FROM JAYNE
On one of the first days in New York, I found myself wandering in the Lower East Side, a part of the city that had been formerly Jewish and that still contained remnants of its earlier incarnation. The streets teemed with small shops and merchants in one great cacophony of business being conducted noisily and openly. Most shops, their front doors ajar, revealed crammed, dark, cluttered spaces, where merchandise consumed every inch of space. The owners and hawkers gathered in front of their stores or stalls, stuff strewn over makeshift tables or hung on laundry lines within colorful tents. Elderly Jews were selling and buying all manner of things: leather goods, books, underwear, used clothing, sheets and towels, glass wear, dishes, tablecloths, ladies' garments, even freshly baked challas and fruit. I could hear Yiddish spoken everywhere. It was August, the streets were crowded, and body odors and perspiration mingled with the scent of tobbaco, urine, gasoline, bus fumes, fried foods. Manhattan, more tropical in August than any coastal sea town in the Bahamas, but devoid of sea breeze, was sweating humidity. The hot air, the steam rising through the ground vents, the thunder of a passing train down below, lent itself to a vision of Dante's inferno. At the same time, the city that never slept rock 'n' rolled, its heartbeat pounding, its arteries delivering oxygen, removing trash, open for business.
I was in love with New York, with each cobblestone, each alley, each dusty tree. The entire landscape of skyscrapers made me feel safe, as if I were in a valley protected by rigid, concrete, indestructible mountains.
I wanted to exchange my long-sleeved shirt for something light and summery, but as my arms needed bleaching, I was too embarrassed, full of pity and sorrow for myself. And then, in front of a cluttered hardware store, I saw two vendors, an elderly man and a younger one, possibly his son, engaged in an animated Yiddish conversation. I couldn'at make out what they were saying, but I knew from the few words that I did hear that they were arguing about Spinoza, the existence of God, and the nature of good and evil. I stopped in my tracks, mesmerized. The older man was clutching a prayer book, the younger one absorbed in a massive tome spread over his entire lap. They stopped talking and the older man looked at me informally and asked if I wanted anything. No, I didn't want anything they had for sale. I didn't need a faucet, or a screw, or a light bulb. I didn't need paint brushes, hooks, or cans of varnish. What I needed just then was to be one of them. I needed to move out of my skin-tight prison cell and enter their world of thought and contemplation. I needed to be the kind of person whose mind was not occupied only with daily minutiae but who was capable of reasoning; reflecting, and thinking, not out of necessity or narcissism, but out of inquisitiveness, a thirst for knowledge, and an appreciation of art. I was only twenty-two but growing increasingly apprehensive that I was allowing youthful idealism to slip through my fingers and to evaporate like boiling water.
I had often thought of the larger picture, tried to imagine where I, a tiny organism in the whole scheme of things, in the unimaginably vast universe, could possibly fit in. Perhaps my own being, not larger or more significant than that of a bacteriun or an invisible germ, a living thing made up of only a few strands of DNA occuping space in my body, was a speck in some godly thing, a bacterium in a heavenly laboratory. Who knew? Perhaps I, and the whole universe, were nothing but a toy to an unimaginable mammoth child-god object that arranged and rearranged us at whim. His second would be our eternity.
Fearing my shallowness, I attempted to lay meaning in the context of the silliness in which I dwelt. I didn't believe in the supernatural or in magic. I didn't believe that religions, any of them, had answers that were not based on pure conjecture: They were all pretty much the same, offering hope and eternal life in order to make this life and its certain mortality bearable. But despite my admiration for intellectuals, musicians, artists, and writers, I didn't read the philosophers' treatises, did not sign up for adult education, and did not even have the patience to read a newspaper. I might have wanted to wax philosophical, but my all-consuming passion was the superficial nature of my skin. I concerned myself, not with finding the utimate meaning of life, poetry, or God, but with my cosmetic afflication. As a child I had loved to draw. People had said I had talent. I could easily duplicate in charcoal, pencil, or ink whatever image presented itself to me: a person's face, an imaginary young beauty in long lovely tresses and romantic clothing smiling at the viewer from an otherworldly distance, a still life of layer-chocolate torte resting on a delicate Worcester bone china dessert plate, elegant silver utensils formally placed on a white cloth napkin, and a crystal glass filled with dark red-purple wine behind the dessert, vying for attention. I had learned to paint in watercolors after I won a set at a birthday party of one of my second-grade classmates, the only time in my life that I won anything in a raffle. I loved art classes in elementary school, not only because they made me feel proud of myself, but because it was in those classes that I learned how to create depth in a drawing, how to take a blank page, and, with a few brush strokes, create distance, shape, mood, and color. Later I learned to use crayons, and much later to paint with oils on canvas or wood. But to my inner shame and regret, a palpable, almost physical pain would rip through my heart at the recollection of my early love of art and its later abandonment. I did not follow my bliss, nor did I make attempts to resurrect any talents I might have had or develop those that lay dormant. But I doodled--on napkings, on envelopes, on tabletops, wherever. People would say, "Maybe, after high school, you might go to art school and become a dress designer," but I had lost momentum. I came to focus on my hirsute body, my cosmetic flaws. In sober moments I would realize that I was throwing away gold in my quest for glitter, choosing trivia instead of Torah, cartoons instead of culture. But sobriety and reason had nothing to do with it. I was preoccupied with the absurd. I was preoccupied and crazed with my perceived and real disfiguremnt of my skin, the embarrassing body hair that in my head had assumed the proportion of a calamity. I, the daughter of Holocaust survivors, the child of the new land of Israel, knew nothing about perspective, was unable to laugh at the absurd.
