In Courbet's painting "A Burial at Ornans" he speaks, metaphorically, of the death of Romanticism and the rise of Realism.
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This is the soil profile at the Fort Tilden community garden. I grew up with this soil, with one great exception: the topsoil was about 2 inches deep instead of 10. Beneath it -pure sand.
Its easy to fall into a lazy romanticism regarding a place like this.
Its forlorn weediness, bleached wood picket, tattered rags on string.
Everyone one I ask, gardeners here and the park officials running the place, say its active.
But I see few signs of any real activity, real work, real commitment.
This corner has the most activity. Every time I visited, this corner had a gardener present.
The same corner hosts a poke. Behind it, a manure pile.
Its easy to fall into a lazy romanticism regarding a place like this.
Its forlorn weediness, bleached wood picket, tattered rags on string.
Everyone one I ask, gardeners here and the park officials running the place, say its active.
But I see few signs of any real activity, real work, real commitment.
This corner has the most activity. Every time I visited, this corner had a gardener present.
The same corner hosts a poke. Behind it, a manure pile.
By the time we rap this corner, forlorn once again.
I asked where the compost pile was.
Oh, we had that removed.
Really, why?
Rats.
Really.
Did you see them?
We found nibbles on our beans.
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I have added my name to the wait list for a plot at this community garden. I'm told there are many ahead of me. Yet, despite their insistence, I find little evidence of committed activity. They, respectfully, disagree -you're seeing it in October after all. It looks like people plant some basil and tomatoes and never come back. I'm hoping a well-placed phone call will land me a spot. Won't this be most interesting...
