Automatic Human Jukebox

The Automatic Human Jukebox, 1978
(photo copyright by Kevin Scanlon)

Grimes Poznikov performing as The Automatic Human Jukebox
(photo copyright by Kevin Scanlon)

(Click on images for larger view)

I was going to ask readers if anyone knew whether the Automatic Human Jukebox, who used to perform near Aquatic Park at the wharf in San Francisco, was still there in 1989 (which is an important time frame for my novel-in-progress). However, a quick Google search led me to this sad account in a series of San Francisco Chronicle articles from 2002. The images accompanying the articles are disturbing, especially when compared to the photographs I’ve posted here, taken by photographer Kevin Scanlon in 1978, which convey an enterprising use humor and wit by the street performer to earn cash from tourists.

As someone who is fascinated by those who step or fall into society’s fringes (which I wrote about here), the fate of Grimes Poznikov who was the American Human Jukebox frightens me a bit. Clearly, Poznikov later developed serious mental health issues, and according to this site died of alcohol poisoning in 2005. More photographs archived here document the changes over the years.

Apparently he was still performing as the American Human Jukebox as late as 1987. Does anyone know if he was still performing in 1989? If so, I’d be interested in knowing if he was still at the wharf area or elsewhere around San Francisco, particularly during October of 1989. Please leave a comment below if you have information (or e-mail me at the address in the sidebar to the right of the screen).

Photo Credits: Both photographs above of the Automatic Human Jukebox are copyright © by Kevin Scanlon, used by permission, all rights reserved.

Looking Forward, Looking Back: San Francisco Noir, "The Lineup"

Dory at Sutro Ruins 1979

(Click on images for larger view)

I’m a fan of film noir, and over the holidays I enjoyed seeing the 1958 classic The Lineup for the first time. This film especially appealed to me because San Francisco was the setting, and director Don Siegel made the best possible use of interesting spots around the city: the waterfront docks, the Sutro Baths, the Bay Bridge and Golden Gate Bridge, and the then unfinished Embarcadero Freeway which was still being constructed. That freeway is no longer there. Damaged in the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake, it was torn down in 1991.

I’m caught up in all things San Francisco now as I work on revising a section of my novel-in-progress. One chapter is set at the Sutro Bath ruins near Ocean Beach and Point Lobos, close to where the Pacific flows into San Francisco Bay, so it was of great interest to see scenes filmed at the Sutro Bath complex while it was still standing. It had burned down and all that still remain are the foundation walls, which look almost like ancient ruins. I’d seen old black-and-white photographs of the baths, but until seeing The Lineup I’d never seen any movie footage of it.

Sutro Baths and Cliff House Postcard

Sutro Bath Ruins 1979

I was surprised to see it in the film because I’d thought burned prior to the 1950s. Research shows me that it actually burned down in June of 1966 – so it had been standing a mere dozen years before I saw and walked the ruins for the first time in 1978. There are even pictures of the fire on the National Park Service Website here.

We ended up watching The Lineup DVD a second time the following evening, this time with the commentary by writers James Ellroy and Eddie Muller turned on. One of the things they discussed was the accuracy of the settings and that the scenes were true to San Francisco’s geography. For instance, in the chase scene from Sutro’s to the Embarcadero Freeway, they really pass the things they would’ve driven by and you can see them in the background, such as the Legion of Honor Museum, The Palace of Fine Arts and the Golden Gate Bridge.

Seeing the film has caused me to change some of the dialogue in scenes I’d written where two of the main characters are walking together at the Sutro ruins. It also made me think about the Embarcadero Freeway and how I might use it as material. That freeway had been an eyesore, and its construction had been controversial because it bisected the waterfront area. It had been meant to connect the Bay Bridge with the Golden Gate Bridge, but was only ever completed as far as the Broadway exit ramp to North Beach. Now that it’s been torn down, a park stands where an off ramp was, and a wide tree-lined boulevard opens up and unites the waterfront where there is now a promenade for pedestrians.

