This series explores Homestead, one of the most distinctive and ethnically diverse working-class communities that surround Pittsburgh. Homestead interested us because of its rich labor history and its contemporary transformation from a dying steel town to a place that now hosts an enormous shopping complex replete with the nation’s most popular chain stores. This sprawling center of commerce, “Malltown,” sits literally on the other side of the railroad tracks from the old Homestead “Milltown.” We see this as a deeply relevant landscape, interesting in its own right, but also emblematic of what’s happening to communities across America. What exactly are we losing as we witness the closing of so many small businesses that were the heart and soul of twentieth century “community,” both on Main streets and deep within the American psyche? Can we as artists help illuminate the subject without romanticizing or resorting to the most obvious conclusions?
The shopping complex, the “new” Homestead, united nominally under the name “The Waterfront,” was set down upon land that was once the home of the famous steel mill that Andrew Carnegie bought from Henry Frick in 1883. This was the site of the famous strike of 1892, where the Amalgamated Association of Iron and Steel workers fought for better wages and for more voice as workers in America’s new industrial order. The famous Battle of Homestead took place that year, when 300 Pinkerton Detectives came ashore from the Monongahela River to fight the union. Throughout the seventies the workers enjoyed hard-won benefits and salaries as a result of these strikes. Then the mill closed and it was razed. As a tribute to the past, some of the stacks from the mill have been left standing. But lots of history seems to hang in the air on the streets of old Homestead, where more than a third of the people live below the poverty line, while in the new Homestead, a whole new, seemingly ahistorical world encroaches and thrives, while itinerant communities of “shoppers” form each day. We try to capture some of the tensions between the old and new Homestead, the old and new America.
FIND THE STEEL MILL IN THIS PICTURE
or not. Which tree is the tree of knowledge? Which leaf is the leaf of forgiveness?
If a light post sprouted leaves, would it be mutation or miracle? Would it be then
copyrighted, manufactured on an assembly line constructed from steel produced
at a mill built on the site of this shopping center? O, even on this manufactured flatness
the world spins. Do you doubt me? Beyond a shadow of a doubt? A shadow
of a tree? One car might be the missing piece
of the puzzle, or it might be the abandoned piece
of another puzzle made long ago. If you searched this lot, perhaps you’d find the keys peeking out
beneath a stray leaf, something glittering, something tarnished.
THE AMERICAN PEDESTRIANUS
Once thought extinct, he is now restricted to game preserves. A species protected by parallel lines. He moves
in short bursts of rhinoceros speed, but quickly tires. Dangerous only when contained in motorized vehicles. Domesticated by listening devices meant to calm once-bestial instincts. Now, grazing in wide-aisled ranges, shod in comfortable shoes, these creatures spend hours roaming and foraging, equipped with slices of plastic.
Many clutch plastic bags. They seem calmed
by the crinkling. Studies are being conducted.
Recently discovered drawings reflect psychological amputation of hands and feet, suggest the detachment of head
from body. Notice how the head resembles the circle
at the center of the Target. This phenomena requires
further study.
SPACE ALIEN CONFRONTS ANCIENT RELIC
I’m afraid we’ll have to footnote this one
in the history books, doodle a series
of questions marks
at the bottom of the page.
Some might see an old smokestack and a spotlight in the middle of a landscaped parking lot.
Others might see a showdown for the universe.
Why light up what no longer exists? Is it aesthetically
pleasing now, without the smoke, the noise, the fire? One pillar
of the great temple? Samson’s
in Target getting slippers on sale.
Who’s that little round guy who speaks only in light? Why does he keep pleading take me to your leader?
EYING THE EYE
If I was a child again, what might I make of this perfection? Clean, smooth squares
of cement, swept for inspection, rows of pruned bushes spaced
apart like ceremonial guards trained not to wince or twitch.
The bricks of my castle unmarred — unsprayed, unpolluted, now.
And a camera to capture the breaking news of my arrival. My pedestal
awaits. I could stand above the masses of trash. What words of wisdom
could I give, I, neither child nor queen, here to shop?
