This image is from a photograph my husband took by sneaking inside an old building across the street from us, “The Beekman Palace.” It had been empty and in a state of worsening dilapidation when he took a series of photographs one Sunday morning when somewhere someone was photographing a ghostly young woman moving in and out of manufactured fog. He entered through a plywood door and aimed his camera up at the atrium. In the two years since, the building has been undergoing nonstop, eye burning, rumbling, metal crunching and sawing renovation. In another year it will supposedly be a “five star” hotel. A pop up realtor beneath us is supposedly selling the condominiums rising in a newly manufactured tower attached to the grand old Palace.
The diary writer, Malcolm Tully, starts with:
“For years I adhered to the idea that if I lived spartanly and maintained hope, a day would come when I would be invited to speak my mind And someone would listen. Someone would understand…”