I’ve been back to San Francisco twice since we moved east in 1982, once in January 1990 just a few months after the Loma Prieta quake and again in June 2004. The last time we were there, I was struck by how much had changed at the Sutro ruins. A part of the trail we used to walk along the cliffs at Lands End is now inaccessible due to erosion and is closed off to hikers. As late as 1982 when we were still living in San Francisco that part of the trail was open and we used to walk it, including the narrow part along the very edge of the cliff. Occasionally we’d read in the newspaper of a hiker who’d fallen there to the deadly rocks far below. This interesting website with photo galleries is devoted to capturing and recording the subtle changes as they occur at the ruins.

Was it serendipity that I happened to watch The Lineup as I turned my focus toward finishing my novel? Maybe. (Funny how things seem to come together when you get into “the zone” of generating fresh material.) Is it inspiration? Definitely.



From the Blogosphere:
Alexander Chee's post at his blog “Koreanish” on photographs of the Tuileries Palace found at a yard sale and their usefulness to him in writing the book he’s now working on.


Photo Credits:
Top Photo: “Dory at Sutro Ruins 1979” copyright © Kevin Scanlon, used by permission

Middle Illustration: “Sutro Baths and Cliff House Postcard” courtesy of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area, National Park Service via San Francisco Parklands Image Gallery

Bottom Photo: “Sutro Bath Ruins 1979” copyright © Dory Adams

Looking Forward, Looking Back: Happy New Year at Winterland

Closing Winterland, 1978

(Click on images for larger view)

It’s that time of year again when everyone’s making lists. Reflecting on the past to make lists of the best and worst for the year winding down. Anticipating the future to make lists of resolutions for the year opening up. It’ll be a new year and a new decade – out with the old, in with the new, yadda yadda yadda.

I’m looking forward to the year ahead. It feels fresh, like a clean page. Ironic as it may sound, I’m looking ahead by looking at the past – fascinated by how the past looks filtered through each additional decade. I’m amazed, thankful, and still filled with wonder and hope. While I’m not making a public list, there’s a good one here by Lisa Romeo. And Patry Francis writes a thoughtful piece here.

There’s a reason I’m looking ahead by looking back, and it has to do with the novel I’m writing. I promised I’d make no public lists, but there’s a relevant one here by C. M. Mayo (via novelist Christine Baker Kline’s blog). And in working on that novel-in-progress, I get to look back at San Francisco in a different era, since it’s one of the settings for the story. I miss that city I once loved living in, and I long to travel there again. It’s the place where I truly fell in love – with the man I would marry, and with the city itself where we joined our lives together. So I’m having lots of fun revisiting it in my mind and looking at old photographs and maps for research, and you can expect more San Francisco related posts in the coming year.

Flashback to 1978:
We were broke – just out of school, having moved west with little more than the clothing that would fit into suitcases. We found jobs and managed to afford a tiny apartment in San Francisco’s Western Addition, which was sparsely outfitted with essentials borrowed from two of Kevin’s sisters who live in the Bay Area. For months we subsisted on banana squash (only 7 cents per pound), rice, and canned soup.

Those first few months were turbulent times in San Francisco’s history. In November, the Rev. Jim Jones, cult leader of The People’s Temple (which had a headquarters building located on Geary Boulevard not far from where we lived) led nearly 1000 followers at his South American settlement in Jonestown, Guyana in mass suicide by drinking Kool-Aid laced with cyanide. Less than two weeks later, San Francisco Mayor George Moscone and city supervisor Harvey Milk would be assassinated at San Francisco City Hall by former city supervisor Dan White. After so much tragedy that month, it was one of those years that people were glad to see coming to a close.

Bill Graham’s Winterland Ballroom was closing for good at the end of that year with a final concert on New Year’s Eve. It wasn’t quite the end of the 1970s decade yet, but the end of that era could be felt approaching. The Winterland had been the site of The Last Waltz, The Band’s big farewell concert on Thanksgiving 1976 which was filmed by Martin Scorsese. Back when a farewell concert was truly a final show, a single event – unlike farewell tours these days that seem to go on endlessly. Booked for the final show at the Winterland were the Grateful Dead, New Riders of the Purple Sage, and the Blues Brothers. In a nod of thanks to the Grateful Dead’s loyal fans, the Deadheads were listed on the Marquee along with the performers.