CRITIQUE
I think this is quite good. You have a talent for painting places and people. However, three problems hurt your writing, in my opinion: empty verbs, a list mannerism, and a couplet mannerism.
Your empty verb problem is not serious, but it's there. Use simple past tense, active voice. See "About Hammer & Tongs" for specifics.
Much more serious is your list mannerism. A mannerism is something you do so often in your writing that it becomes noticeable, like a tick. You probably don't realize it, but you wrote several "lists" in this short piece. The occasional list is OK, but lots of them make the reader start to skim your writing instead of read it. They want to get past the list to the next piece of meat. You don't want that. You want them to read every word. Here's a list of your lists:
revealed crammed, dark, cluttered spaces
leather goods, books, underwear, used clothing, sheets and towels, glass wear, dishes, tablecloths, ladies' garments, even freshly baked challas and fruit.
tobbaco, urine, gasoline, bus fumes, fried foods
It was August, the streets were crowded, and body odors and perspiration mingled
The hot air, the steam rising through the ground vents, the thunder of a passing train down below,
delivering oxygen, removing trash, open for business
charcoal, pencil, or ink
a person's face, an imaginary young beauty in long lovely tresses and romantic clothing smiling at the viewer from an otherworldly distance, a still life of layer-chocolate torte resting on a delicate Worcester bone china dessert plate, elegant silver utensils formally placed on a white cloth napkin, and a crystal glass filled with dark red-purple wine behind the dessert,
create distance, shape, mood, and color
on napkings, on envelopes, on tabletops, wherever
throwing away gold in my quest for glitter, choosing trivia instead of Torah, cartoons instead of culture
each cobblestone, each alley, each dusty tree
rigid, concrete, indestructible mountains
Spinoza, the existence of God, and the nature of good and evil
a faucet, or a screw, or a light bulb. I didn't need paint brushes, hooks, or cans of varnish.
reasoning; reflecting, and thinking
out of inquisitiveness, a thirst for knowledge, and an appreciation of art
intellectuals, musicians, artists, and writers
I didn't read the philosophers' treatises, did not sign up for adult education, and did not even have the patience to read a newspaper.
life, poetry, or God,
Pretty bad, huh? I'm not saying get rid of ALL the lists, but wouldn't you agree you need to cut it way, way back?
Last is your couplet mannerism, and it's pretty bad too. A couplet is two words or phrases connected by "and", "or", or a comma. I call it “habitual clarification”, lol. Your piece is riddled with them. Look:
owners and hawkers
stores or stalls
strewn over makeshift tables or hung on laundry lines
shops and merchants
noisily and openly
selling and buying
body odors and perspiration
light and summery
pity and sorrow
two vendors, an elderly man and a younger one
thought and contemplation
necessity or narcissism
in the whole scheme of things, in the unimaginably vast universe
not larger or more significant
a bacteriun or an invisible germ
a speck in some godly thing, a bacterium in a heavenly laboratory
in the supernatural or in magic
religions, any of them
hope and eternal life
this life and its certain mortality
canvas or wood
shame and regret
a palpable, almost physical
my early love of art and its later abandonment
my hirsute body, my cosmetic flaws
sobriety and reason
preoccupied and crazed
perceived and real
the daughter of Holocaust survivors, the child of the new land of Israel
knew nothing about perspective, was unable to laugh at the absurd
Again, I'm not saying eliminate them all, but sheesh....lol. Choose one word or phrase that says what you want to say a use it in place of a couplet.
You also have a few typos.
Your writing is poetic...it has a natural rhythm. I didn't edit your writing as I often do others because it would destroy that indescribable "something", the art in your writing. I'll give the first paragraph a shot to give you an idea of changes I think would improve it, but you really need to write it your way without all the empty verbs, lists, and couplets.
During my first days in New York, I wandered in the Lower East Side, a formerly Jewish part of the city that still clung to remnants of that past. The streets teemed with small shops and merchants in one great cacophony of business conducted in the open air. Most shops, their front doors ajar, revealed rooms crammed with merchandise. Hawkers shouted and beckoned in front of stuff strewn over makeshift tables or hung on laundry lines within colorful tents. Elderly Jews traded in everything from underwear to freshly baked challas and fruit, and I heard Yiddish everywhere. It was a sultry August, and body odor mingled with the stink of tobacco, urine, and exhaust fumes in the crowded streets. Manhattan, more tropical in August than a jungle, sweated humidity. The hot air, the steam rising through the ground vents, the thunder of a subway passing below, lent itself to a vision of Dante's inferno, but the city that never slept rock 'n' rolled, its heart pounding and open for business.