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features

94 THIRD EYE NFL Draft Day Bling on Parade. photos by Suzy Allman 104 FICTION: GIFTED Our child was “unlike any creature born of man”. by Simon Rich 114 FICTION: PAISLEY MISCHIEF The white shoe bankers and lawyers of Park Avenue. by Lincoln MacVeagh

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CONTENTS . ISSUE 53

ABOVE: PHOTO BY SUZY ALLMAN

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departments 24 TRAIN OF THOUGHT My fantasy parents: Sonny and Cher. by Nancy Balbirer 33 THE LOCAL SCENE Fascinatin’ Neighbors. 124 IN GOOD TASTE Georgette Farkas, the Woman behind Rotisserie Georgette. by Kathleen Squires 132 I’LL TAKE MANHATTAN NYC anew. 140 DA MO DA MERRIER Construct Your Own Happy Place. by Simone 148 LIKE A ROLLING STONE Adventures around the world. 166 MODEL CITIZENS High Performance Outerwear. 176 THE BEST OF BOTH WORLDS Luxury lifestlye. 192 APPRAISED AND APPROVED Style and Substance. 217 INDEPENDENT SCHOOL GUIDE Institutions for all kinds of learning; Story Pirates take the stage. 272 COMMUNITY ROOM The Great Game of Women’s Tennis. by Christine Juneau

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TRAIN OF THOUGHT

Sonny and Cher By Nancy Balbirer

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I spent an inordinate amount of time as a child lying in my canopy bed fantasiz- ing about Sonny and Cher being my parents. I’d imagine them wending their way down our long gravel driveway in the Con- necticut woods, to claim me in their VW bus, along with little Chastity, some stray dogs and cats, and a trunk, (emblazonedwithmy name), full of tie-dyed casual-wear, and miniature Bob Mackie gowns. I figured that while my parents would be a bit sad to lose me, they’d get over it; they had other kids and they’d conclude that I really was better suited to living with a pair of Hollywood Hippies. I had always been a bit “out there”; a sort of pint-sized rabble-rouser, marching to the beat of a different drum, and my parents had, without fail, wholeheartedly supported my myriad nutty endeavors. Once, in Kindergarten, we were asked to paint a life- sized self-portrait. Our teacher, Miss Cohen, had us all lie on individual rolled out white sheets so that she could trace our outlines; our task, then, was to simply paint in the specifics: hair; eyes; clothes, etc. Ostensibly, the point of this exercise was to notice, perhaps for the very first time, who we are, and how we are differ- ent. Even at the tender age of five, I thought the whole undertaking was a big yawn, so instead of filling in my outline with my ac- tual features (dark brown hair, green eyes, pale skin), I filled them in with the comedian Flip Wilson’s (kinky black hair; dark brown eyes; brown skin). Miss Cohen, being a literalist, was none too pleased by this abstraction; I was duly reprimanded for insubordination and ex- iled to “the corner” for the remainder of the afternoon. When my mother came to pick me up and was informed of my malfeasance, she asked to see the offending painting. “I don’t see what the problem is,” she said, perusing my handiwork. “Flip Wilson’s never looked better.” Later, at dinner, when my mother shared the story with my father, he took it as an opportunity to teach me the meaning of the word pedantic. And, that was that. But, as understanding and encouraging as my parents were of their child’s offbeat tem- perament, even they had their limitations. The

experience I could have as the tag-along daugh- ter of counter-culture Glamazons like Sonny and Cher would surely trump anything they could offer me in the pretty-but-staid woods of Connecticut. And so, with heads held high, they would agree to hand me off to the Bonos, whilst I kissed them good-bye tearfully, and promised to write postcards each week from the road. And then, Sonny and Cher would whisk me back to the VW and off we’d go on an endless, pleasure-seeking Summer of Love. When I was eight, and Sonny and Cher announced they were getting divorced, I was completely despondent; it clearly signi- fied The End Of Everything Good. I sort of never accepted it. Yeah, OK–they “split up”; Cher got with Gregg Allman; Sonny re-mar- ried and then re-married...blah, blah, blah… whatever. I just never was willing to believe that they stopped loving each other; that they were not soul-mates; that one day, in my (apparently romance-starved) imagination we’d, all of us, not be reunited as a “family.” I N MY EARLY TWENTIES , I PARTICIPATED IN A weekly poker game with Chastity Bono. One day, I shared with her my kooky early-child- hood dreams of her parents, and the very pro- found inferences I ascribed to the love that they had once shared. Basically, I told her the whole, ridiculous thing. She was standing in my tiny kitchen on Twelfth Street, making us all Sonny’s famous steak recipe for dinner, and as I recounted my tale, she chuckled, knowingly. “I felt that way about ‘Sonny and Cher’ too…” “You did??” “Sure,” she shrugged. “Of course.” Cutting into the meat to see that it was done to perfection, she added: “And, it’s good to have fantasies, Nance. But, you know what?” “What?” “It’s even better to have steak….” Nancy Balbirer’s first book, Take Your Shirt Off and Cry was published by Blooms- bury in 2009. She is currently at work on her second book, A Marriage in Dog Years. She lives in Manhattan with her daughter. *

