Christmas is a complicated holiday for me. My family isn't religious. The holiday is a tradition with little meaning.
For reasons I don't understand, my mother has high expectations of what Christmas is supposed to entail. In addition to desired material goods, there is a vision before her about familial happiness that includes a specific setting and script. For example, she wants us to gather around and bake cookies, but to do so in a fabulous house we don't inhabit, while listening to certain music, wearing particular clothes, using exact ingredients, at the moment she wants it done, the way she wants it done, and without any scheduling or instruction.
I suspect a lot of people may carry similar ideas of an ideal holiday in their minds. It is composed of media images that have been generated over decades. Most likely, this ideal is kept in the back of the mind. There isn't anticipation that it will be realized.
My mother packs so much emotional emphasis in this holiday and raises her notions of success for it so high that it inevitably results in unmet expectations and despair. I dread it every year, and especially this year.
It is a conundrum. I don't want to visit my mother at Christmas for this reason but if I don't visit it is very hurtful to her.
Of course, this year, everything is compounded. My very being is a failure in this context. In addition to the usual disappointment that I am unmarried and childless, I have been out of work for nine months. I made gifts for my family members, but they seem inadequate.
In my family, the holiday invites a continual comparison to our extended family. My mother's sisters are significantly better off than my mother in all of the ways that matter to my mother: they have comfortable homes, married children, grandchildren, and ample incomes. This disparity is ever present but never discussed.
Although I appreciate my family's good intentions and concern, it is sometimes humiliating to receive their gifts. One aunt informed me that she continues to give me and my sister gifts because we are the only cousins who remain unmarried. She also asked me not to open her gifts in front of my uncle because she didn't want him to know that she spent money on me.
There usually is a one on one discussion about my mother and sister with my aunts or cousins, and they readily acknowledge that I am not to blame for the behavior of my mother or sister. However, I sense that I am blamed for my current jobless situation. That I insist on living in an expensive city instead of living in the area in which I grew up. That my expectations exceed what I deserve. There is disapproval.
It is painful to be placed in such circumstances. It is stressful to be a charity recipient who is expected to feel grateful for gifts laced with resentment.
I suspect the situation is awkward all around. No one wishes for relations like my mother and sister and now me. It must be irritating to have family that is doing poorly and to feel obligated to help them.
When I consider the religious meaning of the holiday, all of the baggage surrounding it seems absurd. I recall discussing it with my grandfather shortly before he died. He was disappointed by his daughters' emphasis on the material aspects of the holiday. The day after our conversation took place he was expected to travel to a granddaughter's house to watch great-grandchildren open presents and he resented it. All of the wrangling over gifts annoyed him.
During the depression family members exchanged a few gifts if they had money, but the aspect of the holiday they most enjoyed was eating a good meal together. He wished to do away with the presents and just savor the feast.
I quite agree with him.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Constant and Variable
A friend took me to see "In the Next Room (or the vibrator play)," which is set in the late 1800s. Much of the play is about blindness and perception with regard to science, medicine, and social progress. The main characters are two couples, a cold scientist married to an engaging woman who seeks greater intimacy with her husband and a depressed (and possibly lesbian) woman married to a man frustrated by her behavior.
The scientist treats the depressed woman's hysteria with an electronic vibrator to produce a paroxysm (orgasm). The women are inspired to explore their sensuality, but the "rational" men around them seem baffled by the women's "erratic" behavior. All are fairly clueless about female sexuality, but the men are unique in their simultaneous arrogance and ignorance.
At one point in the play, a character marvels about the constancy of electric light compared to flickering candles. Electricity made a treatment available but the condition was misidentified. Ironically, the condition did not require a technical solution. The characters populate a world that has recently become brightly illuminated yet they continue to lack insight.
I suppose in a world that lacked consistent, bright light, the elation about obtaining this technology overshadowed the appeal of other types of light.
Candles are dim and flicker, and these qualities are admirable in certain circumstances. Flickering is comparable to variations or imperfections in paint application, pottery, fabric, wood, brickwork, or plaster. I enjoy flickering as I enjoy the occasional pop or crackle in a vinyl record or nutty grains in bread. I regard flickering as a light texture.
Uniformity is unappealing. I can immediately recognize CGI technology in films because it is too uniform. When it is used within the premise of replicating something real, it fails. Real things are variegated. While I acknowledge the superiority of modern recordings, their slickness invites boredom. The sound of vinyl is richer, as brown bread is richer than white bread.
I recently saw a film in which a character sang about the Moon's phases. He cautioned that a Moon that isn't full only appears partial. The Moon is always complete, it is only our perception of it that makes it appear incomplete.
This sentiment struck me as hopeful. Things often are not what they seem to be. There is an alternative view that may make more sense. Just as, when it is dark, the Moon reminds us that the Sun still shines somewhere else.
The scientist treats the depressed woman's hysteria with an electronic vibrator to produce a paroxysm (orgasm). The women are inspired to explore their sensuality, but the "rational" men around them seem baffled by the women's "erratic" behavior. All are fairly clueless about female sexuality, but the men are unique in their simultaneous arrogance and ignorance.
At one point in the play, a character marvels about the constancy of electric light compared to flickering candles. Electricity made a treatment available but the condition was misidentified. Ironically, the condition did not require a technical solution. The characters populate a world that has recently become brightly illuminated yet they continue to lack insight.
I suppose in a world that lacked consistent, bright light, the elation about obtaining this technology overshadowed the appeal of other types of light.
Candles are dim and flicker, and these qualities are admirable in certain circumstances. Flickering is comparable to variations or imperfections in paint application, pottery, fabric, wood, brickwork, or plaster. I enjoy flickering as I enjoy the occasional pop or crackle in a vinyl record or nutty grains in bread. I regard flickering as a light texture.
Uniformity is unappealing. I can immediately recognize CGI technology in films because it is too uniform. When it is used within the premise of replicating something real, it fails. Real things are variegated. While I acknowledge the superiority of modern recordings, their slickness invites boredom. The sound of vinyl is richer, as brown bread is richer than white bread.
I recently saw a film in which a character sang about the Moon's phases. He cautioned that a Moon that isn't full only appears partial. The Moon is always complete, it is only our perception of it that makes it appear incomplete.
This sentiment struck me as hopeful. Things often are not what they seem to be. There is an alternative view that may make more sense. Just as, when it is dark, the Moon reminds us that the Sun still shines somewhere else.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Dim and Bright Beacons
It may sound pretentious, but I often think about a section in Walden in which Thoreau discusses intentionally becoming lost or losing his beacons. Like Thoreau, I acknowledge the trepidation in this event, but also the benefit. Sometimes I think time is slowly erasing my beacons without my awareness of their disappearance.
I have an artist friend who has become more of an acquaintance over the past few years. She has introduced me to many of her friends. It is slightly ironic that I have strengthened friendships with the several women I met through her while our relationship has waned.
This artist has set an agenda for herself and works diligently. It is clear that she has chosen to pursue her art career rather than friendships. I admire her resolve and do not feel slighted by her decision.
When I hear from her, it is usually through an email about a show in which she is participating. Usually, her shows are located outside of Manhattan and I am working. But this week, she had a show in Nolita.
Yesterday, I met a designer friend to attend her show. He is a lovely person with a unique perspective, and I treasure our conversations.
Unfortunately, there was someone in the gallery who had treated him badly in the past. He did not want to go inside.
I understood his reluctance to see this person. I quickly saw the show and said hello to the artist. It was a very good show, and I would have lingered further under different circumstances. I felt the tug of respecting the decorum of the gallery visit and the needs of my friend.
The designer was hungry. We walked to a pizza place so he could get a slice to go. As we walked, we noticed another art opening that looked promising. He finished his slice outside while I went inside to see whether the work on display was by Chris Roberts-Antieau, an artist I discovered at the American Visionary Arts Museum this summer. It was.
As I stood in front of a piece I admired, I noticed another artist standing behind me. It was Marie Roberts, who is a favorite painter and an acquaintance. It was a pleasant surprise to see her. I introduced her to my friend, who presented her with an "optimism" button that she really liked.
The designer and I wandered into a couple more galleries before heading home. He confessed to me that he is in a relationship, and I am delighted on his behalf. He is a wonderful person who deserves a good partner.
It is interesting how events can wend over years or an evening. It was a night of thwarted intentions and welcome unintended events.
I have an artist friend who has become more of an acquaintance over the past few years. She has introduced me to many of her friends. It is slightly ironic that I have strengthened friendships with the several women I met through her while our relationship has waned.
This artist has set an agenda for herself and works diligently. It is clear that she has chosen to pursue her art career rather than friendships. I admire her resolve and do not feel slighted by her decision.
When I hear from her, it is usually through an email about a show in which she is participating. Usually, her shows are located outside of Manhattan and I am working. But this week, she had a show in Nolita.
Yesterday, I met a designer friend to attend her show. He is a lovely person with a unique perspective, and I treasure our conversations.
Unfortunately, there was someone in the gallery who had treated him badly in the past. He did not want to go inside.
I understood his reluctance to see this person. I quickly saw the show and said hello to the artist. It was a very good show, and I would have lingered further under different circumstances. I felt the tug of respecting the decorum of the gallery visit and the needs of my friend.
The designer was hungry. We walked to a pizza place so he could get a slice to go. As we walked, we noticed another art opening that looked promising. He finished his slice outside while I went inside to see whether the work on display was by Chris Roberts-Antieau, an artist I discovered at the American Visionary Arts Museum this summer. It was.
As I stood in front of a piece I admired, I noticed another artist standing behind me. It was Marie Roberts, who is a favorite painter and an acquaintance. It was a pleasant surprise to see her. I introduced her to my friend, who presented her with an "optimism" button that she really liked.
The designer and I wandered into a couple more galleries before heading home. He confessed to me that he is in a relationship, and I am delighted on his behalf. He is a wonderful person who deserves a good partner.
It is interesting how events can wend over years or an evening. It was a night of thwarted intentions and welcome unintended events.
Monday, November 2, 2009
What Happened Was
A Rube Goldberg, mid-life version of losing my retainer:
A nail slid out of the wall.
The "Don't be Bitter Use More Glitter" picture fell on the dish holding the retainer case.
The dish flipped into the sink.
The retainer case bounced and flew across the room.
The case opened and part of it fell into the toilet and part of it fell on the floor.
At least I didn't have to go through all of the trash in the lunch room to find it. Nor did I have to endure a lecture from angry parents.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
In the Moment
When I first moved to New York, I made an effort to go to the Greenwich Village Halloween Parade. As New Yorkers had warned me, it was crowded and I didn't see much.
This year I decided to participate in the 36th parade as a dancer in the Thrill the World group. I convinced a friend to join me. We attended a few cold, night practices in Central Park.
It was fun in an odd way to meet a group of strangers at the dimly illuminated bandshell and practice a dance for 2 hours. I'm generally nervous about being in the park in the dark, but my friend accompanied me and the park looked beautiful with the light orange trees glowing in lamp light. Several cyclists, homeless people, couples, and dog walkers would stop to observe us dance.
On Halloween, it was unseasonably warm. For once, my costume wasn't covered with a jacket.
We found our group in the line up by Ghost D and practiced a few times. It was the first time I had seen my fellow dancers in daylight. We were a diverse crowd: Asians, Latinos, Caucasians, African Americans, students, workers, job seekers, retirees, dancers, amateur dancers, middle class, working class, and poor. It is heartening that very different strangers came together to pursue a shared interest.
When we started dancing, I got warm. They sky was cloudy and rain threatened. The air was misty as we embarked on the parade route. The damp felt cool. I started to hope it would rain.
I was surprised by the crush of the crowd. Parade participants walked through our group without knowing we were about to start a dance routine. It was very distracting. I missed steps because I was afraid of hitting someone by accident. We started to warn people to move away, but too many were too obnoxious or drunk to comply.
I was not expecting this interruption. I've participated in the Mermaid Parade for years, and the volunteers in that parade prevent observers from walking in the parade route. It really angered me that I could barely do what I was there to do because crowd control was so weak.
That said, the crowd liked our group once they realized it was a dance performance. It is interesting how people respond uniformly to things. There was a backward step that always got them cheering.
