Discovering Prud’hon

Three years ago I was still modeling at the Art Students League. For New York models, working at that place is a rocky, volatile, unpredictable scene. And infuriating. I left that school largely due to those circumstances. In fact, just recently there has been yet another tumultuous upheaval involving the models, and I’m thankful I’m not there for it! I’ll blog about all that another time.

But I do have some special memories of the place. For example, I was deeply honored and flattered to be requested as a model by the League’s illustrious drawing instructor Frank Porcu. He asked me not just to pose for his Friday night class, but to pose for ALL his Friday nights. Every week of every month, for an entire school year. Wow. I was stunned. But not too stunned to accept the job.

Frank Porcu specializes in human anatomy, which means that posing for his class is rigorous, demanding work. Not for the faint-hearted. It involves a standing pose, always, with no exception. It also involves taking direction from Frank for anatomy demos – doing certain movements and twists to demonstrate the skeleton and muscles in action. And lastly it means allowing Frank to draw on your body with charcoal. Some models are uncomfortable with that but I kind of liked it! It tickles

Any model who has not posed for Frank Porcu’s class, or has refused because of the hard work, well it’s their loss. They have missed out on what I found to be an incredible learning experience. Listening to Frank’s passionate and exciting lectures was fascinating! His knowledge is off the charts, and his ability to illuminate the complexities of human anatomy – and how to draw them – is truly amazing.

So on one of those Friday nights Frank embarked on a demo for which I wasn’t needed. With a nice break on my hands, I made a quick trip to the bathroom, slinked back into the room, and sat down in a chair to listen attentively. I heard Frank speaking a name I was unfamiliar with, so I whispered in the ear of the student sitting next to me, “Who is he talking about?”. The student answered, “Prud’hon”. Like a giant idiot, I said, “Prudhomme? Paul Prudhomme the CHEF?? Why is Frank talking about him?”. Yes I really said that The student laughed and replied, “No, no. Pierre Prud’hon the artist”. Artist? What artist? I had never heard of him. And here I thought I was so well-informed about art.

Pierre Paul Prud’hon worked during the late 18th and early 19th centuries, a critical period not just for French art but for French politics. Prud’hon was an avid supporter of the French Revolution and later of Napoleon, who hired the artist for commissioned portraits of his wife Josephine and drawing lessons.

Prud’hon’s extraordinary talent as a draftsman is evident in his figure work. It also becomes crystal clear why Frank Porcu chose him as the consummate example of how to do artistic anatomy. Just look at these beauties:

This pose is very “art posey”, but a useful one for a figure study. I love how Prud’hon expresses both the mechanics of the human body AND its elegance, simultaneously:

The wonderful thing about looking at drawings, as opposed to paintings, is that you can really see the artist’s “hand” at work, in the marks, shadings, the touch in his lines and strokes. Prud’hon reveals his technique here:

Prud’hon’s drawing medium of choice was chalk, which he obviously handled to perfection. Brilliantly, he was able to achieve the sensuous surface to which artists aspire in their drawings. I am no expert on drawing materials, but if I didn’t know better I would think this next one was in silverpoint:

The musculature on this one is remarkable, and the model looks better than most of the guys at Equinox Gym!

Unfortunately, Prud’hon had a troubled personal life. He married young, at 20, but the union was unhappy and problematic. His wife was eventually committed to an insane asylum. In 1803, Prud’hon began a romantic relationship with one of his pupils, Constance Mayer. She was a fine artist in her own right, and a faithful companion to Prud’hon. During their 18 years together she helped look after his six children and assisted him with his painting projects. When she finally asked him for marriage, Prud’hon flatly declined. Constance then committed suicide by cutting her throat in his studio. Prud’hon tried to save her but it was to no avail. Constance bled to death.

Prud’hon himself died just two years later. Ironically, after their intense disagreement about marriage, Prud’hon and Constance are buried side-by-side, for eternity, in (where else?) Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris.

Prud’hon’s portrait of Constance:

My ignorance of Prud’hon that Friday night three years ago at the Art Students League is not totally implausible, thank god! The truth is that Prud’hon has suffered from limited fame, especially in proportion to his talent. You have to ask yourself, why is this guy not more well known? One reason could be the “curse of the competition”. Like Christopher Marlowe forever in the shadow of Shakepeare, Prud’hon had to contend with the insane popularity and devoted followers of his contemporary Jacques-Louis David. David is considered THE French artist of the Napoleonic Age. I suggest that maybe half of that crown should go to Prud’hon? From a figure model’s viewpoint it would feel like justice served.