Editor and Publisher Eric S. Meadow Editor Celia R. Meadow Art Director TimHussey Executive Editor Debbie Silver Travel Editor Susan Engel Editors at Large Paula Koffsky, Simone Meadow, Rich Silver General Counsel Bruce Koffsky, Esq. Contributors Bonnie Adler, JacobM. Appel, Natalie Axton,

Nancy Balbirer, Julia Bobkoff, Suzanne Clary, Amanda H. Cronin, Alena Dillon, Amy Ferris, Thomas G. Fiffer, Hillary Frank, Christine Juneau, Jonathan Lethem, LincolnMacVeagh, RichMonetti, Simon Rich, Fred Sanders, Christy Smith-Sloman, Kathleen Squires, Ted Thompson, GretchenVanesselstyn, Mary EllenWalsh Contributing Photographer SuzyAllman Cover Illustration Dave Cutler Social Media Director CamilloFerrari DistributionManager Man inMotion LLC Advertising Sales Manager Libby Rosen Advertising Sales Representatives Michael Certoma, Avicii Flowers, JensenFrost,

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the local scene

34

In Your Own Backyard by Julia Bobkoff The New Croton Dam: AMasterpiece of Memory andMasonry Westchester Remembered by Suzanne Clary John Jay’s ancestral home in the city of Rye Arts WestchesterArts, Keeping the Arts Alive, Westchester Broadway Theatre’s 40th anniversary Curator’s Corner OtherWorlds: Dreamy Narratives by Three VisionaryWomen Photographers at The Lionheart Gallery in Pound Ridge Green Room RandomFarms Kids’ Theatre presents “Hairspray Jr.” at TarrytownMusic Hall Budding Scribe “Farm Stand” by Horace Greeley High School’s, Amanda H. Cronin Gallery The BobWoodruff Foundation and the New York Comedy Festival Present the 8th Annual Stand Up For Heroes Concert 38 40 43 44 46 47

in your own backyard

I grew up in Croton, a small town on the edge of the Hudson, that fast-flowing watercourse the Lenape tribe once named Muhheakantuck: “the river that flows two ways.” Mercurial in winter, the Lenape noted that ice floes drifted both north and south, but the observations of a modern day child were quite different. I lived at the highest point in my town, on a hill where the Hessian soldiers once pitched their tents, sitting around campfires under the stars. By the time my father bought the little brown house at the top of the hill, 200 years had passed. The guttural mutterings of mercenaries had been replaced by the clop clop of a renegade horse coming down the hill at night to chomp on our crab apples. Sometimes, my dad threw on his slippers and chased him back up the hill to the barn. As for the river, like an Indian scout, I observed it from the uppermost branches of my favorite tree. There I would sit, staring out over the glorious tree tops, a green canopy stretching down to the river, which ran like a wampum- blue ribbon, reflecting the undulating shadow of Bear Mountain Ridge. THE NEWCROTON DAM: AMASTERPIECE OFMEMORY ANDMASONRY BY JULIA BOBKOFF

