Into the Valley of Death Rode the Six Hundred

The Six Hundred comprise, of course, the Light Brigade. And the poem from which the line is taken is, of course, the Charge of Same.

And although I like a dramatic headline as much as the next guy, it's actually only me and I'm not riding. I'm walking, or will be soon enough, pushing my trusty handtruck, loaded with a rolled-up painting, my folding chair, my promotional materials, some water and other miscellaneous support materials, including a hardback version of "Heat", the cooking memoir that's all the rage but which annoys my friend Chuck--who is both an actual chef and a subject of mine whose portrait you will likely see soon enough.

And my destination isn't the Valley of Death. It's the north side of 22nd Street, west of 10th Avenue, under the High Line.

And, unlike many of the six hundred, I anticipate coming back alive.

For those of you wishing to see the entire poem, click here.

I particularly like the part that goes:

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

I wish I could paint this good.