As we made our way down 6th Avenue, the rain got heavier and heavier and the crush of paraders waned. By the time we made it to 21st Street, the situation resembled what I imagined it would be. We had plenty of room to perform the routine.
I was soaking wet, but didn't care. I felt fantastic. The rain cooled me and I had enough space to dance well.
We were directed down 21st Street as a downpour began. Instead of running for shelter, almost everyone in the group stretched their arms out and ran down the street screaming.
It is unusual that a group shared this spontaneous gesture in the same moment. I wonder what it is about us that led to this unchoreographed, synchronized response to the deluge.
This year I decided to participate in the 36th parade as a dancer in the Thrill the World group. I convinced a friend to join me. We attended a few cold, night practices in Central Park.
It was fun in an odd way to meet a group of strangers at the dimly illuminated bandshell and practice a dance for 2 hours. I'm generally nervous about being in the park in the dark, but my friend accompanied me and the park looked beautiful with the light orange trees glowing in lamp light. Several cyclists, homeless people, couples, and dog walkers would stop to observe us dance.
On Halloween, it was unseasonably warm. For once, my costume wasn't covered with a jacket.
We found our group in the line up by Ghost D and practiced a few times. It was the first time I had seen my fellow dancers in daylight. We were a diverse crowd: Asians, Latinos, Caucasians, African Americans, students, workers, job seekers, retirees, dancers, amateur dancers, middle class, working class, and poor. It is heartening that very different strangers came together to pursue a shared interest.
When we started dancing, I got warm. They sky was cloudy and rain threatened. The air was misty as we embarked on the parade route. The damp felt cool. I started to hope it would rain.
I was surprised by the crush of the crowd. Parade participants walked through our group without knowing we were about to start a dance routine. It was very distracting. I missed steps because I was afraid of hitting someone by accident. We started to warn people to move away, but too many were too obnoxious or drunk to comply.
I was not expecting this interruption. I've participated in the Mermaid Parade for years, and the volunteers in that parade prevent observers from walking in the parade route. It really angered me that I could barely do what I was there to do because crowd control was so weak.
That said, the crowd liked our group once they realized it was a dance performance. It is interesting how people respond uniformly to things. There was a backward step that always got them cheering.
As we made our way down 6th Avenue, the rain got heavier and heavier and the crush of paraders waned. By the time we made it to 21st Street, the situation resembled what I imagined it would be. We had plenty of room to perform the routine.
I was soaking wet, but didn't care. I felt fantastic. The rain cooled me and I had enough space to dance well.
We were directed down 21st Street as a downpour began. Instead of running for shelter, almost everyone in the group stretched their arms out and ran down the street screaming.
It is unusual that a group shared this spontaneous gesture in the same moment. I wonder what it is about us that led to this unchoreographed, synchronized response to the deluge.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
New York Random
Clearly, I am at risk of too much navel gazing, which is another good reason for me to be in New York. There are so many people about, one can't help but focus on them.
Today I passed an angry homeless man dressed in all white. He shouted at an invisible adversary, "And another thing, greaseball, just look in the toilet bowl and you'll see what your mother looks like!"
A few blocks away I encountered two butch men in plaid shirts intensely arguing with each other. Finally one shoved something in the shirt pocket of the other and walked away. Bracing for fisticuffs, I gave them a wide berth. As I walked past I heard the one who walked away say in an angry voice to his companion, "What kinda sandwich do ya want?"
Moments later, I crossed 8th Avenue and brushed passed one of the Olsen twins.
Today I passed an angry homeless man dressed in all white. He shouted at an invisible adversary, "And another thing, greaseball, just look in the toilet bowl and you'll see what your mother looks like!"
A few blocks away I encountered two butch men in plaid shirts intensely arguing with each other. Finally one shoved something in the shirt pocket of the other and walked away. Bracing for fisticuffs, I gave them a wide berth. As I walked past I heard the one who walked away say in an angry voice to his companion, "What kinda sandwich do ya want?"
Moments later, I crossed 8th Avenue and brushed passed one of the Olsen twins.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Presidential Patience
There were many police officers and barricades along 8th Avenue last night. The President is in town, and the city was preparing for his arrival at the New Yorker Hotel.
I waited on 36th Street as a police officer directed traffic. His instructions opposed the commands of the traffic lights. There was a large mass of about 30 pedestrians on each corner waiting to cross the street.
As he halted the motor traffic, he paused and faced the throngs.
"Thank you for your New York-style patience!"
I appreciate an understanding cop.
I waited on 36th Street as a police officer directed traffic. His instructions opposed the commands of the traffic lights. There was a large mass of about 30 pedestrians on each corner waiting to cross the street.
As he halted the motor traffic, he paused and faced the throngs.
"Thank you for your New York-style patience!"
I appreciate an understanding cop.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Pigeon Protocol
A pigeon died outside of my bed room window. I saw it ailing on the sill and wondered whether it would die in that place four stories above the ground.
It did.
I put on rubber gloves, scooped the lifeless body into a plastic bag, walked down four flights of stairs, and put it in the trash dumpster.
For a moment, I wondered whether this was the proper way to dispose of a dead pigeon.
What is the right way to proceed when a bird dies on your window sill?
Animal control would laugh if I called and asked them to remove the dead bird. The Super would probably do the same.
After closing the lid to the building's trash, I recalled that Picasso sketched dead pigeons when he was a young boy. Perhaps I should have sketched the bird.
I missed my chance.
It did.
I put on rubber gloves, scooped the lifeless body into a plastic bag, walked down four flights of stairs, and put it in the trash dumpster.
For a moment, I wondered whether this was the proper way to dispose of a dead pigeon.
What is the right way to proceed when a bird dies on your window sill?
Animal control would laugh if I called and asked them to remove the dead bird. The Super would probably do the same.
After closing the lid to the building's trash, I recalled that Picasso sketched dead pigeons when he was a young boy. Perhaps I should have sketched the bird.
I missed my chance.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Shifting Prayers
Spirituality is a concept I grapple with. I wasn't raised within a religious household, so superstition is about as close as I come to following a religion or acknowledging some kind of force in the universe.
I tend to be superstitious (don't step on cracks), yet I know that superstition isn't likely to work (most mother backs are unbroken).
I consider performing the superstitious acts (blowing out the birthday candles and making a wish) a method to be more thoughtful or to help put aside concerns temporarily.
I suspect that all of the things that are too complex to know (the future, why are we here) are just lumped together in spirituality. People pray for things to happen because often there are too many variables out of their control. Even billionaires lose elections from time to time.
Years ago, I had spiritual friends who chastised me for not praying. They argued that I needed to say aloud what I wanted to happen.
The process of praying made sense to me, if only as a means of articulating desires clearly. By naming a desired future event, perhaps I would formulate a better plan for achieving it.
That said, instead of articulating a Utopian vision, I usually pray by asking for the tools I need to handle the struggle of life: strength, resolve, and love.
As I requested these things once again last night, I wondered whether my requests had invited the tests I have endured this year.
It is unlikely that the requests in my prayers matter, but perhaps I should pray for something else. Perhaps I should reformulate my prayers into more positive visions of the future. Just in case it does matter.
I tend to be superstitious (don't step on cracks), yet I know that superstition isn't likely to work (most mother backs are unbroken).
I consider performing the superstitious acts (blowing out the birthday candles and making a wish) a method to be more thoughtful or to help put aside concerns temporarily.
I suspect that all of the things that are too complex to know (the future, why are we here) are just lumped together in spirituality. People pray for things to happen because often there are too many variables out of their control. Even billionaires lose elections from time to time.
Years ago, I had spiritual friends who chastised me for not praying. They argued that I needed to say aloud what I wanted to happen.
The process of praying made sense to me, if only as a means of articulating desires clearly. By naming a desired future event, perhaps I would formulate a better plan for achieving it.
That said, instead of articulating a Utopian vision, I usually pray by asking for the tools I need to handle the struggle of life: strength, resolve, and love.
As I requested these things once again last night, I wondered whether my requests had invited the tests I have endured this year.
It is unlikely that the requests in my prayers matter, but perhaps I should pray for something else. Perhaps I should reformulate my prayers into more positive visions of the future. Just in case it does matter.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
The Possibilities
As I passed P.S. 11 today I looked at kids playing games on the playground and pondered all of the potential they represented. There are so many different possible outcomes for the many choices they will make in years to come. They face more choices now than they will face decades from now. It seems as if they are close to a peak of potential.
Then I thought about how potential gets whittled away as people age. One can try to influence certain outcomes, and sometimes reach a goal and sometimes not get what one strives to attain. Eventually, certain milestones are met and the possibility for reaching additional milestones narrows.
Possibility is intangible, yet exciting in a way that other intangibles are not. I would like to think that potential continues to emerge as people grow. Perhaps I have failed to recognize it.
I'm having surgery within the month to address a gynecological problem that can no longer be addressed with medication. It is complicated to have surgery now that I take blood thinners. There is a risk that I will lose too much blood.
After assessing the situation, my surgeon presented two scenarios. I can take the risk of going off of the blood thinners and have the standard surgery or I can have an alternative surgery while on blood thinners that is likely to decrease my fertility.
Although it is unlikely that I will have a child, I just couldn't intentionally further reduce the possibility of having one. I've decided to have the standard surgery with the bleeding risk.
Ironically, this situation leads me to recall a remark by a college professor that some environmentalists have virgin complexes. Sometimes I wonder whether my preservation of potential is similar. Do I stymie progress by attempting to maximize options?
Then I thought about how potential gets whittled away as people age. One can try to influence certain outcomes, and sometimes reach a goal and sometimes not get what one strives to attain. Eventually, certain milestones are met and the possibility for reaching additional milestones narrows.
Possibility is intangible, yet exciting in a way that other intangibles are not. I would like to think that potential continues to emerge as people grow. Perhaps I have failed to recognize it.
I'm having surgery within the month to address a gynecological problem that can no longer be addressed with medication. It is complicated to have surgery now that I take blood thinners. There is a risk that I will lose too much blood.
After assessing the situation, my surgeon presented two scenarios. I can take the risk of going off of the blood thinners and have the standard surgery or I can have an alternative surgery while on blood thinners that is likely to decrease my fertility.
Although it is unlikely that I will have a child, I just couldn't intentionally further reduce the possibility of having one. I've decided to have the standard surgery with the bleeding risk.
Ironically, this situation leads me to recall a remark by a college professor that some environmentalists have virgin complexes. Sometimes I wonder whether my preservation of potential is similar. Do I stymie progress by attempting to maximize options?
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Facing the Impossible
Tonight a friend took me to an ACLU/PEN sponsored event in which authors read aloud from formerly classified documents related to US interrogation policy.
It was strange to hear someone read aloud a first person account of torture, and then clap at the conclusion of the reading.
During the evening, the photographs of Abu Ghraib were mentioned several times. This led me to recall the photograph of someone carrying to a Congressional meeting a briefcase containing classified Abu Ghraib photos.
This image intrigues me for several reasons. First, the image alone isn't compelling. It is the knowledge that the briefcase contains the forbidden photographs that makes the image compelling.
Second, the person holding the briefcase of photographs is being pursued by the paparazzi. There is some kind of Russian nesting doll effect at work in a photograph of someone holding a case of photographs who is being pursued by photographers.
Third, the briefcase of undisclosed photographs are fairly close to a manifestation of Pandora's Box. To this day, it has not been disclosed what was photographed. One can assume atrocities are recorded because the images are classified.
These pictures represent a sinister form of potential. Those who have not seen them can project their worst fears on the photographs. They are a repository of people's notions about the worst human behavior.
The briefcase of photos also leads me to ponder items that aren't represented in art. There was a time when Buddha was shown by depicting a footprint or empty throne. Images of Allah are prohibited in Islamic tradition. In the play "Art," a blank canvass is the prop used to represent the controversial painting. A mysterious glowing suitcase is central to the plot of "Pulp Fiction." The contents are not revealed.
I suppose all of these examples are versions of a visual didactic. The missing image facilitates the creation of an image within the viewer.
I wonder what conjured images of the classified Abu Ghraib photos would say about people. Are those who think the very worst more realistic, sadistic, or negative? Are those who have a lighter sense of violence more optimistic, naive, or patriotic?