Its currents and shifting direction were not my interest. I wanted to know, instead, where it came from, and I was equally curious about the Kitchawonk, the Croton River, a mad-dashing force, harnessed by man and funneled over a magnificent dam that fed back into the Hudson. For those who’ve grown up with the sound of Croton waters gurgling through the trees, or who’ve held a rope tight in their young hands and swung out like Tarzan over the deep, dropping hard into the fishy murk of Silver Lake, memory and water hold special meaning. Maybe you’ve never stood on the girders of Quaker bridge, trembling, mist in your face, daring yourself to take the plunge, or crept into the passageways of the Croton Dam for secret, teenage trysts, or spun down the lazy back of the river on an inner tube, the sun on your face. Nevertheless, you will find in the story of this town and the construction of its famous 266-foot masonry dam, something keenly familiar, even if you’ve lived worlds apart and never dipped a toe in Hudson waters. The New Croton Dam not only changed the landscape of the river valley, but the type of people who inhabited it. In order to bring to life the blueprint of architect Alphonse Fteley, skilled masons were imported in the late 19th century from southern Italy, young men who left their families and culture to work ten-hour days for $1.35. No sooner did they set foot on Staten Island, than a Padrone handed them $25.00 in payment for their passage. After each young man happily pocketed the cash and walked a block in his new country, the Padrone met him at

34 WESTONMAGAZINEGROUP.COM

masonry, to finally dump its contents into a 24-million gallon reservoir at the current site of the New York Public Library. The moment it hit Manhattan all the cannons went off and the church bells rang for an hour. Only 50 years later, the city was exhausting its water supply and a new dam needed to be built, a bigger and better one, that could channel the Croton watershed to an ever- expanding population. The 17-year-old Irish workers who once built the dam were now in

greatest blessing that a city like New York could receive—the introduction of an abundant supply of pure and wholesome water.” In honor of the end of brackish wells, two spectacular fountains, one at Union Square and the other City Hall Park, shot their clean geysers of Croton River water 50 feet skyward, and all the people laughed and applauded. We forget today how valuable that gravity-driven, modest flow was, that began June 20th, from the old dam at Croton, and snaked its way through miles and miles of

the street corner and smirking, took the money back. From the very beginning, deception and harsh conditions marked the life of these immigrants, and though they created, in a mad 14-year push, this masterpiece of masonry, the tallest hand-hewn structure of its day, (second only to the Egyptian pyramids) with elegant spillways and a cascading waterfall on the north facade, nothing could erase the memories of their bitter labor. So why was there such a need to construct the new dam? Didn’t the original hold up, built by the grit and sweat of Irish laborers between 1837 and 1842? Even when a January storm washed away the fruit of their labor, only a year later in1842 they completed the design. This engineering feat marked the first substantial masonry dam ever built in the US. With a core of rubble and a foundation of granite, it formed a reservoir that extended many miles along the Croton River. The cascading water ran over a 50-foot spillway to feed 41 miles of underground tubing, flowing south along the Hudson, through mountains, under fields, across aqueduct bridges, until finally it reached a pestilence- ridden city. The inhabitants of New York desperately needed water. The days of wells, springs, and cisterns were long over. The city was rapidly expanding and the people were thirsty. Firemen struggled to find adequate water sources to put out the flames in a metropolis constructedmostly of wood. So an artificial, underground river needed to be dug from Northern Westchester to Manhattan. These waterworks were known as the Croton Aqueduct, and in order to be created, countless acres of woodland, farms, churches, gristmills, and the one- room schoolhouse had to be abandoned before the river valley was flooded. Even the dead were exhumed from their graves and relocated to safer ground. ThoughWestchester residents put up a good fight, eventually they all had to succumb to the aqueduct and the endless song of the Irish pickaxe. Despite a strike that nearly crippled its production, the aqueduct was completed, delivering nearly 90 million gallons of water to New York City. On October 14, 1842, a great celebration took place in Manhattan. A local paper, The Dollar Weekly, which also happened to boast Walt Whitman as one of its innovative, new writers, described this event as “the greatest jubilee that New York or America has ever boasted—a jubilee in commemoration of the

WESTONMAGAZINEGROUP.COM 35

spillway could rattle your bones, the dam held a different meaning. To us, the kids of Croton, the dam was not some commissioned project that sustained a distant city, but quite simply and purely, it belonged to us, it was “our dam.” In its delicious shadow we grew up, picnicking with our families, playing tag around the fountain, and sledding the enormous hill in winter, which as my childhood friend Jim Doughty said, “Ruined me for other ‘sledding hills’ the rest of my life.” Daniel Greenberg, another childhood

guests brought to the top of the structure. At this dizzying height, New York City Comptroller Herman Metz reached into his pocket and pulled out a genuine Irish shamrock. As the last 3,200 pound cut stone was lowered by chains, he quickly slipped this lucky token beneath the rock. The gathered guests then pelted the stone with a shower of bright coins. The New Croton Dam was complete, christened by a bottle of champagne, which was thrown down into the hole as the reservoir began to fill. When the waters reached the top of the new dam, the old one was

