Papers in a Striped Brown Paper Bag


The brown certificate with its notices and crossings-out
its crisp fonts and faded signatures
Dutch, not French ‒ we knew this ‒
words waiting for translation
safely folded inside a striped, brown
card store bag ‒ brittle with age
guarding history

The brown paper did not certify a birth
but rather authenticated the certificate of a birth
prepared for immigration
carrying signatures of the Consul General for Aliens
signatures of other civil servants based in Paris
guaranteeing other signatures

(This we knew. This we surmised.)


“This Dutch girl, Jeanne Wolf, had brothers in Paris,
but were looked very much down on,
as being cheap tradesmen”

penciled words in 1942
written on yellowed backs
of Uniform Standard New England Forms No. 648
Smoke Endorsement No. 1
Stipulations, Limitations, and Conditions Applicable to Smoke (10-38)

footstep to a future we didn’t know


Late-19th and early-20th-century vernacular architecture also occurs along Clinton Avenue east of
Piermont Avenue. Two to two-and-a-half-story three-bay by two-bay residences with front porches are located at 40, 44 and 50 Clinton Avenue. These residences provide a rich visual counterpoint to more high-style architecture along the road east of Piermont Avenue
. . . . ‒Allison S. Rachleff

We lived at number 50 ‒ not rich, not poor
It’s the 1950s and the family
secure in its colonial Protestant identity
linked to Presidents
(though not all are the good ones)
lives on a street of mixed ethnicity
where children play baseball in the street
and all the parents rush out of their houses
to break up the fights
and the children do not date
once the baseball games conclude
but rather
seek their own kind
at separate lunchroom tables
and the father comes home from the ecumenical
breakfast at the synagogue and says
“I had the most curious roll this morning
It’s called a bagel and it was tasty.”


Jeanne Wolf safe in America died of consumption
in 1883 at 44 in New Bedford, Massachusetts
her husband died at 45 in 1889 in Philadelphia
their two sons also dead before their 40th birthdays
one dying mysteriously in New Orleans,
the other of consumption in Oran, Algeria.

(This we knew. This we surmised.)


A nephew long lost to us was found
in Colorado with DNA. He wrote,
“I am curious about what appears
to be our Sephardic Jewish roots.
Was Grandpa’s mother Jewish?”

armed with dictionary
devoid of idiom or grace
the birth certificate gave up its dates
its names
its towns
and occupations

                From the Register of Births
                is extracted that in the year 1839
                on the twenty-fourth of December was born

                Daughter to Benjamin Wolff, 29 years old
                shopkeeper resident here [Zuid-Holland, Gravenhage]
                with his housewife, Antje Pillar”

and a cousin we’d never met
from Brooklyn and Massachusetts
found our Dutch family group

All living in 1942
all dead in Poland by 1944

(Our Mayflower descendant’s note
“cheap tradesmen” ‒ code for Jew)

Betje Piller, an aunt, age 86
Alice Blitz, her grandchild and our cousin, age 20
an entire family line erased
Sobibor, Auschwitz

Relatives we did not know
captured, killed
in a family where ‒
safe across the ocean ‒
my memory of World War 2
was falling down a wooden staircase
bouncing on the landing
turning, sprawling
howling in the dark
of an air raid drill at night

Uncles sent off to war returned
(a cousin did not ‒ a rare
long-distance phone call
sticks in my mind ‒ distress)

brown paper
crisply folded into a striped brown bag that held
the birth certificates and a promissory note
left for us to preserve our past
footstep to the future
leading to the day
when “they”
became “us”

Martha Deed October 12, 2016


Allison S. Rachleff. South Nyack [New York] Historic District. October 2005, Revised 2011.

Two Photos

This is a photo of me when I was about 25. It was taken by my good friend Pat Dagler, a wonderful photographer who died very young from a horrible illness. She was a black woman with enormous charm, passion and deep personal/political commitments. I loved her dearly. I don’t know what has happened to her amazing collection of photos.