Its strange that imagining the infernal can be just as difficult as conjuring the sublime.
It was strange to hear someone read aloud a first person account of torture, and then clap at the conclusion of the reading.
During the evening, the photographs of Abu Ghraib were mentioned several times. This led me to recall the photograph of someone carrying to a Congressional meeting a briefcase containing classified Abu Ghraib photos.
This image intrigues me for several reasons. First, the image alone isn't compelling. It is the knowledge that the briefcase contains the forbidden photographs that makes the image compelling.
Second, the person holding the briefcase of photographs is being pursued by the paparazzi. There is some kind of Russian nesting doll effect at work in a photograph of someone holding a case of photographs who is being pursued by photographers.
Third, the briefcase of undisclosed photographs are fairly close to a manifestation of Pandora's Box. To this day, it has not been disclosed what was photographed. One can assume atrocities are recorded because the images are classified.
These pictures represent a sinister form of potential. Those who have not seen them can project their worst fears on the photographs. They are a repository of people's notions about the worst human behavior.
The briefcase of photos also leads me to ponder items that aren't represented in art. There was a time when Buddha was shown by depicting a footprint or empty throne. Images of Allah are prohibited in Islamic tradition. In the play "Art," a blank canvass is the prop used to represent the controversial painting. A mysterious glowing suitcase is central to the plot of "Pulp Fiction." The contents are not revealed.
I suppose all of these examples are versions of a visual didactic. The missing image facilitates the creation of an image within the viewer.
I wonder what conjured images of the classified Abu Ghraib photos would say about people. Are those who think the very worst more realistic, sadistic, or negative? Are those who have a lighter sense of violence more optimistic, naive, or patriotic?
Its strange that imagining the infernal can be just as difficult as conjuring the sublime.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Something To Look Forward To
As unemployment drags on, I battle feelings of despair. For one who lives alone, the loss of a work environment is isolating. It is difficult to entertain in small apartments, so many New Yorkers meet in public places.
Generally, I see my friends over drinks, a meal, or at an event. Now that I cannot afford drinks, meals, or event tickets, the opportunity to mingle with friends has diminished.
Since many of my friends are unemployed or retrenching, we attempt to meet by doing things that are free or inexpensive, such as going to the park or visiting a museum (with free admission).
I recognize the importance of socializing to battle depression, and I have made an effort to find affordable ways to spend time with my friends.
Though a friend's Face Book post I learned about a group that is attempting to break the world's record for the most people dancing the same dance simultaneously. The group, Thrill the World, has organized the choreography to Thriller in easy to understand steps and they are holding free dance lessons weekly in New York City.
The fifth grader in me is super excited to break a world's record. The present me is glad to have free dance classes that I can take with friends.
These dates on my social calendar help structure my time and give me something to look forward to.
And I made a new friend who has signed me up to be a volunteer for the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. This is something I have always wanted to do!
Now I am looking forward to free Thriller dance classes, the record-breaking event, performing in the Halloween Parade, and volunteering in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.
Generally, I see my friends over drinks, a meal, or at an event. Now that I cannot afford drinks, meals, or event tickets, the opportunity to mingle with friends has diminished.
Since many of my friends are unemployed or retrenching, we attempt to meet by doing things that are free or inexpensive, such as going to the park or visiting a museum (with free admission).
I recognize the importance of socializing to battle depression, and I have made an effort to find affordable ways to spend time with my friends.
Though a friend's Face Book post I learned about a group that is attempting to break the world's record for the most people dancing the same dance simultaneously. The group, Thrill the World, has organized the choreography to Thriller in easy to understand steps and they are holding free dance lessons weekly in New York City.
The fifth grader in me is super excited to break a world's record. The present me is glad to have free dance classes that I can take with friends.
These dates on my social calendar help structure my time and give me something to look forward to.
And I made a new friend who has signed me up to be a volunteer for the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. This is something I have always wanted to do!
Now I am looking forward to free Thriller dance classes, the record-breaking event, performing in the Halloween Parade, and volunteering in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Dance Treats
A friend at City Center helped me obtain a slew of tickets for the annual Fall for Dance festival this year. Since tickets are only $10 and I am unlikely to be able to indulge in tickets for any event for so little, I splurged and got tickets to four performances over two weeks.
It was such a pleasure to connect with different friends every few nights. I am fortunate to have this connection, and I enjoy sharing my fortune with friends. It was a treat to get out and to have an occasion to attend. It felt good to do something I did as an employed person who could afford to engage more in the world.
It is the centennial anniversary of the Ballets Russes, a company that has long intrigued me. To mark the celebration, many dances originally produced by the Ballet Russes were performed during the festival (Afternoon of a Faun, Noces, Petrushka Suite, Les Biches).
Ballet Russes has often emerged in readings about some of my favorite painters, film makers, and writers. Matisse, Picasso, Derain, Miro, Cocteau, Dali, and Chanel are among the luminaries who designed the company's sets and costumes. I vaguely recall seeing scratchy old film footage of Nijinsky performing Afternoon of a Faun and hearing about the riot sparked by the premier of Rite of Spring. Ballet Russes is one of my favorite documentary films.
I had often wished to see what their productions were like, so the program was a special pleasure for me.
Boston Ballet's "Afternoon of a Faun" was a faithful recreation of the original production. The expressionist set design was gorgeous. The dance style, inspired by Greek vase paintings, appears stilted and quaint now, but one can appreciate it in context.
Les Grand Ballets Canadiens de Montreal's "Noces" was a reinterpretation. The original piece highlighted traditional Russian folk dancing at a peasant wedding. Apparently, it was a wedding themed ballet without romance. It is difficult to comment on the new piece without having seen the original. The new piece also includes the wedding party and there is interaction among the sexes, but they are presented in zombie-like attire that drains them of sensuality. The piece emphasizes the roles of men and women attending a social event devoted to honoring the union of a man and woman.
Ballet West performed "Les Biches" with a set based on paintings by Matisse. The set and costumes were consistent with those that would be used when the ballet originally was produced. The male costumes included bathing briefs worn with socks, which made me laugh out loud. The flapper character wore long beads and held a long cigarette holder. I loved that her movements were accompanied by swinging and clanking jewelry. It was also funny to see an athlete perform complicated moves while holding a cigarette.
Of course their were many other performances, and among the best was Savion Glover and the Others. They were simply amazing. I love it when dancers perform to live music with the musicians on stage. It was exceptional to see the dancers and musicians perform in concert as the taps of the dancer were an integral part of the music.
Other notable performances were Batsheva's "B/olero," Tangueros Del Sur's "Romper el Piso" (such drama!), Morphoses/The Wheeldon Company's "Softly as I Leave You" (how could a plywood box look so beautiful?), Monica Bill Barnes & Company "I Feel Like," and Dancebrazil "Culture in Motion."
It was such a pleasure to connect with different friends every few nights. I am fortunate to have this connection, and I enjoy sharing my fortune with friends. It was a treat to get out and to have an occasion to attend. It felt good to do something I did as an employed person who could afford to engage more in the world.
It is the centennial anniversary of the Ballets Russes, a company that has long intrigued me. To mark the celebration, many dances originally produced by the Ballet Russes were performed during the festival (Afternoon of a Faun, Noces, Petrushka Suite, Les Biches).
Ballet Russes has often emerged in readings about some of my favorite painters, film makers, and writers. Matisse, Picasso, Derain, Miro, Cocteau, Dali, and Chanel are among the luminaries who designed the company's sets and costumes. I vaguely recall seeing scratchy old film footage of Nijinsky performing Afternoon of a Faun and hearing about the riot sparked by the premier of Rite of Spring. Ballet Russes is one of my favorite documentary films.
I had often wished to see what their productions were like, so the program was a special pleasure for me.
Boston Ballet's "Afternoon of a Faun" was a faithful recreation of the original production. The expressionist set design was gorgeous. The dance style, inspired by Greek vase paintings, appears stilted and quaint now, but one can appreciate it in context.
Les Grand Ballets Canadiens de Montreal's "Noces" was a reinterpretation. The original piece highlighted traditional Russian folk dancing at a peasant wedding. Apparently, it was a wedding themed ballet without romance. It is difficult to comment on the new piece without having seen the original. The new piece also includes the wedding party and there is interaction among the sexes, but they are presented in zombie-like attire that drains them of sensuality. The piece emphasizes the roles of men and women attending a social event devoted to honoring the union of a man and woman.
Ballet West performed "Les Biches" with a set based on paintings by Matisse. The set and costumes were consistent with those that would be used when the ballet originally was produced. The male costumes included bathing briefs worn with socks, which made me laugh out loud. The flapper character wore long beads and held a long cigarette holder. I loved that her movements were accompanied by swinging and clanking jewelry. It was also funny to see an athlete perform complicated moves while holding a cigarette.
Of course their were many other performances, and among the best was Savion Glover and the Others. They were simply amazing. I love it when dancers perform to live music with the musicians on stage. It was exceptional to see the dancers and musicians perform in concert as the taps of the dancer were an integral part of the music.
Other notable performances were Batsheva's "B/olero," Tangueros Del Sur's "Romper el Piso" (such drama!), Morphoses/The Wheeldon Company's "Softly as I Leave You" (how could a plywood box look so beautiful?), Monica Bill Barnes & Company "I Feel Like," and Dancebrazil "Culture in Motion."
Monday, September 28, 2009
Lost Moment
Last night my niece and I rushed down 56th Street to meet a designer friend at City Center for the Fall for Dance festival. Our meal ended later than anticipated, and I was concerned that I was late and that my waiting friend would be worried.
We passed two unusual ballet dancers smoking cigarettes outside of City Center's office door. These were tall men wearing full drag make-up, their hair in buns (with flowers), tutus, and point shoes.
Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo was on the program that night, so I figured they were members of the troupe.
Once I met my friend inside, I realized my camera was in my purse. My niece was visiting from Boston to see the performance. She has studied dance for many years, and attends a special arts school.
I will forever kick myself for not taking a photograph of my niece with the unusual ballerinas!
We passed two unusual ballet dancers smoking cigarettes outside of City Center's office door. These were tall men wearing full drag make-up, their hair in buns (with flowers), tutus, and point shoes.
Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo was on the program that night, so I figured they were members of the troupe.
Once I met my friend inside, I realized my camera was in my purse. My niece was visiting from Boston to see the performance. She has studied dance for many years, and attends a special arts school.
I will forever kick myself for not taking a photograph of my niece with the unusual ballerinas!
Friday, September 25, 2009
Ironing Boards
One of the lovely qualities of the Fall for Dance festival is the opportunity for someone relatively unfamiliar with dance to gain some expertise through exposure to many companies and types of dance within a short time frame.
As I watch all of these amazing athletes move in ways that would be impossible for my body, I study the composition of their bodies. What does a body have to look like to hold such potential movement?
The dancers are also quite young, and many of them are very attractive.
These attractive young men and women have model bodies. They don't have an ounce of fat on them, and every muscle group is in perfect working order.
Most of the ballerinas are flat chested.
I have been a dupe of the fashion and beauty industry most of my life. I finally grasped the extend to which models and actresses were digitally altered upon reviewing a friend's photography portfolio recently.
As I sat in the audience at City Center observing all of these model thin bodies with proportionate chests, I was stunned to realize the large proportion of female models and actresses who must have had breast augmentation surgery.
I recalled a line by Steve Martin comparing the silhouette of women in Los Angeles to ironing boards with bowling balls.
Of course I've known all along that the female ideal impressed upon US women is anything but normal. But it was a revelation to watch the tiny percent of young women who have actually obtained the nearly impossible body American women are led to strive for, and observe that surgery would be required to give even this elite group the so-called ideal form.
As I watch all of these amazing athletes move in ways that would be impossible for my body, I study the composition of their bodies. What does a body have to look like to hold such potential movement?
The dancers are also quite young, and many of them are very attractive.
These attractive young men and women have model bodies. They don't have an ounce of fat on them, and every muscle group is in perfect working order.
Most of the ballerinas are flat chested.
I have been a dupe of the fashion and beauty industry most of my life. I finally grasped the extend to which models and actresses were digitally altered upon reviewing a friend's photography portfolio recently.