their seventies, and their expertise needed on the construction of a new design. Grumpy old Irishmen and young Italians, still wet behind the ears, gathered together four miles downstream of the original dam. Imagine those quiet Croton woods filling with the racket of excavation, horse drawn steam engines being pulled to the site, 7 million pounds of dynamite blasting a crescent-shaped diversion out of the north hillside, men steam- blasting the riverbed down to its bare bones, drilling 130 feet deep, and derricks hard at work

companion, remembers the thrill of riding down the hill on a mattress, that is until the hill was shortened to the last third by a new fence, prohibiting daredevils. Jim also recalls the big drought of the 1980s when “the water level in the reservoir stayed well below the top of the spillway for a long time. That made the spillway crown—a broad, flat cap of stone—a reliably safe place to bask in the sun. For a change of pace you could scamper among the rocks down in the space that is usually a cauldron of foam. Not the oft depicted rocks under the bridge, but the anonymous ones farther upstream. It was a little nook away from the world, and you’d have been able to stay there all day if the reservoir cops didn’t know to look for you there and chase you off.” The dam could be a happy place or a sad one. Drunk teenagers often scaled the wall and fell to their death. Many of my friends enjoyed teenage meetings inside the stone walls, breaking open locks, hiding

winching stones into place. All this music of engineering madness mixed with the cacophony of foreign voices, different dialects, the old Irishman’s brogue shouting in answer to the young Sicilian, Scandinavian workers speaking in their own tongue, and a small group of African Americans singing at their work. A violent strike on April Fool’s day, 1900, brought an influx of infantry, and horses too, stamping on the hill above the dam—the 7th Regiment— commissioned by Theodore Roosevelt to keep the peace. The workers looked up bitterly from the dusty well of the riverbed. For years they had suffered long hours with little pay, often in debt to their padrones, while living in terrible conditions—houses built on stilts huddled together, or overcrowded rooming quarters with canvas cots all fitted into one long space. There were saloons, bakeries, and houses of ill repute—an area quickly dubbed “Little Italy.” When contractors announced there would be no raises, the determined men did

in tunnels, risking danger for a kiss with the rumble of the Croton River overhead. My friend Suanne Laqueur, whose mother, Carol Bierman, ran a well-loved studio in the town that all of us little girls attended in our black leotards and pink tights, went on to become a professional dancer. She chose the dam, of course, as her backdrop for a photo shoot, her identity as an artist tied to the elegant landmark, her foot pointed in arabesque as she used the hand-hewn wall as her barre. For a long time, she told me, she kept a hex bolt as a talisman, something she found as a teenager during her secret sojourns inside the dam walls. There are all kinds of stories about the dam. Once a plane crashed there and one

submerged 33 feet below the surface. After much heartache and strife, sweat and pain, the builders could proudly say, as they craned their necks to look up at the airy steel bridge that spanned the S-shaped spillway, that they had, indeed, built a masterpiece of craftsmanship, an internationally recognized gravity-driven dream, with a thundering cascade that could be heard two miles away. Books on history and engineering tout the New Croton Dam as a work of art, a benchmark creation, a nearly 300 foot-high, 1,110 foot-long public work that also captivates as a civic ornament. To those who grew up spending long afternoons in the gorge park where the air smelled of fresh spray and the freight-train tumble over the

not pick up their hammers and give in. Instead, they thumbed their noses at the men on the hill and threatened to blow up the dam. And why wouldn’t they? The Italians had a saying back then: “A man lost his life for every stone set on the dam.” In fact, every day a worker was killed, maimed, or injured during construction. The soldiers pitched their tents all around the work project and after a three-week negotiation, the Italians and their fellow laborers had to give in. Only one guard was killed in the process and now the men, like ants swarming up the scaffolding, had to resume their careful construction of the walls, bridge, terraces, and spillway. On January 10, 1906, the last stone was set into place. Solemn speeches were made and important

