Photo by PaulSteinJC, courtesy of Flickr Commons

Olek strikes again! Polish-born crochet artist Agata Oleksiak added some color to Lower East Siders’ commute this morning by hanging two pairs of pink camouflage yarn-covered sneakers alongside the many old shoes dangling from wires above the intersection of Broome and Eldridge Streets.

Olek’s knitted street art is a downtown staple by now. In the past two years, the New York transplant has fully adorned shopping carts to cars with her elaborate crocheted designs. The public displays often promote her larger scale gallery projects – such as her an entire apartment covered in crochet patterns, furniture, appliances and all  – but they have also occasionally become large scale projects of their own: in January 2011 she covered Wall Street’s massive Charging Bull sculpture, and in October 2011 she crochet-bombed the Astor Place Cube.

Olek in her crocheted apartment. Photo by HAPPYFAMOUSARTISTS, courtesy of Flickr Commons.

Olek’s street pieces usually don’t stick around for long, so take the time to enjoy them when they pop up. And don’t worry that you’ve missed your chance, because today’s colorful hanging shoes hint that another spree of public works might be on the way this summer to generate hype for her upcoming exhibit at the Smithsonian museum in Washington, D.C. Check out the chronological list below of where her work has appeared on the city’s streets and what it has covered in the past few years, and see if you can find out where and what she will strike next!

OLEK’S CROCHET BOMBS

2010

• Intersection of Suffolk and Rivington Streets: bicycle, locked to a post –
  

  Photo by easy mo drew, courtesy of Flickr Commons

  Olek’s crochet street art debut! Later moved to the entrance of Essex Street Market, where the artist had an exhibit.

• Elizabeth Street: car and another bicycle, both parked outside the Christopher Henry Gallery.

• Intersection of Bowery and Delancey Street: children’s bicycle, chained to a street sign.

• Wall Street : Charging Bull Sculpture.

2011

• Stanton Street: bicycle, across from Olek’s exhibit at the NY Studio Gallery.

• 358 Broome Street: image on the side of the building of a girl holding balloons, a tribute to iconic street artist Bansky.

• Northwest corner of Chrystie and Delancey Streets: another girl with balloons image on the side of the building.

• Petrosino Square just off Lafayette Street: children’s tricycle locked to a post.

• Tompkins Square Park: sculpture of a life-sized “walk” crosswalk signal
  

  Olek likes to cover people, too. Photo by See-ming Li, courtesy of Flickr Commons.

  man, created by Scott Taylor.

• Astor Place: “The Alamo,” the Astor Place Cube.

• Rivington and Suffolk Streets: shopping cart, chained to scaffolding at the Clemente Soto Velez Center.

• 147 Orchard Street: another shopping cart, chained to the Volang boutique.

• East First Street and the Bowery: a third shopping cart, chained to a tree.

2012

• Jersey Street between Lafayette and Crosby Streets: four strollers locked to street signs with the combined message “Love and stop lights can be cruel.”

• Broome and Eldridge Streets: two pairs of shoes hanging from the wires over the intersection.

– Paul Bisceglio

Joseph Goldberg

Passion Guided Harry’s Shoes Visionary
By Ashley Welch
Joseph Goldberg, whose family founded the iconic Harry’s Shoes on the Upper West Side, died last month at the age of 83.
Goldberg had been very active in the day-to-day operations of the business right until he fell ill several weeks ago.
“He visited the store four to five times a week, spent hours on the floor, in the offices and in the stockroom, greeting and meeting with vendors, staff and customers,” said Vice President William Kay Rood.
A native New Yorker, Goldberg grew up in the Bronx, where his father, Harry, opened the shoe store in the 1930s. It moved to its current location on the Upper West Side in 1975, where a standalone children’s store was later added. Goldberg began working at the store after he returned from Ohio State University.
In recent years, Goldberg handed over most of the daily operations to his son, Robert, but retained an active interest in the business.
Rood remembers him as a mentor, friend and teacher.
“He was just about everything you’d want from a man,” he said. “He was a kind, giving, caring individual.”
Robert Goldberg said his father was a man who always put his family first and taught him and his sister Randi, who is also currently on staff at Harry’s Shoes working in operations, many valuable lessons.
“He gave us principles to live our lives by that guide the ways we act and treat other people,” he said. “He inspired us to be the best we can be in every endeavor and taught us to follow our passions and value family above all else.”
Robert called his father a “true ambassador and visionary of the footwear industry.” He said Goldberg mentored other workers in their profession, many of whom credit him for their successful careers.
Goldberg was also well loved by his customers.
“He touched everyone he came into contact with,” Robert said. “The customers loved seeing him. Some of them who lived in the neighborhood when the store first moved here would stop him in the street and say hi or tell him that he sold them a pair of shoes.”
The main Harry’s Shoes store is currently expanding its footprint, from 2,800 square feet to 6,500 square feet.
According to Rood, Goldberg played a vital role in the negotiation, design and merchandising of the planned expansion.
“This is his legacy—to see that the business continues to thrive and grow after his passing,” he said.
Goldberg is survived by his wife, Eleanor; children Robert and Randi; and grandchildren Samantha, Josh, Harry and Eddy.