Today, Prud’hon’s breathtaking figure drawings are an inspiration to artists who are honing their skills and trying to master their craft. And I am grateful to Frank Porcu for introducing this humble artist’s model to Prud’hon’s work. Hey, maybe I should thank the Art Students League too? Uh, no.

I could look at Prud’hon’s exquisite nudes all day. Here’s two more for the road, one each male and female:

Art Model Funnies, Part 6

Is it just me or has the entire blogosphere gone into a deep slumber? Museworthy’s traffic has dropped considerably over the past several days :sob . . sniffle: What has happened to my steady daily 8,000 unique visitors?? <— just kidding This is a summer syndrome I’m pretty sure, as I seem to recall bitching about this very problem once before, in the month of July naturally.

Well I’m not gonna take this lying down, dammit. We need some laughs and smiles and hijinks. In other words, another installment of cartoons! Maybe these will jolt us out of this lagging, comatose state. If it doesn’t work, we may have to try high potency B12 shots.

We art models like to look at the paintings we’ve been posing for. But in all my years I have yet to encounter this:

Plein air artists take note. This is from George Jartos:

I love Mona Lisa spoofs! They’re the best. Here’s one from Mark Lynch:

I usually save my favorite for last. I think this one is great! A model confiding to her therapist:

Summer at the Cloisters

Helloo, helloooooo!! I’m back from my birthday blogging break. Well, I’m one year older and boy does it feel dramatically different! Just kidding

I celebrated my birthday with my dear family who thoughtfully arranged for a summer evening gathering at The Cloisters, one of New York City’s most treasured and unique cultural institutions. The Cloisters is a branch of the Metropolitan Museum and houses an extensive collection of 12th through 15th century European medieval art. Visiting the Cloisters is like experiencing a time travel walk through the Middle Ages. Now if that sounds like something gloomy and oppressive, believe me it isn’t. On the contrary. It’s a magnificently meditative and spiritual experience, not to mention a curatorial grand slam for the Met. Among some of the collection’s highlights are the Dutch unicorn tapestries, which have to be seen to be believed, and the Romanesque altar cross, acquired under the Met Museum’s famed former curator Thomas Hoving. Although the art at the Cloisters is all religious in nature, you don’t have to be a devout Catholic (which I’m not) to appreciate the profound artistic beauty of the Cloisters. It is an exceptional place. One of my favorite spots in the city. I took a lot of pictures of the grounds.

The curving cobblestone pathway leading up to the Cloisters:

The Metropolitan Museum is located on Fifth Avenue and 82nd Street, but the Cloisters are way, way uptown in lovely Fort Tryon Park, on a 67 acre raised ridge of protected land overlooking the Hudson River. Fort Tryon Park has some of the best views of the river, the George Washington Bridge, and the New Jersey Palisades. It’s hard to describe in words the lush quietude and unusual terrain of Fort Tryon Park. Majestic tall trees, exposed igneous rocks slicing down the west end of Manhattan island, dense woodland, vines and shrubbery growing wildly out of every crevice, and a long stretch of park grounds for picnicking, reading, and contemplation. Best of all, the park is over a hundred blocks away from the chaos, noise, and commotion of midtown Manhattan.

The sun setting over the Hudson River, streaming into Fort Tryon Park, cutting across the top of the Cloisters:

I love the stony pathway of Fort Tryon Park. Here are a few shots:

Fort Tryon Park’s charming restaurant, The New Leaf Cafe, where we had my birthday dinner. Just a hop, skip, and a jump from the Cloisters, the New Leaf was formerly a stables, now converted into a wonderful dining spot in the heart of the park. It boasts an outdoor patio and fabulous jazz combo on Friday nights:

And last but not least, my niece Olivia, who considered her iPod a much more interesting diversion than anything to do with her Aunt Claudia’s birthday! Medieval art collection? What’s that? Ah, to be six years old again

Life Lessons

For my birthday last year, I commemorated the occasion here on Museworthy by taking a nostalgic tour through 1968, the tumultuous year I was born. That was brutal. Now another year has passed and I can’t believe how quickly times flies. That post was a year ago! I remember writing it like it was yesterday.