36 WESTONMAGAZINEGROUP.COM

and, as we grow, become a reservoir, gathered by steep stone walls, then shot over a spillway, and sent with purpose to countless people with a desperate thirst. Don’t discount the power of your own water. It is worth more than millions. The more we look back to the places we grew up, the more we understand the significance of home. Julia Bobkoff grew up in Croton-on-Hudson and is remembered by one of her elementary school classmates as “The first person I knew who self-identified as a writer.” She is a screenwriter, violinist, and is currently at work on a historical novel. *

unholy place. Our woods were deep, our rivers deeper still. A summer current could swallow up even the best, young swimmer or spit him back out, we never knew which. It was a town where, just like the dam, no quitters were tolerated, you either hit a home run out of the park or got back in the dugout and vowed to try again. And if you got a black eye fighting over the score, just like the rioters did laying down their hammers, you still got back up and put your head in the game. The wounds of fighters were worn in Croton like a badge of honor. And if you had to get another black eye on the way home, you did because we lived by our fists as much as our

of the divers, seeking the pilot, accidentally swam through a window from one of the old buildings submerged during dam construction. He had to find his way out blindly, an eerie, death-defying experience. On a brighter note, Donna Nikic, another childhood friend, remembers walking across the top of the dam in the fall. She describes the experience as being caught up “in a painting of the most amazing, deep colors.” Winter also captivated her; she especially loved “the collection of icicles that formed along the lower falls and the patterns they generated.” One of my strongest memories involves a special meeting at the dam. My father, who was adopted, had gone on a long search and found his birth family. The big day finally arrived when he wanted me to meet my great grandmother. The staging area for this auspicious event was, of course, the Croton Dam. I was 14 at the time and I remember meeting her at a parking lot overlooking the reservoir. Her car approached slowly across the narrow span of the dam. I saw tufts of white hair through the window and a small, inquisitive face. Finally, they pulled into the lot and she stepped out. It was a windy day and in the distance I could hear the roaring of the reservoir as it chugged over the spillway and shot into the gorge. When she saw me she held out her hands and said, “You are the spitting image of me. I had thick braids just like that when I was your age.” That first hug is somehow mixed with the memory of that raw, wonderful place. And what a place it was! I grew up with the great grandchildren of those first immigrant laborers. The last names of those brave stonemasons, written in the history books of dam construction, were the same names scrawled in childish print across the tops of school papers. I laughed and fought, climbed trees, and hit balls with the best of them—all those scrappy, independent, strong- willed descendants of dam builders. I would not be who I am today without rubbing shoulders with all of them. Many of my friends displayed the stoic attributes of their forefathers, men who shouldered burdens without complaint, crossing themselves and offering up prayers to St. Michael before inching along the slatted bridges that swung over the hollow of the dam. In my town there were always church bells ringing and the stone of their structures not only came from the same quarries as the dam but were often built by the same men. After a long day of work many of them met up at the local bars. Ah, Croton--you wild, untamed, holy and

CROTON DAM PHOTO COURTESY OF

WESTCHESTER COUNTY TOURISM AND FILM

adventurous spirit. And like the Hudson itself, which originated from a cold, clear tarn at the top of the Adirondacks, and traveled through Feldspar Brook and the Opalescent River--great distances--to finally touch our shores, we were all a work in progress, our origins pure, our current pressing south, or sometimes flowing both ways. Even the Lenape tribe knew nothing was predictable. Towns and their constructions, childhoods and memory, somehow become a seamless whole. Just as the New Croton Dam combined a manmade flow of steps with the natural rocks of a waterfall, all of us are a construction of engineering and natural flow. Our individual stories may begin as a raw river

