The weather treated us okay: no rain or snow, but lots of freezing blustery air. Between buildings were wind tunnels. My face ached. That did not mean it was too cold for pictures. This must be where I get it from: my mom passed a pizzeria and was like, Take my picture with him!
When we got into the gallery, the windows were fogged floor to ceiling. The heat was on full blast and so I stood over it as if it were a fire in a can. Ahhhhh.
The exhibit included snapshots and then some of the same photos blown up and captioned in Ginsberg's inky script, some of which was difficult to read. My mom said that some of them should be postcards. Knowing, I was like, The naked ones? She laughed and walked away. The captions were helpful in figuring out who's who in Kerouac's books as Ginsberg explained in which literary tales they appeared and their code names.
I loved the letters. There were hand-written letters between writers. There were typed letters between writers a la a typewriter. I was surprised to read a quick letter from Carl Solomon to some rich woman apologizing for Ginsberg's "Howl." Hmm, didn't know he wasn't a fan.
One of my favorite photos was of Neal Cassady and a car salesman on the car lot. It's so telling of everything that's to come for him and the rest of them.
I was not allowed to take pictures. No cameras, food, drink, smoking, and I think maybe one more thing that I can't remember but was listed on the door. And so, I had to break some sort of rule in honor of the Beats:
|My mom said, "Take a picture! Get the Empire State Building in it!" I did.|
|We switched places exactly. Where is the top of the arch?|
|There goes my plan.|