#160, Upper East Side, NYC
Today's image reminds me of one of my favorite pictures, which I unearthed recently in an attempt to locate a flat surface in my apartment. I tend to take more pictures of architecture than people - nothing personal, it's just buildings are more well-mannered and easier to stare at - but this one stands out in my memory. It's a photo taken of me in Dublin, circa 1995, standing in front of a Samuel Beckett lamppost.
Now I know Ireland loves its writers just like New York loves John Lennon in his New York City t-shirt. You can see likenesses of Ireland's Writers everywhere you go (all of them except, it seems, female ones), gracing the walls of pubs, staring out from postcards like a dull game of Celebrity Squares. (Not to forget this shot of Sean O'Casey and James Joyce moping on the side of a pub.) But a Samuel. Beckett. Lamppost. This was really too much. My friend Kate had me pose in front of it. And, as expected, it was like posing in front of the Corn Palace in Mitchell, South Dakota. It doesn't matter what you do or what face you pull. You will be upstaged by the kitsch. I am wearing the expression of one who has no idea how to post in front of a Samuel Beckett lamppost. Go figure.
The lamppost was looking fairly grotty back then and this was fourteen years ago, so I imagine that the Sam's guiding light has been knocked down and succumbed long ago to the swipe of the Celtic Tiger's fickle paw, but if there are any Dublin readers who can give a guess as to where this picture was taken, let me know.
I can't smile, I'll smile . . .