CROTON GORGE PHOTO COURTESY OF

WESTCHESTER COUNTY TOURISM AND FILM

WESTONMAGAZINEGROUP.COM 37

westchester remembered

FROM A PEPPERCORN TO A “PATH THROUGH HISTORY” by Suzanne Clary

as dedicated parkland. Visitors to the Jay Estate can sit in wicker chairs on the mansion’s veranda and revel in the sight of red-tailed hawks careening above ancient horse chestnut trees or just get lost scouting for the movement of newborn wild turkey poults in the tall stands of Indiangrass. The ¾ mile vista to Long Island Sound is incredibly serene. No doubt Manhattan counterparts are feeling the same way as they use binoculars to spot the aeries of peregrine falcons overlooking Bowling Green or enjoy playing ten-pins with the NY Chapter of Lawn Bowlers. According to the NY City Park website, “Bowling Green Park, the first official park in New York City, was established in 1733 and named by a resolution of the Common Council on March 12 of that year: “Resolved, that this Corporation will lease a piece of land lying at the lower end of Broadway, fronting to the Fort, to some of the inhabitants of the said Broadway in order to be inclosed to make a Bowling-Green thereof, with walks therein, for the beauty and ornament of said street, as well as for the recreation and delight of the inhabitants of the city, leaving the Street on each side thereof 50 ft. in breadth.” The green was leased at an annual rent of one peppercorn to none other than John Jay’s father, Peter (1704 -1782) and two of John’s uncles. These three were awarded the privilege to design and improve the park with grass, trees, and a wooden fence and most famously a field to play “the sport of bowls” (a game more closely related to bocce) and anecdotally, the Dutch nine-pins immortalized in Washington Irving’s tale of “Rip Van Winkle.” For all that Peter Jay did to create a beautiful park in the 11 years, by the time the lease was up, two of his children had been blinded by smallpox after an epidemic in the city. With another child, John, on the way it was prudent tomove out of the city and Peter purchased 250 acres inWestchester County from one John Budd in 1745. Young John, born on December 12 of that same year undoubtedly grew up playing games of “bowls” in Rye, perhaps while his grandfather Auguste watched with pleasure, remembering what it was like to play with his own son in Manhattan. This country seat at Rye had to have been an easy sale. The property ran from the Old Pequot Path or King’s Highway (today’s Boston Post Road) to the Sound and provided water access with a dock. But the most striking feature of the Jay estate had to have been its view back in time. The Jays took possession of a 10,000-year-old, man-managed meadow. At the time Peter Jay purchased the land he was looking back at a wide open Siwanoy hunting ground and settlement with piles of shell middens that testified to the plenty of oysters and clams being seined in the harbor. Within the month he made the additional purchases of land to increase the estate to 400 acres plus, and secured a 23 acre parcel called “Hen Island” on top of that. This green oasis nurtured the spirit of one of our greatest patriots and he returned here throughout his life and storied career. From

VIEW TO LONG ISLAND SOUND

OVER THE JAY MEADOW

Who came up with the idea for our first park in New York City? At which park can you find the oldest man-managed meadow in all of New York State? You’d be surprised at the answers as we take you on a path through Rye and New York history. From the 18 th century to modern times, one renowned family recognized the power of verdant views to refresh and inspire; in fact they were the first to formalize designs for both the oldest park in Manhattan – Bowling Green; and the oldest man-managed meadow in New York State – located at John Jay’s ancestral home in the city of Rye. From the 1700s to the 1900s, these two deliberately articulated spaces provided fresh green havens outside the havoc of noisy urban and even suburban streets. Most remarkably they still serve that function for the public today

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THE JAY ESTATE

for restoring the landscape of the Jay Estate, including its viewshed and gardens for the public to enjoy. With $500,000 raised to date, JHC will formally launch this major stewardship project this October and invite individuals and corporations to participate with their tax- deductible donations and volunteer efforts. Most recently at the John Jay Lecture, a free program co-sponsored by JHC, Pace Law School and Con Edison, Hon. Rose Harvey, Commissioner of Parks, Recreation & Historic Preservation of the State of New York toured the grounds of the Jay Estate, newly recognized with “Path Through History” signage on the Hutchinson River Parkway and the Boston Post Road. “Here we are at the boyhood home of the only native founding father and the first Chief Justice of the United States, author of NewYork’s constitution and two time governor, abolitionist and patriarch of several generations of similarly public-minded descendants. It is a reminder of how many leaders called New York home and it is a source of state pride that we have preserved this home.” She delivered a powerful presentation about the importance of preserving our parks through citizen-led efforts (with or without the peppercorn).

BOWLING GREEN PLAQUE

* “There is a reason New York State has such a remarkable legacy. It is through the work of friends, supporters, and many ordinary citizens – people like you, with your interest in history and historic places – who believed in the importance of protecting and preserving our heritage. A duty and a responsibility handed down from one generation to the next.” The Jay Heritage Center is located at 210 Boston Post Rd, Rye, NY. www.jaycenter.org Suzanne Clary is Presi- dent of the Jay Heritage Center in Rye, NY.

DEPUTY COMMISSIONER OF REAL PROPERTY AND

LEGISLATIVE AFFAIRS, CAROL CLARK, PROF. NICK ROBINSON,

COMMISSIONER ROSE HARVEY, DEPUTY COMMISSIONER

OF HISTORIC PRESERVATION, RUTH PIERPONT AND JHC

PRESIDENT, SUZANNE CLARY IN FRONT OF THE JAY MANSION.

