365 Project

Perhaps in my previous posts I have expressed a need to document my NYC experience, not only because of the city, but also because I am 24 and well, why not? Inspired by a friend on my messageboard of choice, I decided to commit to taking at least one photograph of each day. These photographs will range from quirky personal jokes to hopefully beautiful pictures of the city. I am not sure.


March 12 2009
4:30pm
The walk from Prospect Heights to Park Slope on a rainy, pre-spring day. Quiet streets.


March 13 2009
Before noon
92nd Street Y on Lexington Avenue
A mass of people outside the Family Center after a fire alarm. So many strollers and so many kids without their coats!


March 14 2009
4pm
Walk from the Brooklyn Museum to my apartment. Washington Ave and St. John's Place.

March 15 2009
6pm
Kings Highway Platform for the Manhattan bound local Q train. View from elevated platform to Rainbow and Kings Highway.


March 16 2009 (well, more like 17th!)
Around midnight
Coffee table where my The Smiths: The Early Years resides. A piece of Morrissey's very fragrant shirt from the Wellmont Theatre show in Montclair, NJ.


March 17 2009
Around noon
The St. Patrick's Day parade from E 74th St & 5th Ave. How did this man becomes Irishman of the Year 2005?


March 18 2009
Noon
Home sick. Awfulness...


March 19 2009
7pm
Note from roommate. Not applicable at this time!


March 20 2009
Morning
Home sick, again. Cheryl dress on floor, dirty, dirty floor...


March 21 2009
Early morning
Don't want to go to work, don't want to go to work! As I walk down the corridor to the elevator to the train.


March 22 2009
Noon
Yellow Chinatown cookie. Radioactive?!

Perceiving Art: Large and Small

As I sit here waiting for my pizza delivery, I indulged in one of my liberal activities, that is, reading the New York Times. A coworker recently told me that the paper preaches to the choir. True in its editorial pages, I would concede, but as Paul Krugman put it in his last column, perhaps reality has a liberal slant.

What's interesting is that in a few days there have been two art reviews published where the critic was less than impressed with the ostentatious presentation and content of exhibitions. They both note that this is a less than opportune time to be flashy, blockbuster, and self-congratulating, given that the markets are spinning out of control and millions of Americans are on their way to losing their jobs if they haven't already. This call for somberness and solidarity with the struggle of many Americans could be perceived by the cynics as just an act, but I find it fascinating that the social narrative we're all a part of shapes our perceptions of art, new and old. I find these two instances interesting because art, particularly modern and contemporary art, has the luxury of being self-involved...except when the atmosphere of the country (...and of the world) shuns those bursts of opulence.

Damien Hirst's auction is a whole other matter. I will be the first to admit that I do not know nearly enough about how art is bought and sold. My naive impression is that most of those buyers were not British or American.

In a Faceoff, the Masters Trump Picasso

Gems:

PARIS — No show in Europe at the moment bids to be more spectacular, or ends up being more exasperating, than “Picasso and the Masters,” sprawling here through the Grand Palais. If there’s good news to the financial meltdown, it’s that maybe bloated blockbusters like this one should become harder to organize.

....

I lingered in the last room, watching visitors stumble a bit bleary-eyed from the earlier galleries to find Manet’s “Olympia,” Rembrandt’s painting of Hendrickje Stoffels bathing in a brook, Ingres’s grisaille “Odalisque” and Goya’s “Naked Maja” vying with a slew of late, mostly slapdash nudes by the great matador of Modernism. The whole ensemble of pictures was dazzling and fatuous. “Overkill” doesn’t adequately describe the effect.

....

Perhaps it’s as the photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson once put it, talking about Picasso’s failure to appreciate Bonnard. “Picasso had no heart,” he said. That’s pretty harsh.

On the other hand, there are his copies of Velazquez’s “Méninas.” From the 1950s, they tinker with variations on his familiar devices — the fractured, faux-childish faces; the swift, sketchy brushwork; the primary colors set often against black; the clattery scaffolding of faceted planes and accordion space — to produce what looks clever but finally cartoonish when considered against the grave dignity and humanity of the original. Granted, comparing anything with “Las Méninas” is unfair, but then, Picasso invited the comparison, and from it one gets Cartier-Bresson’s point.

