Lauren Hutton

I heard old family stories of my mother’s parents going to New York in the 20s, before the depression, after I already lived there for 20 years.  Before then, as far as I knew, no one had ever gone in my family except for war.  Regular New York rules: no Central Park after dark, cross street if a mad person approaches you, don’t catch their eyes, etc.

First, I’d never been in or seen a building taller than 10 stories - once in Miami in the 40s.  Occasionally I’d see a hundred or more people congregated outside, at the state fair, etc.  So breathing in New York’s walled canyons and seeing only slivers of sky, plus population pressure were all problems.  I found the Village was the only somewhat comfortable place, and since I’d only come for a few months until my Tramp Steamer left for Africa, that’s where I stayed.  I first had to learn New York manners: put on extra speed when passing on the sidewalk, don’t follow behind someone silently (I only owned sneakers) too close, and don’t smile or talk to just anyone who smiles and talks to you, especially when you’re a pretty young Rube.  I also learned to never catch the eye of obvious freaks-in-trouble, or, rather, fellow citizens in crisis.  With seven million people on a seven mile long island, you couldn’t bring anyone you saw sleeping outside on a snowy night home unless you were prepared to not sleep that night.  Once you came to love the city and see millions of faces all those rules changed except the last.  How long did it take?  I was lucky.  I fell in love with a born New Yorker six months in.  I bagged my initial Africa trip and figured out how to climb the New York beanstalk and meet giants. 

We are all tribes, all nations, from Balinese to Afghanis.  We used to be all classes living here.  We are still all classes, but working here. The information one gets daily from just walking down New York streets and seeing thousands of different ethnicities and 21st century combinations is a whole new level of information to get and the info never ends.  It’s like plugging your head into a light socket: if you live through it, you’re charged.  We New Yorkers can absorb pretty much anything.  I survived!  If I couldn’t pick my rad sports/war journalist or field scientist friends, I’d rather be marooned on a desert island with 10 random New Yorkers than anyone else I know, because somehow, we would survive.

Russell’s joint (SSURPLUS) is my favorite store in NY. He’s a quintessential New Yorker, a young, kind kid, growing up during Cold War Russia, hearing of America as this horror show, yet having his own ideas and sticking to them.  He finally escapes, comes and recreates the dreams he had about it.  King Kong, 50s Rock, Studebakers, Chiquita Banana, Uncle Sam, Grand Canyon, our phenomena.  All boring, overworked American clichés but seen made through the eyes of Russ and distilled through his USSR teen hood, one still feels our discarded magic in a brand new way.  Even New York has been franchised-over.  You won’t see anything you’ve seen before in Russell’s, it’s a real store.