I’m feeling pressure to say something profound, to reflect on my 41 years and evaluate my successes and failures, triumphs and disappointments. But I write enough about myself -my worries, moods, and insecurities – on this blog. I will engage in those personal assessments, but this time I’ll do it in private, with a box of tissues and a bottle of bourbon. No, no, I’m just kidding! All things considered, I’m a pretty lucky girl.

Though my birthday is tomorrow, I already received a terrific birthday present last week. I had an echocardiogram to check on the condition of my congenital heart defect. I was born with a narrowed, “stenotic” aortic valve, which formed during my fetal development as a “bicuspid” instead of the normal “tricuspid”. This was of great concern throughout my childhood and adolescence and my parents went through a lot because of it. But I got my test results back and, lo and behold, that thing is still going strong. I passed with flying colors! So I’ve made it to 41 and I still don’t need a valve replacement. Not yet anyway. For now, I’ll take it

I’ll post again very soon and it will be with another year notched in my belt. Until then, check out this video about “Famous Failures”. It might inspire you to ponder the true nature of  life, the journeys we take, the idiots we encounter along the way, and the adversities we face, and overcome. Life isn’t a smooth ride. Now what fun would that be?

Divine Comedy, and “Reality”

Well it was bound to happen. The art community has entered the eighth circle of hell. Dante’s waist-deep piles of excrement, or whatever punishment he assigns for the sins of narcissism and self-indulgence, will soon be filled with artists from all over the country. Why? Because here in New York they are waiting in line, “cattle call” style, to hopefully be cast as “contestants” on a new reality TV show.. A “struggling artist” reality show. Like “Survivor” and “Project Runway” and “Top Chef”.

This morning over a cup of java, I read this New York Times article, and almost spit my coffee all over the place. My first reaction was, “Oh come on! This is going too far!”. I’m not a snob, I swear. I’m not even a staunch “purist” by any means. And I certainly don’t begrudge artists the ambition to succeed, be discovered, and get their foot in the door. I just really, really dislike reality TV.

Remember when reality TV first came on the scene? It was fine at the beginning. A little stupid, yes, but a harmless novelty. Mildly entertaining, emphasis on “mildly”. But is it just me or have things gotten completely out of hand? Now EVERYTHING – all professions, vocations, and aspirations – are being converted to a shrill competition format. They even have these shows for hairstylists and dog groomers! WTF? And since ratings are the most important thing, the shows are designed to bring out the nasty in their contestants and encourage the most uncivil of behavior. I hate that. I mean, has anyone seen “Bridezillas”? Oh my god. I watched about three minutes of that horror and frantically changed the channel back to my beloved PBS. That’s three whole minutes of my life that I’ll never get back. If Dante were alive today he’d invent a separate circle just for those Bridezilla bitches.

Is the creation of art even suitable for the aggressive, fast-paced tone of these reality shows? It seems so antithetical. Here’s a quote from the Times article in which Nick Gilhool, one of the producers, ponders that very question:

Mr. Gilhool said the main criterion in picking artists was to create a show that “people in the art world will want to tune into every week to actually see the work.” But he added that the fragmented and raucous nature of contemporary art would probably make it trickier to produce than competitions dealing with more straight-ahead creations like food or clothing design. What would be the equivalent, for example, of a “quick-fire challenge,” the part of “Top Chef” in which cooks have to whip up a dish lightning fast? Life drawing with a stopwatch? Found-art scavenger-hunt race? Best postironic conceptual gambit in under a minute?

Ugh. That sounds like a disaster. The next thing you know they’ll create one of these heinous shows for art models. And THAT would be a real disaster! It’s bad enough that we’re blogging on the Internet

Modigliani Madness

I don’t make any money off this blog, and I plan to keep it that way. But if, hypothetically, I did make money off this blog I would be obliged to share a portion of the revenue with the estate of Amadeo Modigiani. Like all bloggers, I check my traffic and stats regularly, and I’m still amazed at how frequently “Modigliani” appears as a search engine term. Every single day . . . Modigliani, Modigliani, Modigliani. Hundreds of people have found Museworthy thanks to him. And he’s the reason that my old post on Modigliani’s muse Jeanne Hebuterne is the top Museworthy post, and still going strong. Sometimes that year-old post gets the highest traffic in a daily breakdown, surpassing even the newest one!