...

Picasso’s later career, you might say, was a one-man wrestling match with the limits of his own enormous genius in relation to history, and his failures were, humanly speaking, as compelling as his accomplishments, but that interpretation requires from an exhibition not blind hero worship but, as Delacroix had it, a little humility. The show here lacks this altogether, substituting swagger for judgment, bluster for nuance, and in art, as in politics and finance, we’ve had enough of that approach already.

...

We tend to judge exhibitions as we do one another, according to their regard for individuals. We’re awed by flash and fame. But we’re really looking to make some deeper connection, even just one, beyond the bluster and hype, that feels lasting and true.

It was those almond eyes, I realized later on the street outside, thinking back on that portrait. They were hollow

I will come clean and admit that Picasso's work has never touched me. There are a few of his paintings here and there that interest me or pull me in, but I would not cite him as one of the artists who has shaped me as an art historian, much less as a person. Cartier Bresson's quote is spot on. We do seek a deeper connection with art. Why do we look at it if it isn't to gain something from it? Something as intangible as a simple experience where everything feels as if it falls into place. Perhaps during this financial crises we need that something, art or not, that can give us a similar comfort. Something that makes sense and has heart.

The other art review is for this art complex in the middle of Central Park commissioned by Chanel. I would call the review for Mobile Art scathing.

Art and Commerce Canoodling in Central Park

Gems:

The wild, delirious ride that architecture has been on for the last decade looks as if it’s finally coming to an end. And after a visit to the Chanel Pavilion that opened Monday in Central Park, you may think it hasn’t come soon enough.

...

Yet if devoting so much intellectual effort to such a dubious undertaking might have seemed indulgent a year ago, today it looks delusional.

It’s not just that New York and much of the rest of the world are preoccupied by economic turmoil, although the timing could hardly be worse. It’s that the pavilion sets out to drape an aura of refinement over a cynical marketing gimmick. Surveying its self-important exhibits, you can’t help but hope that the era of exploiting the so-called intersection of architecture, art and fashion is finally over.

...

But traumatic events have a way of making you see things more clearly. When Rem Koolhaas’s Prada shop opened in SoHo three months after the World Trade Center attacks, it was immediately lampooned as a symbol of the fashion world’s clueless self-absorption. The shop was dominated by a swooping stage that was conceived as a great communal theater, a kind of melding of shopping and civic life. Instead, it conjured Champagne-swilling fashionistas parading across a stage, oblivious to the suffering around them.

The Chanel Pavilion may be less convoluted in its aims, but its message is no less noxious...

Opening the pavilion in Central Park only aggravates the wince factor. Frederick Law Olmsted planned the park as a great democratic experiment, an immense social mixing place as well as an instrument of psychological healing for the weary. The Chanel project reminds us how far we have traveled from those ideals by dismantling the boundary between the civic realm and corporate interests.

The pavilion’s coiled form, in which visitors spiral ever deeper into a black hole of bad art and superficial temptations, straying farther and farther from the real world outside, is an elaborate mousetrap for consumers...

One would hope that our economic crisis leads us to a new level of introspection and that architects will feel compelled to devote their talents to more worthwhile — dare I say idealistic? — causes.

Told you, scathing. Loved the mention of Olmsted. A hero.

All of this brings me to what I originally wanted to write about, the African textile show, "The Essential Art of African Textiles" at the Met. It's show is wonderful in its scale and in its contents. The Met has paired select pieces from its permanent collection with more contemporary works that reference or use African textiles. I do not know very much about this subject, but after walking around taking in the show piece by piece, I felt more informed about this important art form and its place in African society. There were two pieces in particular that amazed me.



This is a steel sculpture of an African woman textile shopping. Sokari Douglas Camp uses negative space so wonderfully. I was amazed by how soft the woman's dress looks, despite the fact that it's made of steel. Also, it's such a bold choice to depict fabric through a hard metal.