As I sat in the audience at City Center observing all of these model thin bodies with proportionate chests, I was stunned to realize the large proportion of female models and actresses who must have had breast augmentation surgery.
I recalled a line by Steve Martin comparing the silhouette of women in Los Angeles to ironing boards with bowling balls.
Of course I've known all along that the female ideal impressed upon US women is anything but normal. But it was a revelation to watch the tiny percent of young women who have actually obtained the nearly impossible body American women are led to strive for, and observe that surgery would be required to give even this elite group the so-called ideal form.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Go Before You Go
As a child, I resented the suggestion that I use the bathroom before leaving the house. After all, the only place without a facility would be the car. If the need arose, I could control it until a bathroom was available.
As a New Yorker, I religiously follow the childhood advice before leaving the apartment. There are very few public toilets in New York, and many of them are unpleasant.
Today I went to the Upper East Side to attend a dance class in Central Park. It takes about an hour to get there.
Although I had a "preemptive pee," I needed a bathroom by the time I approached Central Park.
In general, Starbucks are the most reliable public bathrooms in New York. I walked up Madison from 68 to 74 hoping to find a Starbucks. Instead I passed stores unlikely to share their facilities with me, such as Tom Ford, Ralph Lauren, Prada, Dior, and Dolche & Gabbana.
Finally, I noticed a Christian Science reading room. It seemed like a long shot, but it worked.
Once the emergency had passed and I was washing my hands, it amused me to note that there was no reading material in the bathroom of the Christian Science reading room.
They are missing an opportunity for an unusual marketing program.
As a New Yorker, I religiously follow the childhood advice before leaving the apartment. There are very few public toilets in New York, and many of them are unpleasant.
Today I went to the Upper East Side to attend a dance class in Central Park. It takes about an hour to get there.
Although I had a "preemptive pee," I needed a bathroom by the time I approached Central Park.
In general, Starbucks are the most reliable public bathrooms in New York. I walked up Madison from 68 to 74 hoping to find a Starbucks. Instead I passed stores unlikely to share their facilities with me, such as Tom Ford, Ralph Lauren, Prada, Dior, and Dolche & Gabbana.
Finally, I noticed a Christian Science reading room. It seemed like a long shot, but it worked.
Once the emergency had passed and I was washing my hands, it amused me to note that there was no reading material in the bathroom of the Christian Science reading room.
They are missing an opportunity for an unusual marketing program.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
A New Appreciation II
Nearly a week after our Met touch tour, my blind friend and I took a touch tour of the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA).MoMA organized the tour on a day when the museum is closed to the public. We were accompanied by our guide (Paula), an observer from Spain who is a museum specialist (Lorda), and a museum guard who did not introduce himself.
Paula has a disability, and she and my friend quickly shared an understanding about their differences.
The tour began in the outdoor sculpture garden. We put on very thin gloves and began feeling a series of reliefs by Matisse which depict a woman's back. The reliefs are arranged in order chronologically. The first sculpture was completed in 1909 and the last one was made in 1931. My friend identified the various body parts and compared them from sculpture to sculpture. He noticed that the features changed dramatically in the later works. As the features became more abstract, he had difficulty identifying them as body parts.
This difficulty with abstract sculpture extended to pieces by Picasso and Boccioni. My friend could feel the features of a goat in Picasso's "She Goat" but he didn't appreciate the artist's use of mixed materials. The unusual components interfered with his understanding of the whole form.
He had a better experience with Giacometti's works. The texture of "Standing Woman" was unusual, but the form was easily recognizable.
Lorda pointed out that Giacometti was influenced by Egyptian art, and indicated that the feet were handled in a manner similar to ancient sculptures. Since we had recently taken a touch tour of the Met's Egyptian wing, my friend was able to compare the use of negative space in Giacometti's piece to the ancient Egyptian sculptures. He could also sense compositional similarities in the works.
While it was sometimes difficult to know what the artist tried to depict by feeling shapes, my friend had an uncanny ability to sense the composition of material. He could tell from one touch that a Barnett Newman sculpture was weathered and rusted.
Franz West's sculptures were probably the abstract pieces with the most appeal to my friend. He and I both taught kindergarten. When Paula and I described the works by comparing them to brightly colored bent pipe cleaners, my friend's face became animated. He could easily picture the pieces in his mind. As he stood inside an orange sculpture composed of rounded bands, he surprised us by declaring that he felt as if he were inside of a pumpkin. The word does resemble a pumpkin.
My friend also enjoyed Giacometti's sculpture "Hands Holding the Void." The features were more easily recognizable to him. Even an unusual feature, such as a face composed of an African mask, was discerned readily.
We talked about what the hands may have held. He and Lordes compared the composition to depictions of the Virgin Mary. Perhaps the hands held an infant Jesus who was not shown.
In the context of our project, the most striking feature of the sculpture was the similarity between its hands and those of my friend. Both appeared to be exploring space in an effort to gain greater understanding.
Friday, September 4, 2009
A New Appreciation I
I read about touch tours at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and Museum of Modern Art over a year ago, and wanted to schedule them for a dear friend who went completely blind in 2006. The tours take place during working hours on week days and must be planned weeks in advance.
When I became unemployed, I decided to take the opportunity to finally arrange these tours.
My blind friend has struggled to regain his bearings in the world. He has a wonderful spirit, and perceives his disability as a way of engaging with the world in a new way. His attempts to navigate this altered existence are inspirational.
We had a touch tour of the Met first. Our guide, Pam, began by taking us to the new Greek and Roman galleries. My friend visited the Met when he was sighted, but had not seen the new galleries. Pam directed him to the atrium where he could feel the warmth of sun streaming through the skylight. My friend recalled that the space had formerly been a restaurant, and the guide and I described how it changed.
My friend had visited Pompeii while sighted. In fact, we discussed it a lot when I visited Naples several years ago. With this in mind, I began to describe the new gallery by drawing on his knowledge of the mosaics and architecture of Pompeii. It helped to have this visual baseline to depict through comparison a picture of something he has not yet seen.
My friend's expression changed when I told him the black and white mosaic floors were similar to the Cave Canem mosaic. He said he could picture the dog mosaic in his mind. I explained that the type of tiles used in the new gallery were almost the same as those used in the Pompeii mosaic.
We discussed the layout of the room by comparing it to the atriums he saw in Pompeii. He nodded as he recalled the skylight, impluvium (pool to collect rainwater), and columns supporting the roof. The comparison helped him envision the new space. The warm sunlight and fountain under the skylight also supported his understanding.
We then went to the Egyptian wing to begin the tour in earnest. My friend felt stone sarcophagi and statues. He enjoyed feeling the pieces because it was a new way of experiencing the art. This was a museum experience he was denied as a sighted person.
He was encouraged to first feel around the whole piece to get a sense of its scale. It also set boundaries for what was part of the artwork and what was not. Sometimes he would feel a part of a pedestal and think it was incorporated in the art.
Then, he would feel the artwork's details. Sometimes he could figure out what they were intended to show, but he often needed descriptions to clarify what he was touching. For example, he could tell the was touching the eye of Hatsheput but he didn't know that the line he touched was a depiction of her eyeliner.
Often I was made aware of details about the items he touched by hearing the questions he posed and Pam's responses. I hadn't noticed that the line he touched was eyeliner rather than the rim of the eye.
As he felt a statue of Sakhmet we had a conversation about the ancient Egyptian's depiction of negative space. Ancient sculptors had not yet figured out a way to carve stones with projecting parts (such as outstretched arms or legs). Instead, the artists recessed the stone to keep prominent arms and legs in semi-relief. My friend was able to feel this depiction of negative space. It was a revelation for him.
Several of the pieces had been repaired over the years. My friend was able to quickly discern the differences in original and restorative materials. This was a distinction that was more difficult to see than to feel.
Once the touch tour was over, we returned to the Greek and Roman galleries. He asked me to describe the Etruscan chariot to him. He had seen it long ago.
Describing the piece aloud was a task that forced me to notice the art in greater detail. As I spoke, I saw for the first time strange compositional elements and decorative repetitions within different scenes on the chariot.
The touch tour's emphasis on details made me realize how much I overlook. I am not taking full advantage of my eyesight because I filter out much of what I see.
My friend and I left the museum shortly after the chariot description. He said it was depressing to hear about art he used to see. It was only fun to be in the museum experiencing something new.
We went for a walk in Central Park and happened to pass the boathouse.
I mentioned to my friend that I had always wanted to go boating in Central Park, but had not done so.
We were in a boat within an half hour. The staff at the boathouse could not have b
een more kind and upbeat about accommodating my friend and his guide dog.It was a beautiful, early fall day. The lake was full of boaters.
At first I rowed because it was difficult to navigate around the many boaters. Once we reached a less crowded area, my friend took the oars. I navigated by tapping his hands to indicate which oar to row.
It was his first time rowing a boat since losing his sight. It was my first time boating in Central Park. We were both delighted to be there doing something new.
There are many ways to explore the world.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Underpinnings
Years ago I purchased a book titled, The History of Underclothes. It isn't prominently displayed in my bookcase, but people notice it nonetheless.The book isn't as exciting as the subject matter may suggest. I didn't make it past page 60.
Over the weekend I went to an exhibit about underclothes at the Merchant's House Museum. My former burlesque teacher had posted a link to the exhibit on Face Book. She hinted that it was sensational, and I was intrigued. Through Face Book, I made an arrangement to see the show with a former work colleague who also expressed interest in the show.
Unfortunately, the underwear exhibit was weak. It was composed of approximately 6 items: a pair of stockings, a corset, and three hoop skirts or petticoats.
The museum was small and a bit worn down, and the meager exhibit was disappointing. But on closer inspection, the place revealed some some charming aspects.
I learned that a pie safe was intended to keep bread products safe from vermin. My 20th century-formed mind thought it safe guarded goods from snacking residents of the house.
An artist had spruced up a falling ceiling with a faux leg, which struck me as a positive way to handle the crumbling ceiling crisis. I wish I had been as clever when dealing with a similar problem in my apartment.
The pulley system on the gas chandeliers was interesting. It is an elegant combination of frill and function.
Most importantly, I got better acquainted with my former work colleague. We often interact on Face Book, but hadn't socialized outside of work. We are both a little geeky about historical details, so meeting at the museum was perfect.
She is smart, and has unusual qualities. She is a marathon runner who has completed races on every continent (including Antarctica). She recently visited a remote town in Alaska because it is the northern most point of the United States. She is a chocolate enthusiast with a refined palate, and she has organized a chocolate tasters club in New York. She kindly introduced me to a marvelous chocolate lunch at MarieBelle in
Soho.Spending time with her reminded me that there is much in the world to explore, even on a small scale. Sometimes things that initially disappoint deserve a second look to yield modest wonders.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
The Uncanny Vacation
An unemployed friend has been meeting with me once a week to work on our job searches. He has two Ivy League degrees, including a MBA, and until recently, earned six figures. I was working on my CV when I heard him call a travel agent and book a vacation.
While his circumstances differ from mine (a vacation is a major expense even when I am employed), I marveled that he could enjoy a vacation at this time. Uncertainty erodes my enjoyment of any indulgence at this time. Unsure about what the future holds, I don't want to spend money now and regret it later. When I hear about unemployed people enjoying leisure activities -- taking vacations, traveling, or enrolling in art classes -- I wonder how they can be so relaxed while unemployed.
Last week events coalesced to allow me to spend the weekend in Cape Cod. A friend was spending the month in her boyfriend's family's house in Truro. She invited me to come up for the weekend. Another friend agreed to drive me there, with many rest stops to prevent blood clotting.
I rarely step outside of New York City. Most years I leave the city two or three times. Of course, I know that the landscape is radically different outside, but each time I leave the city limits I am surprised by the environmental shift that takes place within an hour of travel time.
Traffic was thick and we had to stop often, so it took about 8 hours to get to Truro. The longer emotional distance (from feeling limited, unemployed, and depressed to feeling like a hopeful, capable person) was transversed as well.
Traveling can be an indulgence in escapism, but it also is a way to gain another perspective. It was good for me to get out of my hot, dark apartment and away from the phone that wasn't ringing and the computer that didn't have the long-awaited email message. With the environment of job seeking replaced with a cool, light, and airy environment devoted to sunbathing, conversing, and cooking, there was no option except to relax.
