Rebecca Locke

and we all came in together
The following twelve stories are inspired by memories of celebration, collected from New Yorkers who have known the city for five decades or more.

These memories were transformed by the artist into a series of New York City stories, printed in microtext, to be read from glass slides under the microscope.

I. Beach Parties - Far Rockaway
They looked around Jamaica, but nothing was right, 
it was too this, too that, too big, too small, too something
else. So, the agent would drive. And they drove --
he took them in the car, the land way round -- past the airport, around JFK, no bridge, no water.
It felt like Queens.
She would have said "no, not here."
She didn't like the sea -- had a fear of the water,
but before they knew it: oh, what-a-place.
The drapes...a chandelier, a patio porch -- covered,
a yard, and the Jewish family whose beach house it was 
invited them back, and it became theirs.
Maisie's house by the 'sea-that-she-never-saw'.
With the beach down the street.
Perpendicular.
It was a fine place to live -- besides the two-fare commute.
But it was worth it. Every weekend they came, friends,
family. The subway to the beach, the subway from Jamaica.
Dinners, parties, celebrations
and never an argument.

II. Labor Day
She didn't know it at the time
but she moved to the city
fifteen years before she'd be eligible to vote
if she'd stayed. The city was free.
She felt it. Work where she wanted, earn her own money,
wear nice clothes, go out, do-her-thing.
She took night school, domestic night school -- run a house,
make everything exact -- she could work anywhere.
Then the Brooklyn waterfront, Bush Terminal, Sperry
aircraft parts, night shifts, time-and-a-half.
But it was piecework where she made the money,
first in shoes, then in coats, Midtown, fashion.
How the boss treated them -- a fine man,
making the finest of coats in the finest of factories.
Each and every Labor day, the line would stop at twelve
and they'd cross the river -- he'd pay for it all, for everything, 
for everyone, two types of cake, plus
cheesecake from Juniors, 
Perogies, Pastrami, Hot Dogs and cocktails.
And only when the sun set and the light was no more
would they leave for the day.

III. Wedding Day
She got to admiring this fella; tall, fetching
and standing by the pool in McCarren Park
across from the Cathedral with the copper-domed roof.
"Where's Coney Island?" he said -- he was thinking on his feet,
and took her number, written inside a book of matches.
When he showed up one morning, outside her window,
a block from the Dakota, she had to pretend she remembered
his name. It was rough round there, but he came every Sunday
and took her to dinner whether he'd eaten or not.
And she knew he was for her.
It was always the same, what people said
when they saw her in the street, or at some celebration:
"what a wedding that was!"
It was the food they were talking about, the food.
Italian restaurant, Long Island City, catering arranged
family-style. But unbeknownst, her Mother-in-Law-to-be
had started to worry. They didn't realise, she didn't know,
it was all taken care of. Her English was new.
An Italian Feast and a Russian Banquet.
They had both. Double.
Copia. Двойной.

IV. St. Patrick's Day
There were ten of them that signed up from his class
the year Mikey joined the Marines.
But after basic, they weren't quite old enough,
and had to wait, until one-by-one
they were sent to Korea.
Johnny first, then Billy, and by New Year Jack had gone.
But Mikey’s birthday was in the summer.
How time slowed. It was Charlie's idea to go home,
back to Brooklyn... "You know what AWOL means?!"
But, he had a sister who could type, so they 'got' 'papers'
He'd go see his Ma, surprise her...
Plus, there were friends to see, girls to see.
Ma though, she knew, as sure as if he'd said he was the man
on the moon. Five New York days later they were in the Brigg.
Eighteen days. Behind bars. Over St. Paddy's Day too.
St. Patrick's Day in Boston! What a party, and did they know it!
Took the two of them a day to clear it up.

V. Victory Parties
It was in the days when nobody robbed you,
-- you could leave the door unlocked
'cos nobody had anything
and slept on linoleum floors
to keep cool in the summer.
And kids would collect empty toothpaste tubes
going house-to-house, door-to-door
dragging their wagons to collect the lead,
for pennies, nickels and dimes.
And adults would plant the empty lots across the city.
Victory gardens, every street and every block.
Every neighborhood, and every borough.
For the things you couldn't buy.
And when it finally came,
the celebrations lasted.
For months, and months more.
Victory parties, victory gardens
and victory parties.

Oh, you should have been there.
With just the radio for news.

VI. Thanksgiving Bread
It was as though the wind changed
-- the sails of the flotilla flipped in accord...
pointing the other way.
Neatly choreographed. But not.
Heads turned at a tennis court.
Forest Hills Stadium, Queens, NY.
Like the wake from the only boat steering across
the thick green pond. For she made a ripple.
Whenever I followed her through Central Park,
I saw it.
Katherine Hepburn on a bike, they thought.
And tourists would stop and stare.
And tell their friends stories of just who
they had seen in New York City.
In the Park no less, yes, really I did!
But it was not. It was Molly, our dear
English Rose. Who lived on the Upper East Side
three-score and ten. Celebrated for her books...
but most celebrated of all for the spiced Mexican bread
that she made with her hands and brought
each and every Thanksgiving.

VII. Christmas Day
The table seated sixteen
but there was always room for one more,
or maybe two, if no-one minded that their elbows
touched a strangers, and the cutlery mis-matched.
For Christmas was coming, and Alison called
and asked if she could bring a visitor
-- in for the week, arriving that night --
The doorbell rang and there they stood.
He was an apparition.
Height filled the frame, muscular form, long
blond hair, head-to-toe in brown suede leather --
fringe detailed sleeves.
He played guitar in a Swedish rock band. He was on tour.

