The Michigan Daily Edited and managed by Students at the University of Michigan Thursday, June 3, 1976 News Phone: 764-0552 The s*dpghtofU TIE CITY UNIVERSITY of New York (CUNY) was once one of the most magnaminous institutions in the nation. Its teachers were paid lofty sums, long the highest in academia, and its students, representing a broad cross- section of the nation's largest city, received their educa- tion without paying for it. Millions of New Yorkers span- ning several generations were educated at such institu- tions as Hunter, Queens (the Factory), Brooklyn, and City Colleges. Such generosity occurred within the boundaries of a city beset with a dreadful lack of money. The inevitable finally caught up with CUNY last week when the University, after overpsending its care- fully devised budget, was unable to meet its payroll of 27,000 employes. CUNY went to the city for help, but New York was far from the financial state necessary to save the plagued system. Last Tuesday, the University took a step it had bandied about during New York's fiscal crisis: it instituted tuition, the same as the state system (SUNY)-$750 a year for underclasspeople and $900 for juniors and seniors. And so ended free education in New York. Sadder than the shattering of a 129-year-old tradi- tion is the impact the move will have on the city's college- bound students and both the city and state systems as a whole. The new tuition is simply out of the reach of many working families in blue-collar New York. How- ever, those who can afford to pay the fee might find it preferable to enroll in the comparably-priced and aca- demically superior state system, already the largest of its kind in the nation. Somewhere in the middle are thousands of students who will either be forced to bare a ponderous financial burden for their education or forgo their studies. Ironically, CUNY itself brought about the situation with its own irresponsible fiscal management. It refused to adhere to the streamlined budget mapped out for it. Now, with its survival at stake, those who lose out most are the people of New York, not to mention the whole of higher education. TODAY'S STAFF: News-Susan Ades, Mike Norton, Ken Parsigion, Tim Schick Editorial-Jim Tobin Arts-Jeff Selbst Photo technician-Scott Eccker Schlocked in Greenwich By JEFFREY SELBST (First of two parts) Al.L THE ESOTERIC TYPES were out; the artisans, the partisans, the critics, the creeps - this was The Aesthetic Event of the Year. Or it should have been; after all, with thousands of scantily-clad bodies packing Wash- ington Square Park on Memorial Day, the Green- wich Village art fair ought to have been marvel- ous. Sad, sad, sad. We parked the horseless carriage amid the brownstones on Tenth Street, and walked a circuitous route to the park. Sixth and Fifth Avenues were lined with booths, each repre- senting hours of painstaking work. People were strolling by, the men with gray- ing hair and shirts open resolutely to the chest, exposing a burgher's girth, wearing sandals, and peering intently at the figures, saying, "Good use of reality here" and "'The attempt at juxta- position doesn't quite come off." HEIR WOMEN WERE blonde-by-choice, hal- tered, with sun - leathered faces, grasping their husband's beefy arm in awe, saying "That's deep, Lou - oh God, that's deep." But their eyes are obscured by tinted glasses, and they conceal what they think. We decided to make the day a Quest. A Quest for Aft. God only knew where we were going to find it. In all the stalls, hundreds of them, set up along blocks of streets, we saw acres and miles of the demon Schlock. Yes. Schlock Art has taken over Greenwich Village. Asgwe pursued the elusive Taste, we crossed the park. I was walking with three companions - Laura, a graduate student in social work; her friend Andrea; and a former Daily staffer. Once in the park, we managed to run into Laura's parents (oh yes, New York is a small town), several bad, raunchy folksingers, NYU students playing volleyball, countless old men playing frisbee with faceless children. BUT EVEN THIS had a kind of color to it; bright-hued clothing and black, tan, and pasty-white bodies. Jacks was a popular diver- sion, so was people-watching. Old men and wom- en warming their last moments on benches, gazing intently at the passing parade - no longer participants but avid spectators. The statues have been dropped on by pigeons, but the children and the patch-elbowed pipe- smokers encircled them nevertheless. All were observing, except the few performing. I stared at a man sitting on the edge of a brick wall - he was handsome, but his neck was disfigured by a scar. He watched me, needle-eyed, until I walked by. He had been hurt and was not about to forget. We ventured out into the street again, and it is quiet compared to the jubilant humanity in the park. Past rows of kittenish pictures with gilt frames ("my mother has those in the bath- room," said Andrea), indistinct pastel portraits of Famous Americans ("Jimmy Carter?!" I heard someone squeal. "I thought that was Eleanor Roosevelt!" There is a resemblance, pen-and-ink landscapes ("This is my friend Ed said one Rotary-type to another. "He's got what d'ya say? - promise.") We've just been fantasizing -about living one of the lovely, costly brownstones surroun ing us, crowded neck and neck with the M galleries. The Village hasn't abdicated its PgO tion as a charming place to live. ("But d Jesus," says Lou, "it'll never be what it was His wife shakes her head in sad agreemen "Never," she says, and then pauses. They lit arms. "Remember the days of the McCart blacklist?" she says, and tears come into h eyes.) HE TIME IS drawing to a close. We a to return to the car and brave Seven Avenue, drive back to New Jersey and all th sort of thing. Once again we foray into the park. We ha not forsaken our holy mission. We will fit Art if it kills us. It nearly did. I must state here that I never pushed my way through so many ill-ten pered and ill-mannered people in my who life. The rush becomes more frantic. Past sta after stall, around Village landmarks, the pi tures whipping by my face as the breeze knoi several of them off their easels. "Relax!" sai Laura. "You have to slow down to enjoy it Enjoy it? We had but few minutes left a I was so far, so very far from my goal. Art! My body craved art! Delightful scu tures to tease the eye! Provoking oils! Lissor pastels! And we were lost in the maze of the Villa streets. No matter which way we seemed 1 turn, the streets turned on us, bringing back to the Square, the Washington Square, pat ed with noisy, yelping homo sapiens. THE GAME WAS UP. If there were a ft minutes, too few seconds left to spend, Itt they ought to be spent here. Where all of tI various specimens were thrown together, whe: soaking and rolling in langourous sunshine seer ed the most important thing to do. A brightly-painted black man was plays guitar. He was, I was told, recently arrmc from the Caribbean, and he sang every d in Washington Square Park for whatever I could get. A group slowly formed itself aro him. One by one the NYU students, the mother the older people, all gathered about to see w the noise was. Soon the crowd itself attract a crowd. And the proverbial beatific smile crept acr my face. A middle-aged, T-shirted hard-hat t was smiling on the side, and he walked oi to me. "Pretty good, huh?" he said to me, didn't know what to say, so I agreed. He look at my face and yawned. "Oh, not the sing He's terrible. But dis," and here he way his brawny arm grandly about the cro "dis is art." That was it. Daily Arts Editor Je frey1 Selbst spenI I weekend in New York. Il Q 1foF E 7 -,12 et r F~ecetiefs ec, aF i- ri ' AN #4ptI/NfbSiU OL OHS . r p4 - - Tw~O APP2"