It was also good to be introduced to new people. While I readily acknowledged my status as an unemployed person, most of my discussions were about other topics. Conversations with New York friends tend to be about recent events, but conversations with new acquaintances tend to touch on experiences over a lifetime. It was good to focus on the overall picture rather than the recent failing.
It is a cliche, but I returned home energized and better able to focus on my search. I am so grateful that I got this chance to temporarily remove myself from the current, oppressive unemployed experience to reacquaint myself with a more carefree existence.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
The 32 Cents Lady
My view of the Great Recession is that it and the rise of social networking tools will encourage more community. As people tighten their belts, they will rely more and more on one another.
Today I bought soda at Gristides and was 32 cents short. I was running the errand during a wash cycle at the laundromat, and didn't have my full wallet with me. The cashier readily loaned me 32 cents.
I returned to the laundromat to put the wash in the dryers, which were full. As I waited, a man pointed out which machines ran hotter and dried faster. It was clear he was living on a tight margin. He bragged that he could wash and dry 2 loads for less than $10.
He checked his drying laundry and gave me his drier, which had 4 more minutes on it. I thanked him.
When I was done with the laundromat and had put my clothes away, I went to the supermarket to give the cashier 32 cents.
The minimum wage in New York City is $7.25 per hour, so 32 cents is nearly 5% of a cashier's earnings in one hour. I thought it was generous of the lady to give a stranger that much money.
When I found the cashier in the store and gave her the money, she was surprised. She also seemed to think it was silly of me to bother returning the money. I will be known forever more at this store as the (stupid) 32 cents lady.
Later, I passed on the street the man who gave me 4 minutes of his drier time. I smiled and said hello, but he didn't recognize me or return the greeting.
It appears that my theory about the recession and community needs revising.
Today I bought soda at Gristides and was 32 cents short. I was running the errand during a wash cycle at the laundromat, and didn't have my full wallet with me. The cashier readily loaned me 32 cents.
I returned to the laundromat to put the wash in the dryers, which were full. As I waited, a man pointed out which machines ran hotter and dried faster. It was clear he was living on a tight margin. He bragged that he could wash and dry 2 loads for less than $10.
He checked his drying laundry and gave me his drier, which had 4 more minutes on it. I thanked him.
When I was done with the laundromat and had put my clothes away, I went to the supermarket to give the cashier 32 cents.
The minimum wage in New York City is $7.25 per hour, so 32 cents is nearly 5% of a cashier's earnings in one hour. I thought it was generous of the lady to give a stranger that much money.
When I found the cashier in the store and gave her the money, she was surprised. She also seemed to think it was silly of me to bother returning the money. I will be known forever more at this store as the (stupid) 32 cents lady.
Later, I passed on the street the man who gave me 4 minutes of his drier time. I smiled and said hello, but he didn't recognize me or return the greeting.
It appears that my theory about the recession and community needs revising.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
The New Macho
Someone scrawled this on a Levi's advertisement on 9th Avenue and 22nd Street: In God We Thrust.
It is juvenile humor. Yet, I find the mix of blasphemous historical text and macho male image funny and intriguing.
Who is thrusting? Is he on the top of the sexual food chain because he is giving it to God? Does God like it? Does this imply God is female or is God gay?
It is juvenile humor. Yet, I find the mix of blasphemous historical text and macho male image funny and intriguing.
Who is thrusting? Is he on the top of the sexual food chain because he is giving it to God? Does God like it? Does this imply God is female or is God gay?
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Big Time
Today I took advantage of an offer to see a play workshop with another unemployed friend. The team putting on the event had a recent Broadway hit with Xanadu. Many of the writers, musicians, and actors from that production are working on this piece, called Big Time.
The workshop was organized to attract investors. Essentially, the producers of the play, knowing that people have a deep-seated desire to mingle with celebrities, offer an opportunity for wealthy people to pay to meet celebrities without appearing to do so.
It is an interesting farce. Broadway plays are notoriously bad investments. They have about a 33% chance of making a return, and that return tends to be modest.
Although this workshop was intended for possible investors, there were many theater insiders in attendance. The men seated in front of me were fit like dancers and very attractive, and I assumed they are actors.
This was confirmed when a heavy-set man in a red shirt walked over to introduce himself to one of the men, who was an actor in The Rocky Horror Picture Show on Broadway. The dentist explained that he recognized the actor from a cast photo that hung on his office wall. One of his patients was a fellow cast member. The dentist was sycophantic, and I felt embarrassed for him.
New York is studded with celebrities. Non-celebrities are expected to pretend that they do not recognize the celebrities.
Yet, the cool, non-celebrity New Yorker will relay to anyone who will listen that they saw so-and-so at dinner, walking down the street, or at a party. Each time the story is told, they will emphasize that they didn't approach the celebrity. Strangers who try to talk to celebrities are regarded as uncouth tourists who resemble star-struck, fainting tweens.
Shortly before the show began, a woman moved down my row to take the empty seat beside me. As she passed my companion, he said her name and she nodded.
She is pretty but not by Hollywood standards. She appeared to be in her mid-40s. Her curly hair was untamed and she wore scruffy flipflops. These attributes are not damning, but in a world in which the notion that a woman peaks in her early 20s has taken hold, I would not have expected her to be a famous actress.
The lights went down and the score began. I didn't know who the woman was, but I could sense a lot of attention directed her way. When I looked around, many eyes were on her.
As I watched the actors on stage, I thought about how theater actors and actresses differ from those who do television and film. The stage performers tend to have greater talent and are allowed physical imperfections. For example, middle-aged actresses continue to perform lead roles.
The stage performers more closely reflect the population as a whole. There are beautiful people, but there are far more character actors than in films. Plays are more likely to depict the stories of blue-collar workers, the middle class, and the poor than films.
Big Time featured people tangential to a G8 summit: the entertainers on a cruise ship, a CIA agent, a UN employee, and terrorists from a small, fictional country. It has a silly plot, but it made an interesting parallel between terrorists and bitter critics who attack art work while harboring jealousy toward artists. It also emphasized how anyone, regardless of talent, can gain joy by participating in the arts. The play is both brilliant and hilarious.
During intermission, my friend informed me that the woman seated by me was Jule White. She won a Tony for "The Little Dog Laughed" and had a role on "Six Feet Under." I had seen neither of these shows.
It occurred to me that I recognize few celebrities, probably because I don't watch television, rarely see mainstream films, and can afford to see few plays each year. Celebrities must be all around me, yet I am unaware of their presence.
It is ironic that the people genuinely giving the celebrity anonymity in private circumstances are the very people who subtly damage the celebrity's career by witholding attention to their public works.
In light of this fact and the message of the play, it appears that New Yorkers are doing celebrities a disservice by ignoring them. Trying to gain status by mingling with a celebrity is still uncool. But snubbing the celebrity is similar to assuming the role of the bitter critic. Informing an artist that you like their work, with just a smile or thumbs up, must be appreciated by even the most prominent celebrity.
The workshop was organized to attract investors. Essentially, the producers of the play, knowing that people have a deep-seated desire to mingle with celebrities, offer an opportunity for wealthy people to pay to meet celebrities without appearing to do so.
It is an interesting farce. Broadway plays are notoriously bad investments. They have about a 33% chance of making a return, and that return tends to be modest.
Although this workshop was intended for possible investors, there were many theater insiders in attendance. The men seated in front of me were fit like dancers and very attractive, and I assumed they are actors.
This was confirmed when a heavy-set man in a red shirt walked over to introduce himself to one of the men, who was an actor in The Rocky Horror Picture Show on Broadway. The dentist explained that he recognized the actor from a cast photo that hung on his office wall. One of his patients was a fellow cast member. The dentist was sycophantic, and I felt embarrassed for him.
New York is studded with celebrities. Non-celebrities are expected to pretend that they do not recognize the celebrities.
Yet, the cool, non-celebrity New Yorker will relay to anyone who will listen that they saw so-and-so at dinner, walking down the street, or at a party. Each time the story is told, they will emphasize that they didn't approach the celebrity. Strangers who try to talk to celebrities are regarded as uncouth tourists who resemble star-struck, fainting tweens.
Shortly before the show began, a woman moved down my row to take the empty seat beside me. As she passed my companion, he said her name and she nodded.
She is pretty but not by Hollywood standards. She appeared to be in her mid-40s. Her curly hair was untamed and she wore scruffy flipflops. These attributes are not damning, but in a world in which the notion that a woman peaks in her early 20s has taken hold, I would not have expected her to be a famous actress.
The lights went down and the score began. I didn't know who the woman was, but I could sense a lot of attention directed her way. When I looked around, many eyes were on her.
As I watched the actors on stage, I thought about how theater actors and actresses differ from those who do television and film. The stage performers tend to have greater talent and are allowed physical imperfections. For example, middle-aged actresses continue to perform lead roles.
The stage performers more closely reflect the population as a whole. There are beautiful people, but there are far more character actors than in films. Plays are more likely to depict the stories of blue-collar workers, the middle class, and the poor than films.
Big Time featured people tangential to a G8 summit: the entertainers on a cruise ship, a CIA agent, a UN employee, and terrorists from a small, fictional country. It has a silly plot, but it made an interesting parallel between terrorists and bitter critics who attack art work while harboring jealousy toward artists. It also emphasized how anyone, regardless of talent, can gain joy by participating in the arts. The play is both brilliant and hilarious.
During intermission, my friend informed me that the woman seated by me was Jule White. She won a Tony for "The Little Dog Laughed" and had a role on "Six Feet Under." I had seen neither of these shows.
It occurred to me that I recognize few celebrities, probably because I don't watch television, rarely see mainstream films, and can afford to see few plays each year. Celebrities must be all around me, yet I am unaware of their presence.
It is ironic that the people genuinely giving the celebrity anonymity in private circumstances are the very people who subtly damage the celebrity's career by witholding attention to their public works.
In light of this fact and the message of the play, it appears that New Yorkers are doing celebrities a disservice by ignoring them. Trying to gain status by mingling with a celebrity is still uncool. But snubbing the celebrity is similar to assuming the role of the bitter critic. Informing an artist that you like their work, with just a smile or thumbs up, must be appreciated by even the most prominent celebrity.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Sympathetic Magic
While recuperating I read Joan Didion's "The Year of Magical Thinking." It led me to consider how much I engage in magical thinking. It was surprising to discover I did so many times each day.
As a kid I would attempt to foresee the future by setting up scenarios such as: If I see a blue car on the way home, Mom won't be angry with me for forgetting my permission slip.
I'm ashamed to admit that as an adult I continue these searches for signs of affirmation. For example, if he sends me a text or email within 24 hours, it means he likes me.
Much of this behavior is so ingrained, it has continued without examination. I avoid certain clothes because I associate them with bad experiences. For example, I will probably send to Goodwill the sweater I wore on the day I was laid-off. It is an old sweater I hadn't worn in a couple of years. Yet, I happened to have worn it on that day because it was snowing. Now it is forever tainted.
It's unclear even to myself whether I really believe the sweater is bad luck or whether there is a longer chain of variables that lead me to avoid it from now on. Its strong association with an awful event will significantly diminishes my confidence each time I wear it. When I wear it, it will conjure up a very unpleasant event that is likely to make me glum. That lack of confidence and glum demeanor will have some repercussion, and it will not likely be positive.
I've tried on several occasions to read a classic early anthropology text that outlines many rituals, "The Golden Bough." So far, I have not made it past the first 40 pages. Although I haven't opened the book in at least five years, I recall with clarity a couple of ideas presented in it. There are similarities among rituals; one being the charm of association (i.e. love potions made of the sexual organs of animals).
It appears that I am continuing this tradition by designating items associated with very good events as good and items associated with very bad events as bad.
A while ago I heard a radio program in which a psychologist said the root of superstition was a lack of control over one's environment. His comment made me think about all of the things I do almost daily in an attempt to attract good luck: blow away eyelashes and make a wish or light candles and pray.
I am an intelligent person who understands that these rituals probably have no impact. In spite of my intelligence and talents, I have not enjoyed the income or credentials that would insulate me from the whims of the New York housing or job markets.