I remember very vividly when this photo was taken. It was during a softball game in Central Park in 1969. That’s a baseball glove on my lap and I think I am eating a flower. What struck me most about the photo when I first saw it was how sexy and alive I looked, at least to myself, when in actuality I felt worn out and beyond depressed when it was taken. I had hit rock bottom.

Pat gave me two other photos she took that day. One was of my girlfriend Charlotte Hastings. Her face glowing with a smile that lit up the universe. The other photo was of me and Charlotte embracing, with my closest friend Arnie Sachar walking on a small hill in the background carrying his briefcase. The game was organized by another friend, Peter Wolff. All are dead now.

This second photo was taken about eight years ago when I was in my mid 60s. The great photographer George Malave asked if he could come over to photograph me. It was for a project he was working on. For the next couple of hours he shot me from various angles and from various locations in my apartment. Nothing came out right. I sensed his frustration. But maybe it was more mine than his. I hated how I looked in every one of the photos he took. Something drastic needed to be done. Suddenly I flashed on my downstairs neighbor, a strikingly beautiful, very thin, very dark woman from Zimbabwe. Someone in her late 20s or early 30s with real flair and charisma. Imagining myself being her, I put on a wide brimmed black hat that had a small red heart pinned on it and sat on a chair in the hallway. The very next photo was the one that he would use. Most striking to me was that I looked much, much younger than I had in any of the other photos. So much so I was embarrassed that people would think the photo had been touched up. Still, I seriously doubt anyone looking at it would see a breathtaking Zimbabwean beauty. But that is exactly who I see whenever I look at it.

Robert Roth

A photo by Michael Wolf

From Tokyo Compression by Michael Wolf (2010)

I have chosen one image from a series of photographs by Michael Wolf.

The first thing that struck me when I first saw this image was the presence of intense pain, struggle and suffering of the subject staring out at us from behind the glass.

We view the portrait through a filter of water droplets which are on the inside of the space which the focus of the image occupies. We do not know the nature of this space but the presence of the moisture is suggestive of a humid, oppressive environment calling our attention to the discomfort of the subject. This then leads us to believe that she is being kept in harsh conditions, perhaps even against her will. The backdrop is dark, implying an unhappy, unsafe location and indeed, the subject looks troubled.

Michael Wolf began his career as a photojournalist and the reason I have revisited this image from his series Tokyo Compression, is because I have been reminded of it in recent years. There have been many ‘similar’ images in the media in the reporting of the desperate plight of the Syrian refugees, all of whom are trying simply to escape danger and keep themselves and their families safe.

The photograph that I have chosen here is not that of an individual from a war torn community or of a desperately frightened refugee fleeing danger, but an image from a series of portraits of city workers on their daily commute on the subway in Tokyo. The subjects of these photographs, which I find compelling, are certainly likely to be suffering; that is of course by today’s standards of those of us living a relatively mundane, but almost certainly a safe life. The anguish felt is that of the everyday grind of the chore of the monotonous repetitiveness of going to work to pay the bills.

I can’t help but observe how this image presents a somewhat over dramatic alternative to the actual reality, in the same way as what often currently happens on social media. Perhaps, though, this has more to do with the viewer and how we are conditioned by the copious amounts of shocking images we are flooded with in our news feeds and timelines today.

Sam Humphreys

John Baldessari – The Pencil Story

John BaldessariThe Pencil Story (1972–3)
[Colour photographs, with coloured pencil, mounted on board]

The work comprises two photographs of what we are told is the same pencil, side by side, before and after being sharpened. Underneath the photos, hand written in white ink directly onto the black paper that they are mounted on, is a short text about Baldessari’s relationship with the pencil.

The work’s composition suggests a ‘scrap book’ style, the photos aren’t uniform, they don’t appear straight, the text is hand written and all in capital letters.

There’s something about the writing, though, that doesn’t feel as authentically scrap book as a first glance suggests. Although the style of the text seems like a quick note it differs from genuine rough note style in that the text is very neat. The lettering is clear, and the letter shapes are rather consistent. Each sentence is roughly the same length, suggesting that the time and planning were involved.