So what’s with all the Modigliani madness? Well, he’s enormously popular that’s for sure. But do we know why? Is it a “cult-following” phenomenon, fueled by the romanticism and mythologizing of another tormented, misunderstood, “bohemian”? That probably has a lot to do with it, as Modigliani fits that archetype to perfection. I can’t say anything definitively. I can only offer my amateur, semi-informed analysis. Modigliani’s work is not especially profound or complex. His subject matter is not weighty or thought-provoking. He had a seemingly limited range as an artist, and wouldn’t be described as versatile or extremely significant as a 20th century figure. Modigliani may have been a contemporary of Picasso, but Picasso he was not. No art historian will dispute that.

But stylistically, Modigliani’s art is very appealing. Strongly influenced by primitive sculpture and African tribal masks, he used those shapes and features – exotic and elongated- and adapted them into a sleek, distinct modern look. Therein lies his genius. The result was something highly seductive: simplified forms, graceful lines, sensuous female subjects. People are attracted to it. But you don’t have to take my word for it. Stroll over to the Modigliani section of the Met and you can see it for yourself, as there is always a crowd congregated around his paintings, any day of the week.

I remember feeling terribly sad after I wrote the Jeanne Hébuterne post. The story is so tragic and heart-wrenching. She was far too young and vulnerable to be involved with a difficult man like Modigliani, and she paid with her life. Fortunately not every woman who crossed paths with Modigliani had her life devastated. Some of his other models were stronger, more independent women than Jeanne.

Lunia Czechovska met Modigliani through his art dealer and they became lifelong friends. She apparently had a somewhat stabilizing effect on him but tolerated his ways only up to a point. Lunia claimed that although their relationship was close, it never became sexual. Considered Modigliani’s most important model, Lunia sat for him many, many times and is the subject of both nudes and portraits. This is Lunia from 1919:

South African-born Beatrice Hastings (a pen name) was a writer, poet, and critic whose work was published regularly in the British literary journal “The New Age”. While living in Paris, Beatrice moved in the artsy Bohemian circle which included French painter/poet Max Jacob and, of course, Modigliani, whom she famously described as a “swine”. They had a two-year affair during which they shared an apartment in Montparnasse and plenty of hashish. This is Modigliani’s Portrait of Beatrice Hastings:

And since it was the story of Jeanne Hébuterne which began all the Modigliani madness here on Museworthy, I’d like to honor her again in closing. This is Modigiani’s Portrait of Jeanne Sitting:

To Facebook or Not To Facebook

Could it be that I am one of the last Internet-active people who is still without a Facebook account?? Is it possible? Judging by the weekly cajoles of my pro-Facebook friends and acquaintances, I might be! “Why aren’t you on Facebook?”, they ask. “You’re STILL not on Facebook?”. Then come the eyerolls and disgusted sighs. Oh yeah? Well, kiss my nonconformist ass!

Ah, I’m just kidding. No ass-kissing necessary. The truth is I’ve been debating Facebook for some time now. I’ve heard mixed reviews about the popular social networking site. Some have told me it’s “really fun”, others have said it’s “okay in moderation”, while others have called it a “nuisance”.

I have no deep-seated aversion to Facebook, although I have derived a weird, twisted pleasure from being a non-Facebooker. I’m prone to defiance. Not principled defiance, mind you. Just baseless, pointless, immature defiance as a reaction to the “masses”. Everyone’s doing it? Well then I WON’T!! Take that, you followers! No . . I’m NOT on Facebook! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!! :sticks pins in Facebook voodoo doll:

But after a talk with my brother this weekend, my rebel yell is losing traction. Chris, I should mention, is not a big social networking guy at all, yet even he has fallen in love with Facebook. That’s huge. So I’m seriously thinking of taking the plunge and crossing over to the dark side. What do you all think? Any of you on Facebook? Feedback and opinions welcome!

Lassitude and Cardboard

When I was a teenager my friends and I would use the word “blah” to describe a state of malaise. “I feel kind of blah”, we’d say. Of course adolescents are not known for their articulate and eloquent verbal expression. Now, as an educated well-read adult I prefer a more sophisticated vocabulary. So what am I feeling the past few days? Lassitude, torpor, ennui – I love “ennui”. Great word.