Bill Graham outside Winterland, 1978

Our apartment was about five blocks west on Post Street from the Winterland. We were too broke to afford tickets, but on the day of the concert we took a walk to the Winterland, which was located at the corner of Post and Steiner Street. We wanted to photograph the building, which was draped with Grateful Dead banners. Deadheads were camped out in line, and it was pure serendipity that Bill Graham happened to come out to talk to the fans while we were passing by.

We got to see some of the show on New Year’s Eve anyway. Not in person, but through a broadcast on WQED, the local PBS television station which aired the eight hour show live. After the Winterland closed, the building was torn down in 1985. Bill Graham continued his career as a concert promoter until 1991 when he died in a helicopter crash.

1978 was a memorable year – one of life changes, of starting out on a journey together, of looking forward. Now, I feel that same sense of things shifting and clicking into place, of new things opening up. Maybe it’s simply because we’re about to enter a new decade, but I can hear something in the air. I can feel it. I can’t make out the tune yet, but it doesn’t feel like a last waltz. Whatever the music, I’m poised for a good dance.

The Winterland, 1978

Happy New Year!

[In This Light will return to the regular weekly schedule on Sunday, January 10th.]

Photo Credits: All photographs of Bill Graham and the Winterland are copyright © by Kevin Scanlon, used by permission.

Abandoned Things: Fleishhacker Pool

It’s suddenly fall. I’m not sure why this surprises me so much. Perhaps because summer never truly seemed to arrive, unseasonably cool and moving at a different rhythm and pace this year. Swimming pools have been closed up and readied for winter nearly a month now, at least in the parts of the country that have true seasons.

Summers seem shorter and shorter, and I long for one of those long, slow summers of my youth – the ones where I used to complain about being bored and begged my parents to take us somewhere we could go swimming for an afternoon. I rarely succeeded in finding my way to a pool, but I did manage to spend hours upon hours on summer days immersed in books, experiencing worlds beyond mine through the written word. I lived far from the privileged suburban lifestyle of the characters in John Cheever’s stories, where it seemed every backyard had a pool and cocktails were served promptly on the patio at the end of the work day, yet his story “The Swimmer” was a favorite. On those rare occasions when I got to go swimming, it was usually at a state park or at a community pool in the town where my cousins lived. One summer I was lucky enough to swim at the local country club for a few days while I was the houseguest of a friend who was a member. It gave me just a glimpse of how some of my classmates got to while away their summers.

In 1980 while living in San Francisco, I saw the biggest swimming pool I could’ve ever imagined when my husband and I wandered onto the grounds of the abandoned Fleishhacker pool. I don’t remember exactly how we ended up there, but I do vaguely remember that we had followed a path overgrown with shrubbery. What was this place? What happened to it? Knowing nothing then about the pool’s existence or history, we were completely amazed by its size and were a bit puzzled by its location since it was directly across the Great Highway from the ocean. The pool property was also adjacent to the zoo on its opposite side, which was the side we had approached it from, so it’s possible we had discovered the path to it on our way out of the zoo. It was like finding a secret.

The act of discovery is my favorite part of the writing process. It’s in those moments of clarity, of seeing how all the seemingly disconnected fragments of a developing story actually fit together with finding the missing piece, that the writing is truly joyful. Aha. So THIS is it. Of course! Why couldn’t I see it before? Sometimes the missing piece is an object. Sometimes it’s something a character says in a key piece of dialogue. I know I am not alone in this experience of typing away at the keyboard, or moving the pen across paper, to see what was hiding there all along just below the surface suddenly emerge.

Occasionally writers find themselves working at stories that just seem to go nowhere. We’re moving the characters around but nothing much is really happening. We try putting them in places and situations where that will change. And still, nothing happens. We’re stuck. There is no discovery. If we’re wise we put those stories away for a while and work on a different story. Sometimes these story fragments are forgotten and abandoned. Other times the characters nag at us until we pull the old draft out of the file drawer and give it another try, a fresh start after a break, or after a sudden insight that seems to come out of nowhere – usually when we are away from our desk, away from our computer, away from pen and paper. We find a new path, a different way into the story. We see a gate we hadn’t noticed before – and sometimes that gate is not only unlocked, it is standing wide open.