DOO-WOP OF THE SHOPPING MALL
harmonized singing of nonsense syllables, with a rhythm-and-blues melody on top, popularized by street singers in the 1950s
The plastic trash barrel melts in shame at its inability to sustain heat, sustain
the fire, warm the hands. Young hearts in stylish fashions model their roles
as silent stand-ins for the syllables
that once rose echoing in unison above cement streets.
Keep the one cigarette. Or toss it on the sidewalk and stomp it out, leave it there
as evidence, as a seed. Listen closely and you will not hear a single note of the sweet nonsense.
Ah, nonsense. Sweet, sweet nonsense.
COMING SOON: MONSTER HAMBURGER TAKES OVER UNIVERSE!
Or maybe not. But if they get enough ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES anything is possible.
The hamburger to end all hamburgers! Insulated! Reinforced! Impossible
to swallow!
*
The old rusty bridge takes another hit, each sigh crumbling another chunk of cement into dust
to blow down into the river as if swept by an old woman in a black dress stooped over her sidewalk.
*
The tree would like to have a few words with all interested parties. The sound of machinery drowns out its whispers.
Cup your ear and listen for the Hell of it.
BEYOND THE OBVIOUS
The Original Pioneer
has a dare for you, and it has nothing
to do with bubbles. Trail blazing has its risks, for once
a trail’s blazed, what remains in the ashes?
Beyond the bubble
and the hidden dissatisfaction
with the faded permanence of tattoos, beyond the open
door, the trash basket,
and mailbox, is the distraction
of two small children.
Eager, curious as they look off
camera for what might be coming to the rescue.
AVAILABLE
Grandeur is not available. Vacancy is available.
The pillars are and have always been ornamental. Accessories
for the well-heeled. Confidence created out of façade.
After all, you kept your money here. Dropped it into smudged
greasy piles on the counter where it was duly noted
in a little book you were allowed to keep. When you thought
of that money, you thought
of pillars, upright, unshakeable.
A temple for deposits. A temple for loans. Clean floors, orderly lines.
Not available for worship. Available for work.
Like a missing tooth caused by poor diet
6
or a sucker punch. Like a dog that kept
pulling on the leash yanking you along
then disappeared
just when you needed
guidance. Just when
you needed to be pulled.
So, the sudden fall. So, the stained knees
convenient for prayer convenient for surrender.
Hug a pillar. Hug the lone tree. Available. As if it was as easy
as calling a number, getting
a key. Oh, the cold space awaits.
Oh, the mausoleum terror.
FRESH FISH
If you called Rob and asked for fresh fish
you might get a laugh. He might say
Make Me An Offer. The last fish that entered
this place might have mouthed off about the décor before losing its head.
Rob is selling Q Ribs, Zones and Gies.
Perhaps less fresh. Perhaps he holds
the missing numbers between 1 and 8 for ransom. Somebody had a sincere idea here. Grill and a deep fryer. Fresh, that’s what mocks me, Rob. Rob, old buddy old pal, you foreclosing fool you.
If you let weeds grow long enough, they become flowers. HOAgies CALzones BAR-B-q ribs. Good luck, Rob. Selling this place. Look close: even Howard Hannah Real Estate has abandoned you. If I call Rob,
can I at least leave a message?
Guardian Burglar Alarm sticker.
Did a little bell tinkle
when you walked in the door?
Did somebody look up and smile?
Say, “how about some of our fresh fish”? Where’d everybody go? Out of the frame life expands until it finds a sign of life.
The waiting area at TGI Fridays — as big as this entire restaurant — fills with the sad safety of numbers.
Maybe Rob is there, waiting for a table on an actual Friday. Happy Hour.
Somewhere in the office, the key to this place sleeps in the bottom of a drawer.
Once somebody sincere held that key
on a ring of other keys and they made a sound something like hope.
This picture is so silent, not even dogs can hear it. Not even the wind
has a point of view.