1745 to 1904, five generations of Jays would create gardens and continue to beautify the grounds. In 1822, Jay’s eldest son, Peter Augustus, framed the meadow view with long stone walls called “ha- has” that are still remarkably intact. Today what remains of John Jay’s childhood home are two parks, each accessible to the public: the 23 acre Jay Estate and the adjacent 137 acre Marshlands Conservancy. Each is a vital component of a National Historic Landmark District. Since forging a landmark public-private partnership with New York State Parks and Westchester County Parks last summer, the non- profit Jay Heritage Center (JHC) has been diligently raising funds

THE JAY ESTATE AND MEADOW

MID 1970S PHOTO COURTESY OF

JAY HERITAGE CENTER

WESTONMAGAZINEGROUP.COM 39

arts

A MILESTONE FOR THE ARTS by Natalie Axton

When Janet Langsam, the Executive Director of ArtsWestchester, first came to the organization, it was housed in the third floor of a corporate of- fice building off Interstate 287 and was virtually inaccessible to the public. This was something Langsam wanted to change. So when the opportu- nity to purchase 31 Mamaroneck Avenue in White Plains arose in 1998, Langsam saw it as a chance to give the arts a front row seat in Westchester County. The building, originally built for the People’s National Bank and Trust Company in 1929, was White Plains’ first skyscraper. By 1998 it was part of a section of downtown White Plains slated for an urban renewal project. In what can be described as a “coup,” ArtsWestchester acquired the building. A two-year renovation of the property at Mamaroneck Avenue in 2004 – 2005 brought the building back to life. Now almost fifty years old, ArtsWestchester is at home in its new building, renamed the Arts Exchange, a moniker that evokes its mer- cantile legacy and its new role as a creative hub. Its location – right in the center of White Plains, between the County office building and City Hall – makes a statement, says Langsam. “It says that the arts are important to Westchester,” she explains. The Arts Exchange is a world away from that office space off I-287. Its two-story gallery space is accessible from the street. ArtsWestchester programs several exhibits a year. Visitors to the gallery wander under a restored, coffered ceil- ing with plaster rosettes and can glimpse an original mural depicting the creation of the Kensico Dam. Light saturates the space from the restored original windows on three sides of the space. The old vault has been converted into a mini gallery space ideally suited to video installations. In the floors above the gallery the building holds a mix of office space (intended for creative businesses but currently leased to a mix of tenants), artist studios in various shapes and configurations, and rehearsal and public space. The plan is to develop the building into a kind of incubator for creative work in Westchester. In the meantime, the building acts as a beacon for the arts, explains Langsam. It also hosts classes in animation, ceramics, drawing, and writing. The Arts Exchange is just one part of ArtsWestchester’s mission but

ARTS EXCHANGE ENTRANCE DOORS

it’s a very visible reminder of the organization’s legacy of success. Arts Westchester is a public-private arts council that supports arts organiza- tions in Westchester County. “We are an advocate and funder of the arts,” says Langsam, and she estimates ArtsWestchester has distributed $35 million since its inception. One of the challenges of promoting the arts in Westchester is, of course, being in the shadow of New York City, whose numerous cultural institu- tions can lure residents away from local offerings. Says Langsam, “We are a funding organization but we realize our funding alone is not the only service that these [arts] organizations need.” Promoting the arts through media is a big part of ArtsWestchester’s mission. Recognizing that arts or- ganizations survive on both contributions and earned income, Langsam emphasizes that “an empty seat is one that doesn’t bring in any benefit to the organization.” To help get people in seats, ArtsWestchester produces a monthly publication called ArtsWNews that is inserted into and distrib- uted through The Examiner papers and the Westchester Business Journal. Arts Westchester prints 50,000 copies of ArtsWNews eleven times a year and estimates it reaches 100,000 people. In addition, the organization’s website was designed to be “event driven,” explains Langsam. “We’re constantly

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JAZZ PERFORMERS IN FRONT OF

ARTSWESTCHESTER BUILDING

* What does the fiftieth anniversary mean to ArtsWestchester? Langsam notes that many of the nation’s premier arts councils were founded in the 1960s. ArtsWestchester was founded in 1965. So too were the National En- dowment for the Arts and the New York State Council on the Arts. Sharing an anniversary with these institutions reminds her “that people in Westches- ter recognized the importance of having a support system for the arts.” Like a beacon, ArtsWestchester was leading the way in 1965. It still is today. Natalie Axton is a writer in North Salem, New York. is launching a program called Arts Deals that will enable arts-goers to buy discounted tickets and get special offers from venues.