With so much free time on my hands, and lovely summer weather to boot, you would think I’d be taking full advantage of my days. But I’m only taking half-advantage. No, more like a third. I just can’t seem to get my act together. Some of it can be attributed to the beast, which notoriously sucks motivation out of you like a parasitic leech. But the beast is not solely responsible for my inertia. There are other factors at play. I’m feeling physically lethargic. Not sure why. Plus, my birthday is approaching in less than two weeks and I’m not exactly thrilled about it. I’m also grappling with strong emotional feelings for a certain person in what is, let’s just say, a “complicated” situation. I’ll leave it at that.

So I’m slacking off in my exercise regimen, my blog posts, my house chores, even in phone calls and emails to friends. Oh shit. I’m a slacker! But I am making some effort. A half-hearted effort, but an effort nonetheless. The other day I attempted to sort through the tiny storage/junk room of my house. I discovered a bag of old clothes that were meant to be donated to goodwill which I completely forgot about. I also discovered two brand new, unopened packages of printer paper. Yay! Mostly I was surrounded by cardboard. Let me tell you about me and cardboard; I love cardboard. I won’t part with cardboard. I’m unable to throw out or recycle cardboard. I want it! Why? I have no clue. I keep thinking I’ll use it eventually for something. And when and if that day comes, I like knowing that my stash is there.

Toulouse-Lautrec would have done a giddy little dance over my cardboard collection. The immensely talented French artist worked often on cardboard surfaces to great effect. Now for those of you who are unaware, I should inform you that I harbor hostile feelings toward Toulouse-Lautrec over his blatant contempt for professional artist’s models. I even kicked his ass once way back when. But as much as it pains me to say, I confess that I really love his art, especially his unfinished study sketches done on cardboard. I found three great ones to share. It’s interesting that he used the cardboard surface unprimed, and worked directly on it with just oil paint thinned with turpentine. The brown tone of the unpainted areas functions as a color in the composition.

Nude Girl Putting on Her Stocking, 1894:

Woman Lying On Her Back, Both Arms Raised, 1895:

Nude Girl, 1893:

Hope everyone is doing well and enjoying the weekend. I’ll be back very soon, hopefully without the “blahs”.

Drawing With Fred

While most people spent their 4th of July having barbecues and watching fireworks, I spent mine at Fred Hatt’s studio posing for my very dear friend. And what fun it was! Felt good to actually be modeling during this abysmally slow summer, and it was wonderful to collaborate with an artist I’ve known throughout my career. When Fred and I get together, about 75% of the time is spent chatting and talking as the close friends we are. But we did manage to get some work done Here’s what we created in the other 25%:

When the model’s away, the artist will play! Once the figure is established, Fred will continue to work on a drawing on his own time, adding in background, color, etc. Fred emailed two versions of this piece, the “before” and “after”. Here’s the same drawing that he progressed further the next day:

The Fruits of Summer

The other day I ate the first ripe tomato from my garden. I picked it off the plant, took it into my kitchen, and within five minutes it was gobbled up with a piece of whole wheat toast. Delicious!! When you eat a homegrown tomato like that, you realize just how tasteless and crappy the tomatoes are from the grocery store or, heaven forbid, the supermarket. Horrors! I don’t know what those supermarket tomatoes are supposed to be, but they are a sin against nature.

My vegetable plantings don’t exist in the form of well-tended rows over acres of land. (Acres? What are those?) Like most people who live in urban areas, my vegetables hold their own in limited square-footage and free standing buckets. But the plants don’t mind. Give them good soil, sun, water, organic fertilizer, and they will dutifully grow and yield luscious fruit.

In celebration of my sweet and juicy first tomato, I couldn’t resist posting a work from the 16th century painter Giuseppe Arcimboldo. Born in Milan in 1527 to a wealthy family, Arcimboldo’s career started out on the usual route of the times; securing jobs in the royal courts of Vienna and Prague doing the traditional work of painting portraits, designing costumes, palace decorations, stained glass, and tapestries. But Arcimboldo’s personal imagination didn’t begin to soar until he created strange and unique paintings of human heads in the form of fruits, vegetables, and plants.

A reflection of the season’s abundance, here is Arcimboldo’s Summer. I love this painting! Totally weird, but totally awesome:

It comes as no surprise that Arcimboldo’s bizarre heads were admired centuries later by the Surrealists, such as Salvador Dali, who saw in his work the earliest expressions of the grotesque beauty and peculiar visions they would explore further.