I am disappointed that there aren't better photographs of this amazing piece. It is a protective tunic that has every inch inscribed with passages from the Koran. The power of words are used to protect the soldier. The Met used the phrase, "mystical body armor" where the words are more symbolically used as a barrier, rather than meant to be read. While I was looking at this I felt very emotional and was reminded of the overwhelmingly power and beauty of the remaining Moorish architecture in Spain. In some sense, the inscribed walls of the Alhambra sought to do the same as the tunic.

That entire day at the Met was pretty amazing. I even saw a man playing the accordion in a Central Park nook and a dad and daughter dancing...while the dad was smoking a pipe. Heartwarming. I also walked from 80th to 45th, so I was pretty exhausted by the end.

No End In Sight

You'd think that having a full time job that's stable, in a good work environment, with some level of prestige, and a fun-money-for-hanging-out-and-paying-off-credit-card job would relieve some of the pressure I have been feeling for a year.

They don't.

I have bigger responsibilities. More things depend on me. And I have a new place which means I have to buy everything. Everyday is a constant struggle of what do I need vs what I want. Ikea and Bed, Bath & Beyond must love me for the hundreds of dollars I've spent there. Today I have to buy a wireless router and figure out how to connect everyones Macs to said router and how to make a secure connection. I'm sure it's easy. But it's really not something I look forward to at 8pm at night.

To add to this stressful mess, what is upsetting me lately is my commute to work. It's not the LENGTH of time on the train that kills me, it's that 8:30am rush of people getting in and out of the subway with lots of pushing in the middle. It's a good thing most people are silent on the train. I imagine everyone keeps their lips tightly shut because if they didn't imagine the barrage of profanities that would pour out? That's how I feel, anyhow.

Strangely enough, after my murderous thoughts on the subway each morning, whenever I get off the train and walk to work, I often feel a sense of glee because I am living in one of the best cities in the world. And guess what? I am making it.

Plus, I have found the train that's going to allow me my sanity.



This lovely train offers me outside platforms (which means light and relative fresh air) and the view of the Brooklyn Bridge and Lower Manhattan when crossing over the Manhattan Bridge. What more could I want?

Crossing bridge





I love photos of people waiting on subways. Thanks flickr!

Borough Snobbery

Inevitably, there is some borough rivalry.

Manhattan is obviously the forerunner, as it is the most densely populated and it is honestly where everything happens. Not to mention that its exclusivity is a big draw. Money!

The Bronx never crosses my mind, to be honest, so that says a lot.

Queens really reminds me of Los Angeles in the way that when I am there I truly feel the importance of family and community. It makes me feel a bit nostalgic, though not particularly excited.































Brooklyn is obviously awesome. I am biased, no doubt. In any case, this borough is incredibly racially diverse, but also in terms of who lives here. Everyday things change. Neighborhoods change. Streets change. Even attitudes change. There are the grimy, scary parts a block away from the beautifully renovated brownstone streets and a vibrant art community right next to a scrap metal site. It takes some time living here to appreciate the beauty of the borough from the BQE right where the F and G train bridges come into view--all of those old signs with only a few letters left. One one side you have the beautiful lower manhattan skyline, with the added bonus of the statue of liberty and on the other you have the remnants of industrial Brooklyn.

I live on the frontier between Bed-Stuy and Clinton Hill, two different areas that are gradually becoming more like each other. Conflicting feelings about this, of course. But that's another post. All of this to say is that it's so vibrant. People here are young, eager, artistic, and supportive of their borough (for the most part).

I hardly ever (actually, I can't think of a time I have...) get into discussions about how Brooklyn is so totally awesome and better than Manhattan because to be honest it'd be awesome to live in Manhattan if I had that income to support a luxurious lifestyle there! I will take the time now to say, though, that I am a very happy Brooklynite and as a non-native I feel lucky to be living in a place where I can feel so amazingly alive. To turn around and in every corner there be something I am grateful to see and experience is a privilege.


Now...

Staten Island is definitely the borough that is seen as the black sheep of the family. I don't know anyone from there, except the Jewish culture teacher at camp, so I cannot say anything about personal experiences. But I will say that today I drove through a large part of it and a big downside, and perhaps why Staten Island gets to much shit, is because it feels and looks nothing like New York. It feels American. It feels as if I could be anywhere in this country and, to be honest, today it couldn't have mattered whether I was in America or in Germany because my surroundings were so not New York, that special something this city has. The special something people continue to move here in droves, despite the rents that bleed you dry and the the ever increasing price of public transportation (and in my case, the G train!...which I kind of love). This lack of personality on the streets, in its shops, in its homes, is troubling to someone who adores that inherent nature of chaotic urban living. I was repulsed by it.

Perhaps I should add that my time in the depths of Staten Island was spent at a cosmic bowling alley. How weird is that? Every bowling alley, no matter where it is, always seems a step out of tme, as if the time passes and the bowling alley cannot keep up even decades and decades later. It isn't even out of time in a kitschy sense, but rather in a mindfucking time warp way. I always feel a little duller and less hopeful in bowling alleys.

Photos from this great blog post: Bridge and Tunnel Crowd http://www.bridgeandtunnelclub.com/bigmap/brooklyn/gowanus/smith-9th/index.htm

Time to Keep Score

It has been almost a year since I moved to New York and everyday I tell myself that I must document this time in my life. Why? Well, the internet makes it remarkably easy. Also, I hardly ever admit to this because to some extent it is rather corny. It is very 'starry-eyed West coast girl' of me. I had been dreaming about moving to this city since the first time I visited in 2003. Keep in mind that back then I was in Morningside Heights visiting Columbia University and Barnard College. Nonetheless, I fell in love with the energy, even if I did feel as if I was betraying my native city of Los Angeles.

Immediately I became the annoying person that championed the New York City version of urban centers and denounced the car haven known ask Los Angeles. Since then, however, I have reconciled my love for both cities.

Though I moved here ten months ago or so, it is until now that I feel like a true part of this city. Up until now I have been pretending. Why did I suddenly graduate into being a New Yorker?

1) Having more than one job: Currently I have two jobs. I babysit and I also teach art at a camp. All of my friends have more than one job. A few have three jobs. We are all constantly working. Oh, and did I mention I am also a 'freelancer'? (Find me another city that has this many freelancers per square foot.)

2) Real Estate is a major topic of conversation: See, I thought that when I first was looking for an apartment (from the wonderful luxuries of the Upper East Side), it was tough and stressful. That was only a search for a ROOM in an apartment, which ultimately meant that I paid rent, I had room. NOW looking for an actual apartment involves thousands of dollars upfront and the sad, pitiful realization that no you cannot live in Fort Greene or even Clinton Hill. It is Crown Heights or Bed-Stuy for you! Now, don't get me wrong, I am ultimately from the 'hood, if you will, but it is more of a distance barrier for me. Far from my cafes, far from reliable trains, far from young people. Now, this is remarkably pessimistic. There are thousands of young people in my same position. But this brings me to my next point....

3) Complaining/whining is a hobby: I have never complained more in my life! The trains aren't running on their regular line. The metrocard machines are full of people who don't know what they're doing. The doctors office has a ridiculous wait and I have to get back to work. The supermarkets here drive me up the fucking wall (how hard is it to shop here you ask? Argh, honestly, don't get me started). People here are fucking rude. Why can't they be a little more patient? A little more polite? No, I do not appreciate it when you push me when you are trying to get on the bus OR when you're trying to get off the bus. Yes, I will push you if you are standing RIGHT IN FRONT of the doors to exit or enter the train. I can't believe I am paying this much for rent and I live HERE. $10 salad? What a deal. Etc etc etc...

I will continue to add to this list.

Now for an amazing photograph courtesy of the Gowanus Lounge

View woodendesigner's map

Taken in a place with no name (See more photos or videos here)

So I was walking back home from Park Slope the other day and saw this stuff floating in the Gowanus canal as I walked over the Carroll street bridge. Every now and then you can see this stuff floating in the canal. I'm not sure what kind of pollution it is but it is definitely pollution. It makes me kind of ill knowing that it is in there and that I live a mere block and a half away but at the same time there is some beauty in it. The sun was out and the colors coming off this garbage was really amazing.
I'm guessing that this stuff is part of the reason Whole Foods is not open yet on 3rd street...... but that is more than I want to get into right now.