JANET LANGSAM

ARTIST RESIDENCY AT

TRAPHAGAN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL

looking for ways of getting the information out in a comprehensive way.” Taking into account the diversity of Westchester’s population and lo- calities is another key to ArtsWestchester’s strategies. The Artist in Resi- dence program places artists in schools, particularly those in underserved communities. (ArtsWestchester was awarded a federal grant to operate this program in the Mount Vernon schools.) When it comes to mount- ing programs that involve affiliate cultural organizations, branding and logistics becomes an issue. “Because of the multiple locations all over the county, we have to find a way of thematically bringing something together that resonates as a reason for people to visit multiple locations.” (An ArtsWestchester clay art exhibition in 2008 called All Fired Up in- corporated seventy venues.) Helping people get to faraway events is also a practical concern. ArtsWestchester has a small budget for a shuttle bus, a new program for the organization and one Langsam wants to develop. As part of its 50 th anniversary next year, ArtsWestchester will launch a program designed to fund artists’ new work. Called 50 for 50, the program will award fifty Westchester artists with $1,000 each. Working with affiliate cultural organizations, ArtsWestchester will coordinate a festival to showcase some of this new work. The festival, called Beyond NYC, is meant to prove that new artistic work is being created in West- chester, not just in New York City. In addition, this fall, ArtsWestchester

LEFT: MARY POPPINS

BELOW: WESTCHESTER

BROADWAY THEATRE INTERIOR;

42ND STREET

WESTCHESTER BROADWAY THEATRE

UPCOMING PERFORMANCES: SOUTH PACIFIC September 25, 2014 – November 30, 2014 and December 31, 2014 – January 25, 2015 Rodgers and Hammerstein’s award-win- ning South Pacific is based on the Pulitzer Prize-winning book Tales of the South Pacific by James A. Michener. IT HAPPENED ONE CHRISTMAS EVE December 4, 2014 – December 28,2014 A heart-warming musical about an infant left on a Brooklyn doorstep one Christmas Eve and the magic she brings to the lives of those who find her.

IN 1974, Bill Stutler and Bob Funking introduced the dinner theatre concept toWestchester, design- ing and building a theatre that served dinner and lunch. An Evening Dinner Theatre’s first produc- tion, Kiss Me Kate , opened on July 9, 1974. An Evening Dinner Theatre boasted many strengths over other area theatres of the time, such as a unique seating arrangement–every table faced the stage, a 3/4 thrust stage–as well as the casting of Broadway performers and professional directors, choreographers, musical directors, set, costume and lighting designers from New York City. The theatre became a welcome alternative to Broadway where the parking is free, dinner is included, and the talent is top-notch. In 1991, Bill and Bob moved the theatre to a new location not far from the original with larger performance space, state-of-the-art tech- nology, and increased seating capacity. The the- atre was given a new name, Westchester Broadway Theatre, (WBT) and A Chorus Line was the first performance at the new site. Westchester Broadway Theatre has been a starting ground for dozens of stars who went on to Broadway, TV and films, including John Lloyd Young (Original Jersey Boys and the new movie); Will Swenson ( Hair , Les Miserables ); Carolee Carmello ( Mamma Mia! ); Scott Bakula ( NCIS New Orleans, Quantum Leap ); Andy

Keslo (Kinky Boots) ; Estelle Harris (Seinfeld) ; Bob Cuccioli (Jekyll & Hyde, Spiderman) ; Faith Prince (Guys & Dolls) and Suzyn Waldman, now a radio voice for the New York Yankees. Directors and choreographers of note also got early work in Elmsford. Bill Stutler reminds us that “Rob Marshall directed here before going on to direct the Oscar-winning Chicago , and his sister, Kathleen Marshall, performed here and as- sisted Rob Ashford (Thoroughly Modern Millie) when he directed A Chorus Line here.” Susan Stro- man choreographed Gypsy and Sugar Babies here before racking up Tonys for The Producers, Con- tact, Show Boat, Crazy for You and Oklahoma ! Westchester Broadway Theatre celebrated its 40th anniversary in July. It is the only theatre of its kind in Westchester, where Broadway per- formers, directors and designers gather to create this level of Musical Theatre.

Westchester Broadway Theatre, 1 Broadway Plaza, Elmsford, NY. 914/592-2222 www.broadwaytheatre.com

*

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