I can only interpret my emphasis on superstition as a reflection of my own sense of powerlessness.
It's strange that it has taken such a long time for me to come to this realization. Perhaps I am not as intelligent as I imagine myself to be! Or maybe I have been too distracted by other pursuits to pay attention to this behavior and thinking.
I equate money with power generally. It is ironic that my strong desire to make money has emerged at the very time the worldwide economy has collapsed.
On the one hand, I wonder whether I am overly concerned about the events that impact my life. Am I too sensitive? On the other hand, it is widely recognized that having to move or getting laid-off is a traumatic event.
It is unlikely that the emergence of these situations will wane no matter what ritual I follow to ward them off. There is little I can do to prevent these events from happening. I need to learn how to improve my reaction to them.
As a kid I would attempt to foresee the future by setting up scenarios such as: If I see a blue car on the way home, Mom won't be angry with me for forgetting my permission slip.
I'm ashamed to admit that as an adult I continue these searches for signs of affirmation. For example, if he sends me a text or email within 24 hours, it means he likes me.
Much of this behavior is so ingrained, it has continued without examination. I avoid certain clothes because I associate them with bad experiences. For example, I will probably send to Goodwill the sweater I wore on the day I was laid-off. It is an old sweater I hadn't worn in a couple of years. Yet, I happened to have worn it on that day because it was snowing. Now it is forever tainted.
It's unclear even to myself whether I really believe the sweater is bad luck or whether there is a longer chain of variables that lead me to avoid it from now on. Its strong association with an awful event will significantly diminishes my confidence each time I wear it. When I wear it, it will conjure up a very unpleasant event that is likely to make me glum. That lack of confidence and glum demeanor will have some repercussion, and it will not likely be positive.
I've tried on several occasions to read a classic early anthropology text that outlines many rituals, "The Golden Bough." So far, I have not made it past the first 40 pages. Although I haven't opened the book in at least five years, I recall with clarity a couple of ideas presented in it. There are similarities among rituals; one being the charm of association (i.e. love potions made of the sexual organs of animals).
It appears that I am continuing this tradition by designating items associated with very good events as good and items associated with very bad events as bad.
A while ago I heard a radio program in which a psychologist said the root of superstition was a lack of control over one's environment. His comment made me think about all of the things I do almost daily in an attempt to attract good luck: blow away eyelashes and make a wish or light candles and pray.
I am an intelligent person who understands that these rituals probably have no impact. In spite of my intelligence and talents, I have not enjoyed the income or credentials that would insulate me from the whims of the New York housing or job markets.
I can only interpret my emphasis on superstition as a reflection of my own sense of powerlessness.
It's strange that it has taken such a long time for me to come to this realization. Perhaps I am not as intelligent as I imagine myself to be! Or maybe I have been too distracted by other pursuits to pay attention to this behavior and thinking.
I equate money with power generally. It is ironic that my strong desire to make money has emerged at the very time the worldwide economy has collapsed.
On the one hand, I wonder whether I am overly concerned about the events that impact my life. Am I too sensitive? On the other hand, it is widely recognized that having to move or getting laid-off is a traumatic event.
It is unlikely that the emergence of these situations will wane no matter what ritual I follow to ward them off. There is little I can do to prevent these events from happening. I need to learn how to improve my reaction to them.
Monday, July 27, 2009
My Contracting World
I met a friend for lunch today and, in the course of conversation, realized I really didn't know what she did at work day to day. She is a defense attorney with a practice representing people who have been charged with parking violations. She was on a lunch break during a court recess, and our conversation revealed that her work at the courthouse was very different from what I had imagined it to be.
We rarely talk about our work lives because we tend to converse about other topics. In addition to being an attorney, she is also a jewelry designer and potter. She takes dance lessons and intensive Spanish courses. Unlike many New Yorkers, her job seems to take a backseat to her personal life.
She mentioned to me that there was a character in Summons Court that morning who saluted the judge like an army officer and declared he had to "consult his wallet" before determining whether he would plead guilty or pay a fine. I was surprised to learn she was the court-appointed attorney for this man and many other defendants.
She invited me to join her at the court to watch the proceedings, and I did so.
The room was depressing in the usual sad, bureaucratic way. There were linoleum floors, beat furniture, white walls, an ancient air conditioner, and dirty blinds.
There were people caught with open containers. Others were accused of driving recklessly. Several vendors failed to properly display or renew licenses. Two men were accused of loitering. A couple of young people were charged with excessive noise violations. It struck me that these misdemeanors are probably very common.
It was difficult to hear all of the proceedings. The air conditioner obscured much that was said. I wish I had heard more.
As I watched case after case, I wondered how this legal structure would compare to others. Each person stood beside the judge with a court-appointed attorney who handled their case on the spot. The judge, an elderly man in a seersucker suit, appeared to be a parental figure admonishing bad behavior. He restated the law violated sternly and listed consequences such as criminal records and further fines.
Some of the defendants took the summons seriously while others shrugged it off. One wore a suit but another had jeans slung so low his red underwear mooned those watching the proceedings. A couple missed their appointed time for court with lame excuses but another simply stated he had to watch his son while his wife was at work.
With the exception of cases about permits, it seemed that there wasn't much evidence that could be presented to the judge. Basically, it was the word of the defendant against the police officer who wrote the summons. Some of the stories seemed weak. The judge asked several defendants whether they had been in court before. Many had. I assumed he used this background information to gauge their veracity.
I wondered about the circumstances in each case. Had the defendants enjoyed beers on their stoop with friends or were they drunk and loud on the street? Did the police who issued the summons do so in good faith or were they picking on people?
The people brought before the judge reminded me of my students' parents in the Bushwick, Brooklyn projects. They were kids, taxi drivers, cooks, or hot dog vendors. Many of the defendants were immigrants. One required an interpreter who spoke Chinese. It is likely that many of these people earn about $10 an hour. It struck me that the $25 and $50 fines metered out must be a great burden on this group.
There is so much going on in the world around me, and even in the public lives of my friends, that is alien to me. When I consider this, I feel profoundly ignorant. My corner of the world shrunk significantly in just one day.
Yet, it is exciting that there is so much more to explore. Each case was a small drama. Each life a story.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Surrender
Unbeknownst to me, I walked around with large blood clots in my leg for two weeks in May. On the evening before my last post, a massive blood clot moved through my heart and exploded in my lungs. It happened in my sleep.
As the tissue in my lungs began to die, I felt pain that I dismissed as an onset of long-dormant asthma. The pain continued and my insurance provider's nurse hotline advised me to go to the emergency room, but I went to an all-night clinic where my co-pay was much lower. I was again advised to go to the emergency room but hesitated due to the $300 co-pay. The pain worsened, and I finally went to the emergency room. I was diagnosed with pulmonary embolisms and spent the next 4 days in the hospital. Upon discharge, I went directly to Maryland to recuperate with my family.
The moment I was diagnosed and informed that I would be hospitalized is probably the moment that I began to surrender. The doctors took control of my body. Then I succumbed to the wishes of my family.
I had to recuperate at the homes of my relatives because I couldn't walk the 4 flights of stairs to my apartment. I wore clothes that were packed for me by someone else. I ate whatever groceries were on hand. My job search was put on hold, and then into low gear.
Now that I am back in New York, I have more choice about what I do day to day. But I realize I am still in a state of surrender.
It is easy to get angry and sad about all that life has thrown at me this year. In an attempt to avoid self-pity, I try to find lessons to learn from the experience.
I suppose the biggest shift I have experienced is in my perspective. The issues that were nagging me when I got sick seem petty now. Unemployment is a major issue, but it isn't immediately life-threatening. The bills will be paid somehow. I will carry on.
I also realize that any sense of control that I thought I had over my life was an illusion. A year ago I had a job, a great apartment, my health, and a budding relationship with a man I really liked. The reality was there were people at a much higher level than me at my company making decisions about the future of the business, and they didn't value my work at all. The apartment belonged to the landlord and he moved to evict me and my room mate because he wanted to charge far more rent. My doctor performed a physical and declared me healthy based tests taken at that time. The man seemed to like me, but I suppose he really didn't or his feeling changed.
I have some influence over what happens to me. I suppose I am lolled into thinking that doing a good job will keep me employed or paying my rent on time will keep me in an apartment. The reality is: the causal relationship I envision isn't always there. The whole world is random and capricious. People and businesses don't disclose their motives. Bodies change. It is my task to deal with it.
I try not to worry. It diverts too much energy from healing. I'm in good shape, but I have not completely healed.
Worrying also diminishes any good that happens. If there is only a glimmer of good happening each day, I don't want it overshadowed by concerns that may not really manifest themselves as problems.
I walk less and I buy less. I endeavor to enjoy my time here a little more by not beating myself up about expenses I can't reasonably avoid. I try to focus on the fact that my situation was improved by the income I earned from freelancing in April and May.
I still have to forge ahead with my job search, but I will also give myself a little bit of a break and breathe.
It is a little creepy to read my last post. The text now seems to have anticipated what followed. Any day could be my last, so I better enjoy at least a part of each day.
As the tissue in my lungs began to die, I felt pain that I dismissed as an onset of long-dormant asthma. The pain continued and my insurance provider's nurse hotline advised me to go to the emergency room, but I went to an all-night clinic where my co-pay was much lower. I was again advised to go to the emergency room but hesitated due to the $300 co-pay. The pain worsened, and I finally went to the emergency room. I was diagnosed with pulmonary embolisms and spent the next 4 days in the hospital. Upon discharge, I went directly to Maryland to recuperate with my family.
The moment I was diagnosed and informed that I would be hospitalized is probably the moment that I began to surrender. The doctors took control of my body. Then I succumbed to the wishes of my family.
I had to recuperate at the homes of my relatives because I couldn't walk the 4 flights of stairs to my apartment. I wore clothes that were packed for me by someone else. I ate whatever groceries were on hand. My job search was put on hold, and then into low gear.
Now that I am back in New York, I have more choice about what I do day to day. But I realize I am still in a state of surrender.
It is easy to get angry and sad about all that life has thrown at me this year. In an attempt to avoid self-pity, I try to find lessons to learn from the experience.
I suppose the biggest shift I have experienced is in my perspective. The issues that were nagging me when I got sick seem petty now. Unemployment is a major issue, but it isn't immediately life-threatening. The bills will be paid somehow. I will carry on.
I also realize that any sense of control that I thought I had over my life was an illusion. A year ago I had a job, a great apartment, my health, and a budding relationship with a man I really liked. The reality was there were people at a much higher level than me at my company making decisions about the future of the business, and they didn't value my work at all. The apartment belonged to the landlord and he moved to evict me and my room mate because he wanted to charge far more rent. My doctor performed a physical and declared me healthy based tests taken at that time. The man seemed to like me, but I suppose he really didn't or his feeling changed.
I have some influence over what happens to me. I suppose I am lolled into thinking that doing a good job will keep me employed or paying my rent on time will keep me in an apartment. The reality is: the causal relationship I envision isn't always there. The whole world is random and capricious. People and businesses don't disclose their motives. Bodies change. It is my task to deal with it.
I try not to worry. It diverts too much energy from healing. I'm in good shape, but I have not completely healed.
Worrying also diminishes any good that happens. If there is only a glimmer of good happening each day, I don't want it overshadowed by concerns that may not really manifest themselves as problems.
I walk less and I buy less. I endeavor to enjoy my time here a little more by not beating myself up about expenses I can't reasonably avoid. I try to focus on the fact that my situation was improved by the income I earned from freelancing in April and May.
I still have to forge ahead with my job search, but I will also give myself a little bit of a break and breathe.
It is a little creepy to read my last post. The text now seems to have anticipated what followed. Any day could be my last, so I better enjoy at least a part of each day.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Unanticipated Blossoms
Yesterday I visited my abstract painter friend's Dumbo studio. It was wonderful to smell the oil paint, sit in the southern light, and talk about books and images.
She and I have discussed her work a lot in the past several months, and I enjoy our conversations. Her work maintains a tension between representational and abstract presentation. This is an area that holds my fascination. Her project is about the relationship between humans and animals.