On the very first day of first grade, my teacher, Miss Cherry, made us introduce ourselves by standing in front of the class and listing our name, favorite vegetable, favorite holiday and favorite thing we owned. I watched as nearly every student declared “a white-bread baby-book name,” “carrots,” “Christmas” and “my dolly.” Then it was my turn. I proudly strutted up to the front of the room, turned around and proclaimed: “Marisa,” “eggplant,” “Halloween” and “shoes!”

Marisa Polansky

In my memory, that scene plays like a teen movie, where the DJ abruptly stops the record mid-jam and the partygoers fall silent and stare. Those four uncommon answers could have been responsible for my future as an “inside kid” during recess. Luckily, thanks to my dimples and the lack of cute schoolgirls at Franklin Elementary, I became a recess resident of the playground and my initial answers never changed.

After all, why should they? You know the game where you have to quickly say word associations, so someone says “cheese” and the next says “the moon,” and everyone laughs because you didn’t say sandwich or mouse or Wisconsin? I’m never the one laughing—but I figure I’m the one playing the game right. My first-grade answers were a precursor to that game.

I may not have known it then, but even my quirky name shaped who I would become. That name comes from my mom’s sister, Mary Ann, who once said if she could be named anything, she’d want it to be Marisa. I never knew her, but she inspired me to begin writing.

Last weekend, I got to thinking about why I love Halloween. For one night of the year, virtually every social norm is shamelessly disregarded at dusk—and no one so much as bats a false eyelash at the flagrant infractions.

Last year, after traveling on a bus from D.C. to New York City, at 8 p.m., when it had poured for over an hour, my vampire friends and I disappointingly declared the public parade rained out and ventured into the depths of the musty subway station. When we descended, it seemed as if a small-scale parade was taking place on the tracks. Jesus, Moses, Taylor Swift, Kanye West, an angel, a devil, President Obama and Kim Jong-il sat next to each other on the wooden benches awaiting their train.

All of these strangers, who would normally be peeved if even asked for the time by another, began having conversations about their plans for the evening and where they had bought their costumes. A costume-less camerawoman walked up to my friend and, without asking, took a close-up shot of his face. A forty-something man playfully began a dance-off with a young trick-or-treater. Every barrier permanently bolted with steel and barbed wire from Nov. 1 to Oct. 30 shatters on Halloween and you get a glimpse of what life would be like if every person who got into an elevator faced the back wall.

Most of all, though, I love Halloween because it lets me walk in someone else’s shoes.

Last year, when I was down with the day-after-your-favorite-holiday blues, my mom called me to her room to give me a present. I was surprised at this gesture, since my post-collegiate behavior in no way warranted gift-giving, but as my dad likes to point out, I am spoiled, so I sat on her bed with my arms open and eyes closed. When I opened them, in my hands were a pair of old red shoes. My mom and I are not the same size—and dirty shoes aren’t exactly what I would call a present—so I patiently awaited an explanation.

She told me they once belonged to Mary Ann. She said the red shoes had walked the streets of New York and had brought my aunt luck, and that’s exactly what I needed as I prepared to move to New York City. She said she was confident that the shoes were going to help me walk forward. Even though I was sad to be back from my trip for just that moment, I felt like another red-shoed girl confused about her future. I looked at my mom and thought, there’s no place like home.

Follow Marisa Polansky’s exploits on her blog Leetle Girl in the Big World at www.leetlegirlinthebigworld.tumblr.com.