Growing up, my dad fixed things. All kinds of things, all the time. Broken clocks, torn boots, a radio that played only staticno matter the object, nine times out of 10 hed go to the cellar of our tiny four-room house and return hours later with a smile on his face, eager to present the once-rent object for our approval.
In his photo book The Brooklyn Navy Yard (powerHouse, 2010), John Bartelstone takes us on a voyage into a world thatdespite its proximity to downtown Brooklynseems a strange and distant land, where great industrial beasts once roamed.
When I first encountered Sunnysides tall trees fanning over peaked rooftops, I couldnt believe such suburbia was a ten-minute subway ride from Midtown. But mostly I was curious how the idyllic neighborhood contained two of its inhabitants, the Armenians and the Turks, and their ancient, bloody grudge.