She let me photograph some of her current paintings, a series depicting birds (above).
After the studio visit, we walked over to Brooklyn Heights for the Kids Art opening at BRIC's Rotunda gallery. Our mutual friend runs an outstanding arts education program for the gallery. Each year the gallery shows work created by public school children who participated in Rotunda's programs.
Some children who participated in the program attend, along with parents, teachers, artists, and principals. The children perform docent activities happily. It is a wonderful, heartfelt celebration.
The painter recalled that we have attended this event for several years. I've reached that age in which time moves too fast for me to track. There is a great divide between my sense of time that has passed and the actual passage of time. It feels as if I have attended the event for the past three or four years, but in reality it has been nine years.
Yet this phenomenon seems to indicate a good experience. I suppose I inadvertently made good use of time because the outcome of the event as it relates to me is so positive.
For example, although I have no formal relationship with the gallery, I recognized a half dozen people I knew in the audience and had an opportunity to reconnect with them. All of these people are people I genuinely enjoy. It is a pleasure to catch up with them each year.
One of them is a woman with whom I worked almost 3 years ago. She was a designer who was laid off in 2006. I liked her a lot and was sorry to see her suffer unemployment. I've encouraged her to work at Rotunda ever since the lay off. She just started working there this spring, and I am delighted the connection bore fruit. It is a perfect fit for her.
I don't often recollect connections I've made for people. When I was assigned to an assessment team at the publisher several months ago, it surprised me when the team leader for the project reminded me that I had helped her daughter get a job. I didn't know her well and it had been a couple of years since I made the connection.
In general, I regard life as a struggle for most people. If I can assemble people to bring them joy or make something happen, I am happy to do it. I consider any good outcome a blessing. As far as I am concerned, these things are pleasant happenstance and I don't think anyone owes me a favor.
Perhaps I have inadvertently embodied the goal of tending the garden without a focus on results. I'm glad that is the advice I adopted without realizing it. It feels good to be a force for good in the world. I swear I can die happy knowing I tried to make things better, and sometimes succeeded.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Taming the Obstacle
Lately I've been thinking about obstacles within. I know I spend my time stupidly, and then am angry with myself that I haven't produced any paintings or filed enough job applications.
So, I've been thinking about why I let myself putter instead of being more industrious.
A friend and I recently discussed a mutual acquaintance, a very talented artist who produces scant work. I don't know him well, but two friends know him intimately. He appears to be hindered by a desire to create perfection. His expectations are so high it is unlikely that he will meet them. Therefore, he doesn't attempt to create anything.
As we discussed this, I recognized some of the sentiment in myself. It is something I have struggled against in my own art practice.
Conversely, I am a non-writer who is able to maintain a fairly robust blog. It is riddled with imperfection, but I can live with it because it isn't precious to me. And unlike my paintings which have a small audience I care about, I don't really expect anyone to read my blog.
This idea led me to ponder the increasing disposable nature of writing. I recall as a child thinking that writing was a permanent enterprise. Any assigned report invoked writers block as I imagined the improbability that I would produce something worthy of gold embossed leather binding.
Today I wondered where this notion emerged. It may have been my own twisted invention based on popular culture's output about writers and their work. As crazy as it sounds, my mother may also have facilitated it. Many people keep copies of their school work, but she is the only person I know who reads it and regards it highly.
This morning I read yet another essay about the demise of print publishing. While I prefer to read any text on paper because I find a lit display mildly distracting (resulting in less careful reading), I acknowledge the merits of a paperless world.
The world is fluxuating continuously, yet writing in books seemed fixed. Hence, reprints and multiple editions with revised forwards. Now that writing is lifted from the permanence of bound paper, it becomes a fluid stream of text. Much in this stream is carelessly formed and read with little regard. Most of it is not intended for posterity.
As an amateur writer I take comfort in the disregard for and disposable nature of the modern writing platform. The medium now reflects art making; a process that happens over time.
So I conclude that the goal is to just do whatever I need to do without considering outcome.
As I write this several literary allusions I can barely grasp emerge in my mind. I recall some Chinese and Indian philosophy emphasizing action without concern for result. A notion that confused me at the time. It struck me as a call for aimless action.
In the West, Voltaire's characters in Candide recommended that we tend the garden. I suppose it should be tended without expectations of yield, but just worked thoughtfully.
So, I've been thinking about why I let myself putter instead of being more industrious.
A friend and I recently discussed a mutual acquaintance, a very talented artist who produces scant work. I don't know him well, but two friends know him intimately. He appears to be hindered by a desire to create perfection. His expectations are so high it is unlikely that he will meet them. Therefore, he doesn't attempt to create anything.
As we discussed this, I recognized some of the sentiment in myself. It is something I have struggled against in my own art practice.
Conversely, I am a non-writer who is able to maintain a fairly robust blog. It is riddled with imperfection, but I can live with it because it isn't precious to me. And unlike my paintings which have a small audience I care about, I don't really expect anyone to read my blog.
This idea led me to ponder the increasing disposable nature of writing. I recall as a child thinking that writing was a permanent enterprise. Any assigned report invoked writers block as I imagined the improbability that I would produce something worthy of gold embossed leather binding.
Today I wondered where this notion emerged. It may have been my own twisted invention based on popular culture's output about writers and their work. As crazy as it sounds, my mother may also have facilitated it. Many people keep copies of their school work, but she is the only person I know who reads it and regards it highly.
This morning I read yet another essay about the demise of print publishing. While I prefer to read any text on paper because I find a lit display mildly distracting (resulting in less careful reading), I acknowledge the merits of a paperless world.
The world is fluxuating continuously, yet writing in books seemed fixed. Hence, reprints and multiple editions with revised forwards. Now that writing is lifted from the permanence of bound paper, it becomes a fluid stream of text. Much in this stream is carelessly formed and read with little regard. Most of it is not intended for posterity.
As an amateur writer I take comfort in the disregard for and disposable nature of the modern writing platform. The medium now reflects art making; a process that happens over time.
So I conclude that the goal is to just do whatever I need to do without considering outcome.
As I write this several literary allusions I can barely grasp emerge in my mind. I recall some Chinese and Indian philosophy emphasizing action without concern for result. A notion that confused me at the time. It struck me as a call for aimless action.
In the West, Voltaire's characters in Candide recommended that we tend the garden. I suppose it should be tended without expectations of yield, but just worked thoughtfully.
Monday, May 18, 2009
A Bargain
After much hemming and hawing, I finally got a scanner. The fact is, I could rationalize buying it for my freelance work. The need to send faxes emerged several times. Then I needed to copy receipts for reimbursement. So I spent $120 on a scanner.I had dreams of keeping an online blog of water colors, but this is the only one I executed. It took forever to make. I am a very slow painter.
Now that I am scrambling to find a job and freelance work, I have no time to paint. Maybe I'll be able to fulfill my painting and blog ambition once I get a job.
In the meantime, I made this watercolor of a petite, elderly woman I saw at Fairway around October. She was determined to get the best cantaloupe regardless of placement in the pyramid. I thought the whole lot would tumble down on her, but only a couple cascaded down.
The grocery stores in Chelsea (practically all are Gristides) are obscenely expensive. In the fall I started shopping at Fairway for certain staples once a month.
Here is a comparison of prices to indicate why I bother to travel 50 blocks for cheaper food: Sabre hummus approx. $7.50 Gristides/ $4.80 Fairway, Brown Cow yogurt $1.40 Gristides/ $0.99 Fairway. I can't remember the prices of other items. I don't want to post them unless they are accurate.
Most likely I only save about $5-10 buying at Fairway rather than Gristides once a month. But every dollar saved helps, especially now that there are very few being earned.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Grey Gardens Burlesque
Thank god I made it to Grey Gardens burlesque last night. It was off the hook. Coney Island Burlesque on the Beach basically reenacted the film (using the play soundtrack) with a burlesque twist.
It opened with little Edie doing a striptease in which she takes off one head wrap after another. I was in convulsions. Finally, the Lilly Pulitzer bathing suit comes off and she's got on enormous white underwear with a stain and bunched up pantyhose for pasties.
Tigger was the marble fawn. He stripped for Edie's corn. He pulled a raccoon's tail out of his dirty tighty whiteys and then out of his ass. For the finale he showered in corn.
Little Brooklyn did this number where she was little Edie taking a swim. As she swims she's attacked by a shark. She would go under the water and emerge with these glittery wounds attached to her body.
A skinny french raccoon performed a short monologue and then "a dance plastique that will confuse you." It was like something out of a 1950s American interpretation of France. Very funny.
I hope they revive this one. Brilliant! All of the performers deserve a MacArthur genius grant.
It opened with little Edie doing a striptease in which she takes off one head wrap after another. I was in convulsions. Finally, the Lilly Pulitzer bathing suit comes off and she's got on enormous white underwear with a stain and bunched up pantyhose for pasties.
Tigger was the marble fawn. He stripped for Edie's corn. He pulled a raccoon's tail out of his dirty tighty whiteys and then out of his ass. For the finale he showered in corn.
Little Brooklyn did this number where she was little Edie taking a swim. As she swims she's attacked by a shark. She would go under the water and emerge with these glittery wounds attached to her body.
A skinny french raccoon performed a short monologue and then "a dance plastique that will confuse you." It was like something out of a 1950s American interpretation of France. Very funny.
I hope they revive this one. Brilliant! All of the performers deserve a MacArthur genius grant.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Never Assume
A freelance client unexpectedly sent me to Washington, DC again. It was a whirlwind trip. It was short notice and I had to make it fast to balance the work of another project. The meeting I was to attend began at 8:30am, so I had to get to DC the night before.
I took a cab to the hotel because my train didn't arrive at Union Station until 11:30pm. When the cab pulled up to the hotel around midnight, there were about 20 police cars parked in front of the entrance.
I immediately wondered whether some horrible thing had happened at the hotel. I couldn't imagine what would trigger such a huge police response.
The second I walked in the door, my mind was put to ease.
The hotel was hosting a police officers' convention.
I took a cab to the hotel because my train didn't arrive at Union Station until 11:30pm. When the cab pulled up to the hotel around midnight, there were about 20 police cars parked in front of the entrance.
I immediately wondered whether some horrible thing had happened at the hotel. I couldn't imagine what would trigger such a huge police response.
The second I walked in the door, my mind was put to ease.
The hotel was hosting a police officers' convention.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
The Truman Effect
I was rushing to an appointment. I missed the weather report, so I looked outside to see how people were dressed.
It has been a cold spring, but it surprised me to see a couple wearing winter coats.
I grabbed my raincoat and headed downstairs. When I reached the stoop, I saw a computer screen. It was at the height of people's heads. It was strange to see it outside and at such a height. Then I noticed it was on a tripod. It took me a couple of seconds to realize it was a camera monitor.
There was a film crew outside of my building.
The couple across the street were actors in a film. They had their coats half off while waiting for the next shot.
Most people on 21st Street were wearing short sleeves or light sweaters.
The magic of Hollywood tricked me into wearing a raincoat today.
It has been a cold spring, but it surprised me to see a couple wearing winter coats.
I grabbed my raincoat and headed downstairs. When I reached the stoop, I saw a computer screen. It was at the height of people's heads. It was strange to see it outside and at such a height. Then I noticed it was on a tripod. It took me a couple of seconds to realize it was a camera monitor.
There was a film crew outside of my building.
The couple across the street were actors in a film. They had their coats half off while waiting for the next shot.
Most people on 21st Street were wearing short sleeves or light sweaters.
The magic of Hollywood tricked me into wearing a raincoat today.
Friday, May 8, 2009
The Victorian in Me
Today's front page of the New York tabloids feature the Wesleyan University stalker who killed a female student. The headlines focused on his romantic obsession with the beautiful co-ed.
As I glanced at the covers, it struck me that these sensationalized news stories make the events seem like fiction.
I suppose this is one disturbing nugget about sensationalism, but I just hadn't identified it before.
I recognized the result but not the vehicle. That these stories tended to render readers callous to the news, but I didn't connect that the method of doing so was fictionalizing news. It makes the real seem fake and easy to disregard.