Five years later and she got a call. Erik was in town.
Erik was his name. The doorman sent him up to
Apartment 10B and there was a man she did not know.
Sharp suit. Pin stripes. Crew cut. Thirty extra pounds
or maybe more. His dimensions had changed,
he wasn't so tall, and now
he played Jazz.

VIII. Awards and Accolades
He was in the city to collect an award, the
Robert Kennedy award, for all he was doing
and all he had done.
He was born Dalit, untouchable.
-- He was charged to set a new course
for those like him, and those that he loved.
He brought his Mother to America and went to dinner
at the house of the sister of the man who formerly
held the highest office in the land.
And Mother, a lady ever-so slight
wore a puffa jacket, cropped at the waist
-- too short to ward off the chill,
for she only knew summer months and monsoons
and winter was coming to New York.
A winter she hadn't known.
"Let me give you a coat that's good for the season"
said the host and selected her one, full length.
And after the dinner they came to the City,
-- stayed for a week, stayed for Thanksgiving.
And taking her coat as she arrived at the door,
I felt its beauty, so finely made and
soft as butter.

IX. Times Sq. VE Day Celebration
She'd come to the city, every week.
And every week, she wanted to stay.
"Excuse me for asking, what do you do?"
she asked a lady of elegance she'd stopped on the street,
golden aiguillette and tailored jacket.
Thinking 'that could be me,' she'd stop by to speak to the boss,
until they said 'yes!' And six months later, this Stargazer Guide
was giving a tour. When the ticker tape in Times Square
began rolling out news. Unexpected.
It was over.
She was ushered under the lights. 180 degree lights.
For the broadcast. For her thoughts. For nothing was planned
And nothing was scripted. As word got around,
what was happening outside, two blocks away.
Impromptu. As thousands and thousands made their way
to Times Square. To join the crowd.
To hug and to kiss.
Like New Years' Eve. But better.
For war was over.

X. March on Washington
We came from Harlem and Washington Heights,
from Bed Sty and Murray Hill. From Kensington
and Chelsea. From the Upper East Side.
Downtown, Brooklyn and the Bronx. We came
on buses from Port Authority.
Uptown and Midtown.
Joining four-hundred and fifty buses
from the Armory. Meeting in the Lincoln tunnel,
Buses from Yankee Stadium and Queens
-- crossing bridges at midnight.
Traffic, primed as a fire line, backed by a pump.
Meeting more, from Jersey, from Boston,
to fill the highway. From cities and states
we’ve never been to. Moving closer,
to join arrivals from Penn Station,
arrivals from every platform,
from every track
that leads to Washington.
That leads to the Mall.

And we all came in together.
We didn’t see the riot some said we’d see.
For the dream of which we’d heard,
was modeled that day, with dignity and love.
And something of how it’s meant to be.

XI. Ingredients & Toast
If you came early and entered
the kitchen, and through steam
and the heat, saw all we were doing,
-- all we were making.
You would know, we are three continents
-- and the Caribbean.
Old World and New -- Orthodox, West.
But the strongest tradition, is the one that was made
by the 'star-crossed-lovers' that gave us their names.
Before dinner, and prayers, we each raise a glass.
Whisky Sour. Everyone there
-- everyone, everyone
all at the table, pushed together, varying heights.
And a neighbor that came at a pre-arranged time
so the children will gasp when Santa arrives
will lift the beard that disguises his mouth.
Flat cotton wool, cardboard, a triangle flap
held steady by braces, hooked over each ear.
To drink through a straw. Red. White. And Striped.
And toast with us all.

XII. Winning
When their ship came in, and docked at the Navy Yard,
They'd think of the music and think of the dancing,
-- of cheer across the city, of special invitations
to heaving clubs, and people-filled taverns.
Glowing lights, orange-toned windows
calling them in from the cobbled waterfront street.
Where, standing on land they’d mark another month
defying the Atlantic and the North Sea.
Defying mines, and defying submarines.
With sea-stained-smiles the Sailors were sent
through double-doors to wait outside
-- as a girl with a bucket, sat on a chair,
blindfolded -- and drew a number, his number.
She won the man who would later win the raffle:
A sack of potatoes that his friends would carry
up the hill
to her Mother's door,
who soon, would put a flag in the window
to signal his letter had arrived, from somewhere at sea.
She was delighted and in this time-of-no-potatoes.
Of rations and short portions.
He could never step a foot wrong.
And future generations would one day know:
It was they who had won.

and we all came in together
Immersive microscope-based installation (2013)
Microtext-printed slides, microscope, text, HD video, projection, found images

The immersive installation and we all came in together utilizes new digital media, analogue technologies, video, objects, found images and discovered stories to reflect New Yorkers’ ongoing relationship with the city, exploring celebration as memory and its meaning defined through the interaction of people. With the artist’s appropriation of microtext printing (more commonly seen as a security feature on twenty dollar bills), the core component is a microscope-based installation with twelve microtext stories and projections, as the work vies between scale and perspective through which participants discover miniscule elements.

The piece is inspired by memories collected from New Yorkers who have known the city for five decades or more, memories then transformed by the artist into twelve New York City stories. These include traveling from New York for The March on Washington, the spontaneous Times Square celebration on VE day as news travelled across Manhattan that war in Europe was over, of going AWOL to visit loved ones in Brooklyn, the accolade of an ‘untouchable’, and the story of an old lady forever mistaken for ‘Katherine Hepburn on a bike’. Through these memories the work explores themes of migration, celebrity, tradition, the communal element of this city, and the city as a place of sanctuary.

This work was commissioned by the New York City-based Center for Faith & Work. At the premier of the new work, visitors were invited to search for micro-stories on the gallery walls, and a limited edition of microscope slides signed by the artist and containing one of twelve stories, were given away.