So after many a fortnight, the pandemic rages on. This month, the experts have dubbed it “B.A.2.12.1,” but regardless lots of humans are falling ill. Maybe not dying, but who wants Covid-19 in any form? Thus, Philadelphia should reinstate compulsory wearing of masks; who’s to cry foul?
What other American metropolis more than 400 years running goes by the “City of Brotherly Love”? Not Gotham (NYC),certainly not Providence (“Cthulha,” “Lovecraft Town”). And D.C.? (“City of Magnificent Distances?” “Mudhole?” “Swamp”)? In a more bucolic chapter, under the capable draftsman pen of Frank Furness and James Frazer, Philadelphia grabbed onto a unique and cryptic handle, “Red City.” Circa 1876-1881, when still fresh lay the team of America’s Centennial Exposition rising out of Fairmont Park on the Schuykill’s broad banks, the land of Ben Franklin was awash in Colonial Period russet brick. Hence, “Red City.”
No throwback to cobbled crudity were these brick walls, however. Their sculpted swaths were trimmed in yawning dog friezes, evoking the splendor of Nero’s Rome, not to mention massive glazed plaques of gargantuan sunflowers and lilies, as recently made popular through live readings of the flamboyant Irishmen on tour this side of “the pond,” Oscar Wilde!
Overly boyish, as some of you may have already gathered, I recognized much of the pagan sources of the Victorian-era ornaments though my moment of discovering them. August, 1970, the filigree and gingerbread of old Philly was well concealed beneath a century of neglect, spawned soot. How had I landed such a funky time-capsule of a place? I wanted to experience Philidelphia first-hand, now that I was, for the moment, foot-loose and fancy free.
My Instamatic was fully loaded, but I began my midday trek on Market Street, where proud black street sounds framed in puff afros, massive ‘shades’ for the eyesand sloppy chapeaux and bell-bottom pants were the rule from every music and variety store, the undulating beat of Gamble, Huff and Barry White filled the grainy air.
I took careful note of the abandonment of the sprawling Erlanger movie palace, dating back to Gloria Swanson’s time. Well aware was I that by now this tiny screen queen was no longer a household name, nor did the wealthy Biddles, Girards, and Wanamakers stow their gilded treasures behind the granite portals of fidelity storage. I ran my photo-finger through drapes of dust on the glass.
The Market Street Bridge leading me over to spooky Filbert Street and the looming Reading Terminal Market had been renamed “Seyberts” bridge by a teenaged graffiti army. Blood-crimson ran the jagged capital letters. Soon I realized the “T” was a crude rendering of a “saber” sword. Glad, I inhaled with the gratitude of not having encountered these particular artists.