It is strange because it is my understanding that sensationalism grabs the audience's attention. Perhaps part of its appeal is that it allows an audience to more easily process information. It allows them to filter unpleasant information by disregarding it as realistic fiction rather than leaving an impression as something that impacts lives.
Perhaps this is why public interest groups struggle to put a face on problems and convince the public that they could be the next drunk driving, heart attack, or police brutality victim.
Digesting the news can sometimes be difficult. If we simply regard people like the Wesleyan killer as an evil character rather than a person with a history and context, it is easier to dismiss him and his actions as evil, crazy, or isolated.
It keeps one's understanding of situations shallow so there is little chance of developing insights about them. This seems to restrict the public's ability to develop ideas about how to address situations meaningfully. The answers become simplistic (execute, lock him up) rather than thoughtful or nuanced (identify triggers to behavior, explore remediation possibilities, examine possible loopholes in current stalking laws).
I tend to regard fiction stories as beneficial and enlightening. In this context, they seem dangerous.
As I glanced at the covers, it struck me that these sensationalized news stories make the events seem like fiction.
I suppose this is one disturbing nugget about sensationalism, but I just hadn't identified it before.
I recognized the result but not the vehicle. That these stories tended to render readers callous to the news, but I didn't connect that the method of doing so was fictionalizing news. It makes the real seem fake and easy to disregard.
It is strange because it is my understanding that sensationalism grabs the audience's attention. Perhaps part of its appeal is that it allows an audience to more easily process information. It allows them to filter unpleasant information by disregarding it as realistic fiction rather than leaving an impression as something that impacts lives.
Perhaps this is why public interest groups struggle to put a face on problems and convince the public that they could be the next drunk driving, heart attack, or police brutality victim.
Digesting the news can sometimes be difficult. If we simply regard people like the Wesleyan killer as an evil character rather than a person with a history and context, it is easier to dismiss him and his actions as evil, crazy, or isolated.
It keeps one's understanding of situations shallow so there is little chance of developing insights about them. This seems to restrict the public's ability to develop ideas about how to address situations meaningfully. The answers become simplistic (execute, lock him up) rather than thoughtful or nuanced (identify triggers to behavior, explore remediation possibilities, examine possible loopholes in current stalking laws).
I tend to regard fiction stories as beneficial and enlightening. In this context, they seem dangerous.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
The Screaming Comes Naturally
As I was walking down 8th Avenue with my laundry, I heard a man say to his colleague:
"I've been screaming since I learned to talk."
His demeanor and tone suggested that he was defending himself from criticism.
Regardless, it is a great line.
"I've been screaming since I learned to talk."
His demeanor and tone suggested that he was defending himself from criticism.
Regardless, it is a great line.
Monday, May 4, 2009
The Anomaly
It is difficult for me to remember being 14. My grandmother, who was the primary responsible adult in my life, was diagnosed with brain cancer. Throughout most of my high school years she existed in a vegetative state. It was a complicated and difficult time for me. I was profoundly unhappy.
It is unreasonable, but I tend to transfer my own experience to others. Adolescence is a notoriously difficult time. There are plenty of studies and articles attesting to this. Yet, now that I see my nieces at this age, I realize that my sad adolescence was at the edge of the bell curve. It is comforting to know that my experience isn't typical.
A portion of my weekend was spent with my cousin and her family. We are a year apart and spent about a third of our childhood growing up together. Her children consider me their aunt and I consider them to be nieces and nephews.
My oldest niece is 14. I am relived to see her happy at this age. She is thoughtful, kind, talented, and carefree. Her friends are sweet and her parents encourage her to pursue her interests.
I accompanied my cousin as we drove my niece and her friends to the cinema. The girls were talking about a get together that happened the night before. They discussed their admiration for a boy who attended the event.
First, they praised his appearance.
Then they admired his singing and dancing abilities.
When I overheard that he sang and danced, my interest was piqued. I had a flashback to the drama department of my high school, and began thinking of all of the sweet boys who later emerged from the closet.
Finally, one of the girls declared that the object of their praise was effeminate.
The rest of the girls were confused. The girl explained that it was her vocabulary word that week. She informed the group that effeminate means feminine.
The group agreed that he was feminine, but they liked him anyway.
Attitudes about gender roles have changed. Boys get manicures, use hair product, and pluck their eyebrows. This young man may be a straight male anomaly who likes to dance and sing.
My cousin and her friends belong to a rather conservative Christian church. For example, she no longer lets her children trick-or-treat. I don't know their views on homosexuality, but I can't imagine they are embracing the concept.
It appears that these girls are close to encountering a life lesson.
It is unreasonable, but I tend to transfer my own experience to others. Adolescence is a notoriously difficult time. There are plenty of studies and articles attesting to this. Yet, now that I see my nieces at this age, I realize that my sad adolescence was at the edge of the bell curve. It is comforting to know that my experience isn't typical.
A portion of my weekend was spent with my cousin and her family. We are a year apart and spent about a third of our childhood growing up together. Her children consider me their aunt and I consider them to be nieces and nephews.
My oldest niece is 14. I am relived to see her happy at this age. She is thoughtful, kind, talented, and carefree. Her friends are sweet and her parents encourage her to pursue her interests.
I accompanied my cousin as we drove my niece and her friends to the cinema. The girls were talking about a get together that happened the night before. They discussed their admiration for a boy who attended the event.
First, they praised his appearance.
Then they admired his singing and dancing abilities.
When I overheard that he sang and danced, my interest was piqued. I had a flashback to the drama department of my high school, and began thinking of all of the sweet boys who later emerged from the closet.
Finally, one of the girls declared that the object of their praise was effeminate.
The rest of the girls were confused. The girl explained that it was her vocabulary word that week. She informed the group that effeminate means feminine.
The group agreed that he was feminine, but they liked him anyway.
Attitudes about gender roles have changed. Boys get manicures, use hair product, and pluck their eyebrows. This young man may be a straight male anomaly who likes to dance and sing.
My cousin and her friends belong to a rather conservative Christian church. For example, she no longer lets her children trick-or-treat. I don't know their views on homosexuality, but I can't imagine they are embracing the concept.
It appears that these girls are close to encountering a life lesson.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Boobies, boobies, boobies
When I was a tween, I had no desire to develop breasts or wear a bra.
The breasts appeared, thankfully not in the oversized version that burdened my mother. Although they were modest, they had to be harnessed.
At some point, my mother forced me to go bra shopping. It was intensely embarrassing experience, although now I don't know why I felt that way. I looked for the plainest, simplest bras I could find. Still, I found these wire and lace-free contraptions intensely uncomfortable.
Thirty plus years later, I still avoid bra shopping.
This weekend, my aunt (a breast cancer survivor) mentioned that she needed to get bras and needed a fitting. Since we were in a mall running her errands and we had to walk through the store to get to the car, I recommended going to the lingerie section of Nordstrom's.
While she was in the fitting room, I rummaged through the sale rack. Since I had nothing else to do, I thought it was a good time to finish this long-avoided errand for myself and started trying bras on.
Within minutes, I was getting a fitting in the dressing room across from my aunt. This was an unexpected bonding experience.
We joked about my diminishing breasts. I've lost weight since buying my last set of bras and the cup material had begun puckering. I was bracing for an A, AA, or AAA.
She seemed pleasantly surprised that her fitting revealed she needed a double D cup. I was pleased to remain in a B.
Its strange to realize that we care about our breast size in the stereotypical way.
It brings to mind the generalization that men focus on penis length, yet I doubt that their discussions about size would follow the pattern of the banter between my aunt and I. Rather than boldly boasting about our attributes, we express relief, gratitude, and surprise that the flesh remains.
Aside from the first bra shopping experience as a tween, I don't recall bra shopping with anyone since.
It was a somewhat odd thing to do with my aunt now that I am in my forties. But shopping with her made this chore surprisingly pleasant.
Our bodies, attitudes, and relationships change gradually. Its funny that it takes an experience like shopping for bras with my aunt to put that transformation into perspective.
The breasts appeared, thankfully not in the oversized version that burdened my mother. Although they were modest, they had to be harnessed.
At some point, my mother forced me to go bra shopping. It was intensely embarrassing experience, although now I don't know why I felt that way. I looked for the plainest, simplest bras I could find. Still, I found these wire and lace-free contraptions intensely uncomfortable.
Thirty plus years later, I still avoid bra shopping.
This weekend, my aunt (a breast cancer survivor) mentioned that she needed to get bras and needed a fitting. Since we were in a mall running her errands and we had to walk through the store to get to the car, I recommended going to the lingerie section of Nordstrom's.
While she was in the fitting room, I rummaged through the sale rack. Since I had nothing else to do, I thought it was a good time to finish this long-avoided errand for myself and started trying bras on.
Within minutes, I was getting a fitting in the dressing room across from my aunt. This was an unexpected bonding experience.
We joked about my diminishing breasts. I've lost weight since buying my last set of bras and the cup material had begun puckering. I was bracing for an A, AA, or AAA.
She seemed pleasantly surprised that her fitting revealed she needed a double D cup. I was pleased to remain in a B.
Its strange to realize that we care about our breast size in the stereotypical way.
It brings to mind the generalization that men focus on penis length, yet I doubt that their discussions about size would follow the pattern of the banter between my aunt and I. Rather than boldly boasting about our attributes, we express relief, gratitude, and surprise that the flesh remains.
Aside from the first bra shopping experience as a tween, I don't recall bra shopping with anyone since.
It was a somewhat odd thing to do with my aunt now that I am in my forties. But shopping with her made this chore surprisingly pleasant.
Our bodies, attitudes, and relationships change gradually. Its funny that it takes an experience like shopping for bras with my aunt to put that transformation into perspective.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Reacquainted
It appears that I suffer from a strange amnesia. I seem to have the same revelations over and over. It astonishes me that I can forget a revelation.
It is a shame, because these insights should be instructive. I should build on them to improve my life.
This week I was in Washington, DC doing a freelance project for a client I had a decade ago. I haven't worked in public policy since 1999. It was strange instance of deja vu to be riding the Metro and visiting Congressional offices.
I was reintroduced to people I worked with while lobbying. We haven't met in ten years, and an unacknowledged assessment of our alterations accompanied each of our greetings.
The things I recall are also strange. While walking in the basement of the Dirksen building I remembered that there was a crummy cafe in the area that had a wonderful veggie burger.
Of course, some things have changed. The staffers seem impossibly young to me now. Security has made access to buildings more difficult.
The gift from this experience is that hard-gained knowledge was submerged rather than erased. While holding discussions with Congressional staffers and my peers, long forgotten points of food safety policy emerged.
The insight I want to recall is that the work of the past always informs the present. The conventional view is that the events of the past are dead. I finally threw away all of my records related to public policy work in August 2008. Now I find myself unexpectedly engaged in it again.
I retain easily the notion that negative past events can haunt a person at any time, but it somehow surprises me to realize that neutral or positive past experiences can influence one's life years later.
I tend to underestimate my power, skills, and resources. What I hope to recall in the future is that my experiences live within me and can be tapped at any time.
It is a shame, because these insights should be instructive. I should build on them to improve my life.
This week I was in Washington, DC doing a freelance project for a client I had a decade ago. I haven't worked in public policy since 1999. It was strange instance of deja vu to be riding the Metro and visiting Congressional offices.
I was reintroduced to people I worked with while lobbying. We haven't met in ten years, and an unacknowledged assessment of our alterations accompanied each of our greetings.
The things I recall are also strange. While walking in the basement of the Dirksen building I remembered that there was a crummy cafe in the area that had a wonderful veggie burger.
Of course, some things have changed. The staffers seem impossibly young to me now. Security has made access to buildings more difficult.
The gift from this experience is that hard-gained knowledge was submerged rather than erased. While holding discussions with Congressional staffers and my peers, long forgotten points of food safety policy emerged.
The insight I want to recall is that the work of the past always informs the present. The conventional view is that the events of the past are dead. I finally threw away all of my records related to public policy work in August 2008. Now I find myself unexpectedly engaged in it again.
I retain easily the notion that negative past events can haunt a person at any time, but it somehow surprises me to realize that neutral or positive past experiences can influence one's life years later.
I tend to underestimate my power, skills, and resources. What I hope to recall in the future is that my experiences live within me and can be tapped at any time.
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