For me, the idea for a story often starts as an image. And where that image comes from, I have no idea. It’s just suddenly there, in front of me – whether it’s as a real object I’m actually looking at, or as an idea or scene I’m daydreaming about. It’s the same with stories I’ve put away thinking I’m done with them and that they’ll never be finished. I’m not sure why writing is such a visual process for me. I suspect that for some writers it’s more auditory – certainly it must be so for poets.

I wonder at what moment John Cheever realized his character Neddy Merrill in “The Swimmer” was going to swim across his suburban neighborhood, from backyard pool to backyard pool. What would Neddy Merrill have thought had he come upon a pool the size of Fleishhacker pool?

I like to imagine what it must’ve been like to swim at Fleishhacker pool, in a man-made pool filled with seawater that was so huge it was patrolled by lifeguards in small rowboats. Surely there is at least one story there. I’d often wondered over the years what had happened to the Fleishhacker pool site. Expecting to find that a condo had been built on that valuable property so close to the ocean, I was surprised to learn that the pool had been filled in and paved over for the purpose of additional parking for the zoo and that despite being condemned, the bathhouse still stands.


Photo credits: All photographs of Fleishhacker pool are copyrighted by Kevin Scanlon, used by permission.

The Year of Fog

I recently finished Michelle Richmond's novel, The Year of Fog, a book I’d delayed reading because the topic, the disappearance of a child, was similar to that of my own novel-in-progress. My hesitation was twofold: I didn’t want to be too influenced by what I read while I was still working on my own book, and I was afraid I might find she’d already written the story I was still working to finish, particularly since San Francisco is one of the settings for both her story and mine. I’d had her book in my hands several times in the past year when browsing at bookstores, but always put it back on the shelf. However, that book kept appearing in front of me, most recently as a Kindle offering, and I figured there must be a reason.

The main character in The Year of Fog is a woman named Abby, a photographer, who takes the young daughter of her fiancé for a walk on Ocean Beach near The Great Highway, where the girl disappears. Abby takes photographs as they walk in and out of the fog along the beach where young Emma searches for sand dollars, and when Abby is distracted for a few seconds Emma disappears into the fog – either the victim of abduction or a drowning.

Richmond’s narrative has depth and her prose is often poetic as she explores the psychology of loss, the function of memory, and the artistic drive that compels a person to become a photographer. Her characters are richly drawn and complex, particularly Abby who struggles to find answer’s to Emma’s disappearance within her photographs, a truth the images fail to reveal.

In a sense, photographs serve to stop time and allow us to hold on to the past, but those frozen milliseconds may produce images that are no more accurate than memory. Images and memory alike are affected by perspective and context, and each person who views a photograph brings his or her own story to what they see, consciously or not. It’s much the same with writing, where both the reader and the writer bring something to the page.

With The Year of Fog I savored reading about some of my favorite places in San Francisco, a city I love and miss. When we lived there, my husband and I often photographed at the Sutro Bath ruins and along the cliff trails at Land’s End, which are settings in Richmond’s book. In looking through my old slides and negatives for an appropriate image to post here, I was flooded with memories of our own walks together along Ocean Beach near the Great Highway and the Cliff House, of how huge waves could suddenly surge in through the fog with a roaring crash, of how deceptively serene it could look at low tide on a clear day, and of how far the water could rise at high tide. A bit alarmed at the hours consumed by the task of searching through old photographs, I had some second thoughts about whether starting this blog was a good idea. Would it be even more of a distraction than I initially feared? Then I realized that part of what I was feeling was the deep emotion those images have the ability to evoke in me, and that my file boxes store away much that I want to write about. Best of all, I’m out photographing again, which has me falling in love with Pittsburgh once more.

Richmond’s book serves as an inspiration for me to continue working on my own novel until I’m satisfied that it’s what I want it to be. I needn’t have worried that our stories would be too similar. We all have different stories – stories that only we can tell, spun and filtered through our own imaginations. And Michelle Richmond’s The Year of Fog is one written in perfect light.

Photo Credit: Ocean Beach, San Francisco, copyright (c) 1980 by Dory Adams