The text reads:


The text records the performance between the taking of the two images.

The pencils in the photos face lead-point down, and although the edges of the photos are not mounted straight, the pencils in each are straight in relation to the black mounting. The point of each pencil is exactly the same length from the bottom border and both in the same placement slightly closer to the left photo.

The photos illustrate the story. The pencil on the left is un-sharpened with a ‘dull and dirty’ point, the image on the right shows the newly sharpened pencil with a clean sharp lead.

There is a balance, careful placement of each component creating a visual that to the eye looks a little like a page from a sketch book but following careful and time tested rules of composition.  Baldessari gives the viewer all the visual clues to read this as a quick sketchbook-style page, creating a very authentic story, the story ending “I’M NOT SURE, BUT I THINK THIS HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH ART” further suggesting to the viewer that this wasn’t intended as a finished work of art to be viewed in a gallery.

This piece literally questions itself and creates an interesting parallel to the ideas behind the ‘readymade’ and the authority of the ‘artist’ and the gallery.

Here is a piece I recreated as a post to social media site Instagram in response to this work.

Liz Sterry

A Photo by Ed Ruscha

Ed RuschaRimmy Jim’s Chevron, Rimmy Jim’s, Arizona 1962 from 26 Gasoline Stations

Time and again in discussions of Ed Ruscha’s photographic work one comes across (in addition to its usual stowing in a box labelled ‘conceptual’) expressions like deadpan, boring, amateur, flat, affectless. In Jeff Wall’s much vaunted article Marks of Indifference (which, I’m sure not intentionally, has helped pave the way for the legitimisation of a species of art photography which seems to be based on cost of making and yardage) he rather snottily talks of how amusingly bad the images of one of Ruscha’s early photo series are:

“…the majority seem to take pleasure in a rigorous display of generic lapses: improper relation of lenses to subject distances, insensitivity to time of day and quality of light, excessively functional cropping, with abrupt excisions of peripheral objects, lack of attention to the specific character of the moment being depicted – all in all a hilarious performance, an almost sinister mimicry of the way “people” make images of the dwellings in which they are involved …”

In a sort of reply to this, I’ll confine myself to a single image from the series, entitled, rather splendidly, Rimmy Jim’s Chevron, Rimmy Jim’s, Arizona 1962.

It is a wonderful study in horizontal lines and a kind of poetic deviation therefrom. The white lines on the road in the foreground, the change of texture marking the threshold of the garage forecourt, the blockhouse type building itself and the neat tops and bottoms of windows, porch, petrol pumps, litter bin and what appears to be a bench; and the lines of text (and there’s an obvious but nonetheless real frisson to be had here in light of Ruscha’s later work.) The three cross bars of aerials or telegraph poles, one atop the building in the middle left foreground and two lovely and delicate echoes in the far right middle ground and just visible at far left, way back in the distance. The horizon at far left and the roof of the outbuilding, then, bridging the gap between horizontality and something else—the ‘serrated’ top edges of the gates at both ends.
And in a kind of visual counterpoint, those angled lines—the telegraph wires rising up and out at right and the single cable leading downwards at left. More pronounced, the long morning (or evening) shadows across the main building and the thick short white diagonal connecting the two road lines.

A diagonal extrudes into the z-axis with the car parked outwards towards the road, with the photo’s unique curve (if one excludes the hardly discernible, perhaps imagined, one of the litter bin), the arc of the car roof.

Finally—it seems to me that the whole photo tilts slightly to the right. Whereas some might find evidence here of incompetence, bad photography, I choose to
(I’m not even sure I choose to, I simply do; something in my formation, my time and place, disposes me to this) receive this as rescuing the photo from over-schematicism. The tilt both reminds us of human agency at work and contributes to the stew of formal interest around line.
I choose to find it not bad but human. I choose to find it an element of a new kind of good and I choose to argue that point, to make it part of a discussion in the world about images, art in general and what it is and what it does.

Michael Szpakowski