknown Weegee.” The center owns more than 18,000 of his pictures, and most of the 95 selected by Cynthia Young, the curator, are on view for the first time, at least in a museum. At the same time, the Weegee they reveal is pretty much the one we know, though toned down a bit, turned into a social worker.
3 1.Summer on the Lower East Side 2.A Cop Stops The Fun 3.Killed in a Car Crash
His story is the story of a Jewish kid, son of a rabbi, who came with his family from Europe to New York City. Independent-minded, he noodled around, did the odd job, hit the flophouses. Then he discovered photography, and he became a man with a mission. Make that obsession. Scratch that: addiction. A freelancer by temperament, he had long-term gigs with The Daily News, The Daily Mirror and the left-leaning daily PM. His beat was the inner city, and everything was raw material: the good and the bad, but mostly the bad. He liked nights because he had the photographic turf to himself but also because the best bad things happen at night, under the cover of darkness. Vandals make their mark; hit men practice their trade; people get crazy. Like a boy scout, he was always prepared. He prowled the streets in a car equipped with a police radio, a typewriter, developing equipment, a supply of cigars and a change
of underwear. He was a one-man photo factory: he drove to a crime site; took pictures; developed the film, using the trunk as a darkroom; and delivered the prints. He often finished a job before the cops had cleared the scene, in some cases before they even arrived. About certain things he was clairvoyant. (Weegee = Ouija, as in board. Get it?) He caught catastrophes in the making and filmed them unfolding. An opportunist? A sensationalist? A voyeur? You could call him all that. He wouldn’t mind. “Just get the name right. Weegee the Famous.” He was in the right place at the right time. New York from the Depression through World War II was a rude, crude town. No heat in winter, way too much in the summer. Immigrants poured in; there was barely enough room to hold them. Native-born workers felt the competition for jobs and space, resented it. The melting pot was on a constant boil.
Weegee was aware of social problems. This is one of the points the show makes. A congenital, unradical leftist, he gave his work a deliberate political slant. He documented segregation and racial-bias attacks. In one 1951 photo, he shows a black woman holding aloft a piece of paper with a picture of a gun. The paper was actually a coupon to win free admission to a new Randolph Scott movie called “Colt 45.” But at some point Weegee pinned a “Black Power” button to the print to give it a pointed meaning. The politics that really made him tick, though, were populist. He knew what Americans wanted, because he wanted it too. Sentimentality: cops holding kittens, lost kids crying. Zaniness: people dressed up as Martians, things like that. He was drawn to glamour, though not the social register stuff. That he despised. He loved to embarrass the rich, make them look like freaks.
Hollywood was different. Its version of classiness was, in a way, available to all. Anybody can pass out autographs like a star and probably find some takers. And if Veronica Lake could get famous for a hairdo, so could you. (Weegee’s 1945 book, “Naked City,” was the basis for a Hollywood movie; he himself, quintessential New Yorker, appeared as an extra in films.) Then there was the cosmopolitan, interracial realm of club life, with Calypso singers, cocktail-swillers, exotic dancers and 1950’s couples, young and in love. This part of the show is cool. These couples represented a changing America, a hingegeneration: girls who were rethinking the “good girl” gambit; boys who had missed one war and would refuse to die in another. Death was, of course, Weegee’s daily bread. Mostly it was ghastly: a shoe under the car wheel, a body under the sheet. We linger over these pictures today the
1.Cooler 2.Cooler 3.Night Shelter 4.Cooler 5.Cooler
9 1.On a park bentch in Greenwinch Village 2.Lovers - Fallen Asleep 3.Fleeing Tenant 4.Bryant Park 5 o’clock in the morning 5.In the Waiting-Room 6.Night’s Lodging on a Fire-Escape 7.Night Shelter 8.Fleeing the Fire 9.The Critic
way tabloid readers did then, because they demand and reward inspection. In a 1941 photo of a Brooklyn ambulance attendant tagging a body, newspapers covering the corpse include a home section advertising “Brand New Collections of Summer Rayons.” There’s a War Bonds sign in a nearby shop window and under it, scratched on a wall, a swastika. Weegee was fascinated by our fascination. Some of his most absorbing pictures are reaction shots, images of crowds witnessing death or its aftermath. Often the gawkers are children, yucking it up or staring, blank. But Weegee also had a way of making adults — the pop — eyed gangster and the distraught murderess — look like children, pitiable and silly in their unguarded public emoting. Weegee’s output isn’t, in the end, a humanist essay; it’s a B movie. With all the mortality and pain, there is no sense of tragedy, no grappling with evil. He deals with evil the way Americans usually deal with it: as entertainment, a bad-guy cartoon. Because Americans don’t know how to take evil, their own or anyone else’s, seriously, they can’t see its power shaping their world. Certain artists buck the trend. Warhol, who learned a lot from Weegee, understood the reality of badness beyond redemption. He didn’t moralize; he just saw that it was there. That’s one reason his art is still so forceful and useful. But Weegee, no. When he’s thoughtful he teeters on maudlin;
when he probes he gets cruel. Most of the time, he’s just excited. Always on deadline, he can’t stay with any subject for long. His method of illumination is the flashbulb. Pow! Its light gives foreground subjects hard brilliance but doesn’t sink in; it leaves the depths dark. So his pictures have no inner glow. They just freeze a long-gone now. Sometimes they look like art; they always look archival. Yet he did one great, serious thing. He was the American photographer who first made night a symbol, an existential condition. He made night noir, and this is what binds all his work together. I wonder what, as night watchman of our American Babylon, he would have thought of the present Times Square, bright as day around the clock. “Sheesh. So, light’s the new dark? I can’t put my finger on why, but it don’t seem right.”
1.Rescued Dog 2.Mother and Child Saved 3.Vegitable Dealer 4.Lost Children 5.Newspaper Boy
My work from Jasonâ€™s Computer in the Studio class.
The New Yorker Cover
≤y work from Richard’s Visual Literacy class.
≤y work from Peter’s Basic Graphic Design.
The Rite of Spring
Elements of Semiology
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