ArtinthePicture has a more complete gallery of Arcimboldo’s heads. Check it out!

Cinéma Vérité

“Stop the car”.
I stopped my car and rolled down the window. “Yes officer?”
“The street is closed”, she said. “No cars allowed. They’re shooting a movie”.
“Yes ma’am, I know about the movie,” I said. “But I live here.”
“You live here?”
“Yes, ma’am , I live here.”
“On this street?”
“Yes, on this street”.
The officer was silent, eyeballed me a bit, and then took a quick glance at the shopping bag on the passenger seat. It was filled with cans of organic cat food for Monty, Punk, and the kittens. Organic, holistic cat food <— stop laughing!
“Ok, well people have been scamming me all day, you know? Saying they live on this street when they really don’t, just to get up close to the movie shoot. I send them through and the crew turns them away and makes them drive back up again. They’ve been scamming me!”
“Oh, I see.”
“It’s a damn nuisance.”
“Yes, well, people will do that.”
“So you really live on this street? No BS?”
“Yes, ma’am. No BS. That’s my house right there.” I pointed at my house.
“That house?”
“Yes, that house. The one with the potted pansies on the front stoop”.
One more glance at me, and she seemed convinced. I guess I have an honest face.
“Ok, move along then.”
“Thank you officer. You have a good day!”

A little excitement for the afternoon, right? Filmmakers have invaded our quiet little residential street. They trekked all the way out to northeast Queens for a shoot. Don’t we feel special! Actually it’s not that unusual. We’ve had film crews here before many times. Once you see the bright orange flyers stapled to the telephone poles, indicating “MOVIE SHOOT”, with dates, times, and “No Parking” admonishments, you know they’re coming. Trailers, equipment, guys with walkie-talkies. The “invasion”.

After I unpacked the deluxe cat food, I went outside where my neighbors were gathered in the street, watching the filming. I chatted up a very nice, very burly crew guy and got the scoop. The movie is called “Rabbit Hole”, and it stars Nicole Kidman. My neighbor Phil said he saw her earlier and that she’s “really tall”. I missed it, of course, because I was out buying cat food. But it’s no big deal. Now if it was Christian Bale, on the other hand, that would be a whole different story. I’d never leave the neighborhood! I’d put on slutty short shorts and Wonderbra-induced cleavage, stroll around the block like a tramp, make eye contact with him and then shout, “What the fuck are you doing??!!!!! Trashing my scene?!!! OOOOHHH GOOOOOD FOR YOOOOUUUUUU!!!!, you FUCK!!” You all heard that audio tape I assume? What can I say, rants make me hot.

Filmmaking in New York has a long, impressive history. We are, in my opinion, the unparalleled movie location. The list of movies – great movies – that have been shot in New York is a mile long. From “Sweet Smell of Success” to “Rosemary’s Baby” to “Serpico” to “Annie Hall” to “Do the Right Thing”, it just goes on and on and on.

So I had fun hanging out with the neighbors. But watching movie shoots isn’t always as exciting as it sounds. We got to hear the director yell “Action!”, and see a huge camera on wheels roll backwards about eight feet, and then “Cut!”. Some scene with a guy getting into a car, I don’t know. I got bored. I asked the burly crew guy if I was allowed to go for a run in a park. “Yeah, ” he said. “We’re not using the park, just the street.” Cool. So I went back inside, changed into my running shorts, and with my iPod in hand, jogged right past the crew, past the equipment, past the lights, and ran off into the sunset. Like your typical New Yorker, oblivious to the “glamour” of cinema and eternally unimpressed. Man we’re jaded.

I have no idea what “Rabbit Hole” is about. But I do know that there is a big difference between just shooting a film in New York  and shooting a film in New York that is about New York, in drama, psychology, speech, and attitude – those films where the city itself is a character of  its own, alongside the actors. If I had to choose a film that embodies the madness, volatility, and the gritty style in which films used to be shot here, the choice is easy.

1975, director Sidney Lumet, lead actor Al Pacino, and the streets of Brooklyn, this is “Dog Day Afternoon”. The scene is a heated confrontation between a hapless, hostage-holding bank robber and the cops. THIS is how you shoot on location in New York: