Drowning out the rest of the universe with my headphones nestled in my ears, I watched the D train pull up, much to my dismay. I was waiting for the R train in Park Slope. It was nighttime, around 10 or 11. I tend to get jumpy taking the subway late at night anyway (blah blah blah insert how are you possibly a New Yorker comment here), but my blood pressure spiked when a woman to my left reached out and grabbed my forearm. My hand went into defense mode, almost ready to strike--I actually saw myself throwing her away from me, action-hero style-- until I noticed her eyes. Dark brown, they looked at me earnestly under a mountain of shiny, dark brown tresses. She actually needed help.
"Excuse me," she said, her words glossed with French. "Do you know if I can take this train to 34th Street?" I had to force my brain to function again, in a non-defensive mode. I pulled a headphone from one ear. I barely heard her and stared at her in disbelief. Did this woman just touch me? Could she take the train to 34th Street? I could hardly form words.
I was dumbfounded not only that someone had touched me on the subway, had grabbed me, but by my own response to it. I realized I had been in New York so long that any kind of physical contact was grounds for defense. And perhaps rightly so. We're told constantly to have our wits about us at all times, that we're not in Kansas anymore, and the best offense is a good defense. You never know who you're traveling with, who you're on a date with, who lives in your building. We're taught to keep as far away from strangers as possible, not just as New Yorkers but from birth, anywhere, with anyone.
But this woman at the subway station meant me no harm. Of course, there's no way for me to know that and it's best to have your guard up at all times, you say. True, but what interests me is the cultural exchange here. I can't tell you about this woman's culture--maybe this is completely normal where she is from? And I was about to karate chop her across the face just for asking for directions. Is that how New Yorkers got the tough reputation we have?
When we arrive in New York, we're bright and shiny, big eyes and bushy tails, ready to explore. The world is a beautiful place! We sparkle in ways we don't once we've lived here awhile, as GD says. You can always tell when someone is new. We smile and we shake our heads--soon you will learn, young grasshopper. It's not that the city beats you down, necessarily, but the lessons we learn here are magnified more I think than they are elsewhere. The motion, the force of the city changes the way you view the world. It makes us into those so-called "jaded New Yorkers." But this bright, shiny energy isn't crushed, it's made into a different, more knowledgeable kind of energy; it has more common sense, more street smarts, but it doesn't dull our fascination with the city and its immeasurable power. So the reputation is real, but how it got there isn't necessarily correct. We haven't done it all and seen it all; we're just still surprised at what we have seen.
For these reasons, it's important to understand oneself as one relates to New York. How do you feed off the energy that whirls around these five boroughs of ours? What does it do to you? Does it make you homesick? Does it make you dependent on others? Does it make you fall into yourself? Does it make your forget your responsibilities, or only focus on them? Everyone's experience of the city is different, everyone responds to the energy in different ways. For some, it's destructive. For some, it's uplifting. But there's absolutely no denying that it changes you and forces yourself to look at your life in ways you may not have if you lived somewhere else. You're in the arts? There's literally hundreds of thousands competing with you. How badly do you want it? Or you're in business. How willing are you to exchange your free time for your salary? Or you're looking for love. How willing are you to make time for someone else, to sit on the train for however long just to see their face when you could just as easily drive there in 20 minutes if only you had a car?
People who have lived in New York for a long time, longer than myself surely, have their guard up because they know the weight of these questions could break them at anytime. I don't want it enough, or I want more time, or I don't love you enough. Or I want it, I need less time, I love you. And in the seconds it takes for me to take my headphones out of my ears to answer this woman's question, all of this is running through my brain at once, causing the words to barely exit my mouth in time for her to catch the train. As much as I wanted to reprimand her, to say "DON'T TOUCH ME," to slap her hand away, I remembered the times when I felt homesick, alone, lost, confused, like I was floundering. Finally, I did get words out, but in not enough time for her to catch the D before the door closed. I told her she could take the R instead.
Step 1: Move to New York. Step 2: Have experiences.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Saturday, July 6, 2013
The Sweaty Rock Shows of Yore
Ah yes, "yore," that nebulous time period sometime between the Revolutionary War and yesterday, when we throwback our heads and laugh at what silly small persons we were. Throwing all of that tea into the river, ha! Attending a rock show in a room with no windows or air conditioning, ha!
When I was in high school, I wanted nothing more than to attend the scads of All Ages shows that descended upon Fort Lauderdale at this venue called The Factory (we also sometimes went to shows at PIS, or "PISS," as it was known--Pompano Indoor Skatepark; and Revolution, an outdoor venue where you almost instantly got contact highs from all the weed.). It was, essentially, a box with a stage and lights, like most venues you attend when you are 16. I only made it to a few, however, because so many of them were on school nights and I was horribly anal-retentive about my grades and my clubs and my leadership roles. I should have gotten lost in the mosh pits more often, had elbows thrust at my back and neck while some band played I had never heard of, lead singer screaming into the microphone. Because when you are 16, you didn't just come for the band you wanted to see (Finch, Recover, HIM) you showed up early, maybe an hour before the show started, because you wanted to stand in the front the entire time and get jostled around and tell your friends the next day about what a badass you were for punching some girl in the face when she tried to take your spot (you would conveniently leave out that it was on accident and that you apologized profusely and got her an ice pack when it happened). It builds character. And if nothing else, it certainly prepares you for an average subway ride in New York.
Last night, I had a the most throwback-tastic experience of attending a rock show in a similar venue to my beloved Factory, Death by Audio in Williamsburg. DBA is another All Ages venue and it even has a 1am curfew. Tacked up on the brightly painted walls are posters for bands coming through, dates and times scrawled in a sometimes illegible Sharpie. Girls in red lipstick and horn-rimmed glasses check my ID and stamp my wrist with a giant bleeding eyeball that later, after a shower and 9 hours of sleep, will still not come off.
I enter the stage area and my skin immediately starts to weep. The air conditioning is out in the venue and soon I am covered in a suit of my own sweat, listening to a band I have never heard of. A singer yowls on the microphone like a wounded bear while a guitar on a cocaine bender almost drowns his voice out entirely. People are pogoing and moshing in the middle of the venue's floor and I almost instantly have flashbacks to my days as a wannabe punk, when I didn't so much like the music my friends liked as wanted to go out and do something that wasn't staying at home another weekend with my parents. This time, I didn't push and shove my way to the front because, dear god, the mere sight of the amount of people up there made my skin drip even more. I hung out in the back for the sets I didn't want to see. I am standing here for rock and roll, because that is what you do--you sweat, you stand, you bleed, and you bruise. Or, you come to your damn senses and grow up and wait outside until the band you actually want to hear comes on because, let's face it, you have a comp ticket tonight and 'getting your money's worth' doesn't really mean anything. In the grand words of Roger Murtaugh...So, at the ripe-old age of 24 you reevaluate your standards for rock show quality: you have one skin to give for rock and roll, and it's not for some band you don't even like.
But I promise you, as soon as the band you do want to see comes on, you push your way to the front like a boss and you stand there the entire set, leaning on a speaker, eardrums severely endangered, because if you're really gonna love a band, you're gonna go hard and with absolutely no hesitation. You can't just love everyone, you can't just tough it out for everyone. It makes the deepest love less meaningful.
When I was in high school, I wanted nothing more than to attend the scads of All Ages shows that descended upon Fort Lauderdale at this venue called The Factory (we also sometimes went to shows at PIS, or "PISS," as it was known--Pompano Indoor Skatepark; and Revolution, an outdoor venue where you almost instantly got contact highs from all the weed.). It was, essentially, a box with a stage and lights, like most venues you attend when you are 16. I only made it to a few, however, because so many of them were on school nights and I was horribly anal-retentive about my grades and my clubs and my leadership roles. I should have gotten lost in the mosh pits more often, had elbows thrust at my back and neck while some band played I had never heard of, lead singer screaming into the microphone. Because when you are 16, you didn't just come for the band you wanted to see (Finch, Recover, HIM) you showed up early, maybe an hour before the show started, because you wanted to stand in the front the entire time and get jostled around and tell your friends the next day about what a badass you were for punching some girl in the face when she tried to take your spot (you would conveniently leave out that it was on accident and that you apologized profusely and got her an ice pack when it happened). It builds character. And if nothing else, it certainly prepares you for an average subway ride in New York.
Last night, I had a the most throwback-tastic experience of attending a rock show in a similar venue to my beloved Factory, Death by Audio in Williamsburg. DBA is another All Ages venue and it even has a 1am curfew. Tacked up on the brightly painted walls are posters for bands coming through, dates and times scrawled in a sometimes illegible Sharpie. Girls in red lipstick and horn-rimmed glasses check my ID and stamp my wrist with a giant bleeding eyeball that later, after a shower and 9 hours of sleep, will still not come off.
I enter the stage area and my skin immediately starts to weep. The air conditioning is out in the venue and soon I am covered in a suit of my own sweat, listening to a band I have never heard of. A singer yowls on the microphone like a wounded bear while a guitar on a cocaine bender almost drowns his voice out entirely. People are pogoing and moshing in the middle of the venue's floor and I almost instantly have flashbacks to my days as a wannabe punk, when I didn't so much like the music my friends liked as wanted to go out and do something that wasn't staying at home another weekend with my parents. This time, I didn't push and shove my way to the front because, dear god, the mere sight of the amount of people up there made my skin drip even more. I hung out in the back for the sets I didn't want to see. I am standing here for rock and roll, because that is what you do--you sweat, you stand, you bleed, and you bruise. Or, you come to your damn senses and grow up and wait outside until the band you actually want to hear comes on because, let's face it, you have a comp ticket tonight and 'getting your money's worth' doesn't really mean anything. In the grand words of Roger Murtaugh...So, at the ripe-old age of 24 you reevaluate your standards for rock show quality: you have one skin to give for rock and roll, and it's not for some band you don't even like.
But I promise you, as soon as the band you do want to see comes on, you push your way to the front like a boss and you stand there the entire set, leaning on a speaker, eardrums severely endangered, because if you're really gonna love a band, you're gonna go hard and with absolutely no hesitation. You can't just love everyone, you can't just tough it out for everyone. It makes the deepest love less meaningful.
 |
| Speedy Ortiz at Death by Audio |
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Mermaids DO exist!
"If you have a problem with nudity of any kind, now is the time to leave!" shouted Brooklyn borough president Marty Markowitz in his thick, New York accent as he floated down Surf Avenue on Coney Island. "The Mermaid Parade is on its way!"
The Mermaid Parade is the nation's biggest art parade, where people of all shapes, sizes, and sexes put their personal spin on sea life in some of the most creative, ridiculous, and sometimes risque ways. The parade itself has been going strong for 30 years, and it's not only a celebration of the summer solstice, but of self-expression and self-esteem.
This year, the mermaids faced a big threat--Hurricane Sandy had destroyed the Coney Island Freak Show, Museum, and Gift Shop, so funding for the parade, which typically comes from those sources, had been slashed. Luckily, the parade ran a successful Kickstarter campaign and met their funding goal of $100,000 and then some!
I hadn't been to the parade since I moved to New York, and I wasn't going to let another year go by. I woke up early, got my bagel and cream cheese at the corner bodega, and hopped on the train. Leaving the station at Coney Island, it was a swarm of people greater than I had experienced even at Grand Central during rush hour. I was nervous--despite living in New York for almost three years, I don't like large crowds, or standing still and getting stuck in them. It's not a claustrophobia thing, just an I'M SO IMPATIENT thing. So when at one point I was trapped in a herd of people standing stock still on a sidewalk, I worried that perhaps I had not made the right decision to come all the way down here. But I felt my impatience getting the best of me and took a deep breath, ultimately finding a great photo-taking spot right next to the police barricade.
What I instantly noticed about the Mermaid Parade is the good-natured rowdiness of its crowd. People had camped out in lawn chairs with coolers, some themselves in mermaid attire, cheering on participants. One woman held a sign that said 'I Love Dick,' a salute to the Coney Island drummer of the same name. And of course they're there to see scantily clad persons in mermaid/merman/merperson regalia. Sometimes a tail and pasties is all you'll see, or even head-to-toe body paint with a few strategically placed shells.
My favorite sea creatures were the ones who, to be cliche about it, thought outside the box a little bit. There was a Frankenmermaid, a woman who made her tail out of sand castle toys, a lobster girl being chased around by a chef with a big silver pot, a mermaid on top of a bundle of rice being pushed by a man dressed as a sushi chef, a Carmen Mer-anda, a man who made his fish costume out of Metro Cards, a man in drag wearing what you could tell was a homemade coral reef costume, and heaven knows what else. Mad props to the parents who bring their children to watch the parade, too, as if to say 'these are bodies and you are not to be afraid of them.' For the parade itself, the adult costumes and the children's costumes are of course separated but hey, Markowitz gave fair warning!
There's truth to the idea that happiness and joy are catching. For a few hours, I was swallowed up by the Mermaid Parade, troubles gone and only a glittery, shell-encrusted interior remained. It was enough to carry me through the rest of the day. Which, of course, included a trip to Nathan's that was, is, and always will be worth the crazy wait in line to get one of their mythical corn dogs; an hour or two on the beach reading New York magazine, and a trip home with more mermaids, and even a pirate or two. Some stuff you just can't make up.
The Mermaid Parade is the nation's biggest art parade, where people of all shapes, sizes, and sexes put their personal spin on sea life in some of the most creative, ridiculous, and sometimes risque ways. The parade itself has been going strong for 30 years, and it's not only a celebration of the summer solstice, but of self-expression and self-esteem.
This year, the mermaids faced a big threat--Hurricane Sandy had destroyed the Coney Island Freak Show, Museum, and Gift Shop, so funding for the parade, which typically comes from those sources, had been slashed. Luckily, the parade ran a successful Kickstarter campaign and met their funding goal of $100,000 and then some!
I hadn't been to the parade since I moved to New York, and I wasn't going to let another year go by. I woke up early, got my bagel and cream cheese at the corner bodega, and hopped on the train. Leaving the station at Coney Island, it was a swarm of people greater than I had experienced even at Grand Central during rush hour. I was nervous--despite living in New York for almost three years, I don't like large crowds, or standing still and getting stuck in them. It's not a claustrophobia thing, just an I'M SO IMPATIENT thing. So when at one point I was trapped in a herd of people standing stock still on a sidewalk, I worried that perhaps I had not made the right decision to come all the way down here. But I felt my impatience getting the best of me and took a deep breath, ultimately finding a great photo-taking spot right next to the police barricade.
What I instantly noticed about the Mermaid Parade is the good-natured rowdiness of its crowd. People had camped out in lawn chairs with coolers, some themselves in mermaid attire, cheering on participants. One woman held a sign that said 'I Love Dick,' a salute to the Coney Island drummer of the same name. And of course they're there to see scantily clad persons in mermaid/merman/merperson regalia. Sometimes a tail and pasties is all you'll see, or even head-to-toe body paint with a few strategically placed shells.
My favorite sea creatures were the ones who, to be cliche about it, thought outside the box a little bit. There was a Frankenmermaid, a woman who made her tail out of sand castle toys, a lobster girl being chased around by a chef with a big silver pot, a mermaid on top of a bundle of rice being pushed by a man dressed as a sushi chef, a Carmen Mer-anda, a man who made his fish costume out of Metro Cards, a man in drag wearing what you could tell was a homemade coral reef costume, and heaven knows what else. Mad props to the parents who bring their children to watch the parade, too, as if to say 'these are bodies and you are not to be afraid of them.' For the parade itself, the adult costumes and the children's costumes are of course separated but hey, Markowitz gave fair warning!
There's truth to the idea that happiness and joy are catching. For a few hours, I was swallowed up by the Mermaid Parade, troubles gone and only a glittery, shell-encrusted interior remained. It was enough to carry me through the rest of the day. Which, of course, included a trip to Nathan's that was, is, and always will be worth the crazy wait in line to get one of their mythical corn dogs; an hour or two on the beach reading New York magazine, and a trip home with more mermaids, and even a pirate or two. Some stuff you just can't make up.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
OXHEART Interview: Reacheadz
Yes, it's true! Another OXHEART show is upon us: SOuLSTICE CITY, this Friday, June 21 at The Suffolk Bar on the Lower East Side (tucked inside the Clemente Soto Velez Educational Center at 107 Suffolk Street b/t Delancey and Rivington)!* It's only $5 (21+)and we're psyched to welcome some superfunky bands, as well as performance and visual artists. We're also beyond excited to welcome the Reacheadz breakdance crew, who will be performing throughout the night. Check out an interview with crew member Ben Kassoy to learn more about them, and take a look at pictures from a rehearsal featuring crew members and friends!
How and when did Reacheadz start?
So the name Reacheadz comes from Project Reach, the community center in Chinatown where we practice. I'm not sure how long guys have been practicing there, but we formed a crew about a year ago.
How did you begin breaking?
I've danced all my life, mostly because my sister did. I took ballet, tap, and jazz growing up and then discovered breaking in college.
How do you keep your moves fresh?
I wish I could keep them fresher. Compared to most of the Reacheadz, I'm over the hill. I'm like an old man on the decline, compared to these young up-and-comers. I try to gain inspiration wherever I can, and I love watching different styles. One the beauties of breaking is that it's a fusion of styles and disciplines--martial arts, capoiera, Charleston, tap, jazz, gymnastics, etc.--and that it continues to encourage outside influences. I love watching kids do get lite on the subway or contemporary ballet in a theater or house in a club; all of it informs and inspires my moves.
How many members are there? What is the age range and/or what do you all do when you're not breaking?
There's no "official membership," but there are probably 10-12 of us. Most of the guys are in late high school or early college. Two of us are in our mid-20s and Eric, who I call our sensei, is in his 30s.
What are some tips you can offer to someone interested in learning how to break?
First, you can come out to practice with us. But understand that breaking started in the streets, so learning and practicing are much more informal than other dance styles. It's difficult to find classes, and even though the dance is more mainstream now, most people are self-taught. Watch a lot of videos and tutorials, listen to the music, practice on your own, then find a practice spot where you can learn moves and gain inspiration in an environment where you feel comfortable.
What are the most exciting and most challenging parts of breaking?
Sometimes the greatest challenges are more mental than physical. It's easy to see other people improving or mastering moves you want or performing a better version of your style and get discouraged. It's easy to have short spurts of improvement followed by long plateaus. It's hard and it's frustrating. The most exciting part is overcoming those hurdles mentally and physically, of feeling your body transcend a previous version of itself. It's exhilarating and keeps you focused.
What is a typical rehearsal like?
We don't really call it "rehearsal," because it's not that formal and we're generally not "rehearsing" for anything in particular. Instead, it's just a "practice" or a "session." It's laid back: we put on some music and generally have a few "cyphers," that is, where one person freestyles in the middle of the circle at one time. Sometimes we'll play games with freezes or footwork, and other times we'll battle each other. People come and go as they please; we work hard but laugh a lot, too.
Where do you break when you're not at practice?
New York City is the birthplace of breaking, so it hosts lots of "jams," that is, big public events with a DJ, cyphers, and battles. Sometimes we break in public places, like Union Square. I never go with the intention of doing this, but sometimes I cypher in clubs or find myself called out for a battle. It doesn't matter how drunk or unprepared you are: if someone calls you out, you have to smoke them.
What can OXHEART-goers expect from a Reacheadz performance?
Honestly, WE don't even really know what to expect, because we're just freestyling. The energy and the flow of our performance is really organic and can change based on a lot of things. It's definitely going to be raw, though: as in, everyone's style is really unique, so you're bound to see an eclectic mix of styles. Unlike some crews, our attitude is less confrontational and more creative. I don't want to hype us too hard, but the goal here is to inspire and amaze.
*sponsored post
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Happy Figment!
There comes a time in every lady's life where she has to embark on an aquatic journey to places unknown with a dear friend of hers who happens to have the same name, though spelled differently, and "see some mutherf*cking art."
So yeah, AS and I went to Governor's Island for Figment!
I had never been to Governor's Island before, and was intrigued to find that it requires a very short (15 minute) ferry trip across the raging waters surrounding Manhattan. We stood at the helm of the boat on the way over, watching Manhattan slowly tiptoe away from us while Governor's Island came into view, evidenced by the large signs overhead. The island was originally used to develop defenses and munitions during the Revolutionary War but now, thankfully, it plays host to a trove of events like Governor's Ball and our aforementioned reason for being there, Figment.
No, Figment is not just the lovable purple dragon who has a penchant for innovation at Disney World, it is also a free and free-form art fair on the island. People come and make interactive installations, they construct clever and imaginative tree houses as well as sites for dancing and for mini-golf, they hula-hoop, they hand out free costumes (my favorite was a Heinz Ketchup Packet, though others included tomatoes from Veggie Tales, Minnie Mouse, and fairy princesses), they build tree houses, they hand out QR code tattoos with which you might feel hesitant adorning your wrist when the man who hands it to you says he wants you to scan it so you can watch a video of him, and everyone has only the best intentions (the QR code linked back to a video of this gentleman singing "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes" and it was really quite adorable and totally appropriate).
For Figment, you just kind of show up with your artwork and there you are. Some installations are political (a tree made from McDonald's french fries--despite having been left outside for two years they looked almost the same as when one purchases them in their signature red paper containers), some are whimsical (an enclosed dance space made of recycled water bottles and containers), some are just sort of present (a teepee). Figment is like Burning Man, but far less scary, with no initiation, and child-friendly--it follows the 'Leave No Trace' ethic of Black Rock City, NV, in that you can bring whatever you like to show your art as long as any reminders of its existence are completely gone when you leave. It has this community feel, where everyone feels kindly toward another and is just there to appreciate the goodness of sharing work. Also, chicks with purple hair and dudes in pirate pants hula-hooping in wizard costumes!
Children and adults alike frolic in the exhibitions, though there is no climbing allowed on the artwork! We bounced on the bouncing balls, we surveyed the grounds from a treehouse painted in wild, neon colors, we boogied in the recycled bottle bubble and well, we just sort of looked at the teepee because it wasn't open when we were there (it was really cool to look at, though!).
The actual organization of Figment is a non-profit dedicated to building community through participatory art. Artists submit their work to be listed on the site, but even if people haven't done that they can still just come and share. The organization doesn't actually sell anything during the fair, either. The event runs on donations and is completely volunteer-driven.
I felt like I was in a hippie wonderland for a few hours, watching people play and just really enjoy themselves in a good-natured way. Perhaps New York has jaded me, or maybe just the general world has, but I feel like that's something we don't see nearly often enough. Fun, community, and sharing with no subtext. I mean, there was subtext in some of the art, but you know what I'm trying to say.
We even found ourselves in a child-like state, excited about strange temporary tattoos, interactive wooden wheels that clattered bells when you spun their handles, bicycles for four, mini-golf made out of old desktop computer parts, and a Game of Thrones replica throne. Not to mention a Mister Softee truck, which both of us realized we hadn't had in years (a Cherry Dip for me and a Chocolate Dip for AS). Ah, youth!
We made our way back to the ferry and a gentleman in a brown-fringed caveman costume rode past us on a bicycle. "Happy Figment!" he said. Happy Figment to you as well, sir!
As the saying goes, sometimes it's nice to forget you have bills to pay and lose yourself in a temporary dance space made of recycled water bottles. Or, you know, something like that.
Check out some pictures from the day!
So yeah, AS and I went to Governor's Island for Figment!
I had never been to Governor's Island before, and was intrigued to find that it requires a very short (15 minute) ferry trip across the raging waters surrounding Manhattan. We stood at the helm of the boat on the way over, watching Manhattan slowly tiptoe away from us while Governor's Island came into view, evidenced by the large signs overhead. The island was originally used to develop defenses and munitions during the Revolutionary War but now, thankfully, it plays host to a trove of events like Governor's Ball and our aforementioned reason for being there, Figment.
No, Figment is not just the lovable purple dragon who has a penchant for innovation at Disney World, it is also a free and free-form art fair on the island. People come and make interactive installations, they construct clever and imaginative tree houses as well as sites for dancing and for mini-golf, they hula-hoop, they hand out free costumes (my favorite was a Heinz Ketchup Packet, though others included tomatoes from Veggie Tales, Minnie Mouse, and fairy princesses), they build tree houses, they hand out QR code tattoos with which you might feel hesitant adorning your wrist when the man who hands it to you says he wants you to scan it so you can watch a video of him, and everyone has only the best intentions (the QR code linked back to a video of this gentleman singing "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes" and it was really quite adorable and totally appropriate).
For Figment, you just kind of show up with your artwork and there you are. Some installations are political (a tree made from McDonald's french fries--despite having been left outside for two years they looked almost the same as when one purchases them in their signature red paper containers), some are whimsical (an enclosed dance space made of recycled water bottles and containers), some are just sort of present (a teepee). Figment is like Burning Man, but far less scary, with no initiation, and child-friendly--it follows the 'Leave No Trace' ethic of Black Rock City, NV, in that you can bring whatever you like to show your art as long as any reminders of its existence are completely gone when you leave. It has this community feel, where everyone feels kindly toward another and is just there to appreciate the goodness of sharing work. Also, chicks with purple hair and dudes in pirate pants hula-hooping in wizard costumes!
Children and adults alike frolic in the exhibitions, though there is no climbing allowed on the artwork! We bounced on the bouncing balls, we surveyed the grounds from a treehouse painted in wild, neon colors, we boogied in the recycled bottle bubble and well, we just sort of looked at the teepee because it wasn't open when we were there (it was really cool to look at, though!).
The actual organization of Figment is a non-profit dedicated to building community through participatory art. Artists submit their work to be listed on the site, but even if people haven't done that they can still just come and share. The organization doesn't actually sell anything during the fair, either. The event runs on donations and is completely volunteer-driven.
I felt like I was in a hippie wonderland for a few hours, watching people play and just really enjoy themselves in a good-natured way. Perhaps New York has jaded me, or maybe just the general world has, but I feel like that's something we don't see nearly often enough. Fun, community, and sharing with no subtext. I mean, there was subtext in some of the art, but you know what I'm trying to say.
We even found ourselves in a child-like state, excited about strange temporary tattoos, interactive wooden wheels that clattered bells when you spun their handles, bicycles for four, mini-golf made out of old desktop computer parts, and a Game of Thrones replica throne. Not to mention a Mister Softee truck, which both of us realized we hadn't had in years (a Cherry Dip for me and a Chocolate Dip for AS). Ah, youth!
We made our way back to the ferry and a gentleman in a brown-fringed caveman costume rode past us on a bicycle. "Happy Figment!" he said. Happy Figment to you as well, sir!
As the saying goes, sometimes it's nice to forget you have bills to pay and lose yourself in a temporary dance space made of recycled water bottles. Or, you know, something like that.
Check out some pictures from the day!
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Are You There, Summer? It's Me, Miss Manhattan.
TECHNICALLY, summer begins June 21.
TECHNICALLY, a 90+ degree day should mean it's here already.
TECHNICALLY, New York Magazine's summer issue came out two weeks ago.
People have whatever opinions they like about when the season of long days that turn into simmering nights actually begins, but here's what I know:
I know that on Sunday, GD and I got stuck in a torrential downpour and it was one of the greatest moments of my week. Coming back from our friend's birthday in Alphabet City, there was a spitting sensation of rain in the air. It was annoying, but it was easy to deal with. Like if you were forced to stand one inch inside of a sprinkler's radius. Not the worst thing in the world but, ugh, come on. The universe saw how annoyed we were and decided to stop the sprinkle, replacing it instead with what can only be described as a torrential downpour. GD yelped and scurried for cover. I did for a bit, too, then I realized my sandals were falling off my feet and were about to break. I had to slow down and I realized--what was so bad about about this rain? And then I realized, "Just love it, baby! There's nothing we can do." So GD and I trotted up the street, attitudes instantly changed. I took out my camera and got some rain girl shots of us. The night before, at GD's birthday, someone shared what they wished they knew when they were 25--you'll never be as cute as you are right now. Vanity aside, there's something to it and all of those cliches: you'll never be as young as you are today; some people walk in the rain, others just get wet; life is not about avoiding the puddles but learning to dance in the rain. If anything, this moment in the rain was valuable for letting me see cliches in action.
After days of 90-or-so degree heat, heat that makes your skin sticky even indoors, that I'm not entirely unconvinced is responsible for melting the ice cream in our freezer, the downpour actually felt nice. After just two blocks, from Avenue B to A and A to 1st, we were utterly drenched. I had been meaning to wash my hair the next day anyway, and clothes are just clothes, you know? Lightning crackled the sky straight down 14th Street. We seemed to be the only people without umbrellas. I even remember leaving the apartment earlier in the evening, looking at the sky, opaque with grayish blue clouds. Nah, it won't rain. And if it does? I'll get wet. So I did.
Occasionally stepping in puddles I hoped would not give us Athlete's Foot, the rain started to feel more comfortable in that moment than an instant cease-water would have. Like running through a Slip-N-Slide or going to a water park as a child. This was New York's answer to those things, maybe? Because when there's no amusement park around you simply have to amuse yourself.
Why all the summer talk, then? Because in my mind, after this night, the season must be here. Summer, I think, is that season more than any other when people talk about their wild, misspent youth; long, lazy days free of responsibility and full of misbehavior. We leave our umbrellas home, we forget to wear sunblock, we get a little too tipsy at the beach. I mean, it's not like you can go out in February and just leave your coat at home, you know? It's almost like if it happens in the summertime it doesn't count. We have a summer fling--maybe not only with others but with ourselves, testing the limits of our personal boundaries just because it's hot outside.
So, New York, I'm living like it's summer now, whether or not the real summer is two weeks or so away. Give me your sticky nights that make my skin dewy, your rooftop parties, your french air conditioner kisses and your margaritas on the rocks. I'm ready.
TECHNICALLY, a 90+ degree day should mean it's here already.
TECHNICALLY, New York Magazine's summer issue came out two weeks ago.
People have whatever opinions they like about when the season of long days that turn into simmering nights actually begins, but here's what I know:
I know that on Sunday, GD and I got stuck in a torrential downpour and it was one of the greatest moments of my week. Coming back from our friend's birthday in Alphabet City, there was a spitting sensation of rain in the air. It was annoying, but it was easy to deal with. Like if you were forced to stand one inch inside of a sprinkler's radius. Not the worst thing in the world but, ugh, come on. The universe saw how annoyed we were and decided to stop the sprinkle, replacing it instead with what can only be described as a torrential downpour. GD yelped and scurried for cover. I did for a bit, too, then I realized my sandals were falling off my feet and were about to break. I had to slow down and I realized--what was so bad about about this rain? And then I realized, "Just love it, baby! There's nothing we can do." So GD and I trotted up the street, attitudes instantly changed. I took out my camera and got some rain girl shots of us. The night before, at GD's birthday, someone shared what they wished they knew when they were 25--you'll never be as cute as you are right now. Vanity aside, there's something to it and all of those cliches: you'll never be as young as you are today; some people walk in the rain, others just get wet; life is not about avoiding the puddles but learning to dance in the rain. If anything, this moment in the rain was valuable for letting me see cliches in action.
After days of 90-or-so degree heat, heat that makes your skin sticky even indoors, that I'm not entirely unconvinced is responsible for melting the ice cream in our freezer, the downpour actually felt nice. After just two blocks, from Avenue B to A and A to 1st, we were utterly drenched. I had been meaning to wash my hair the next day anyway, and clothes are just clothes, you know? Lightning crackled the sky straight down 14th Street. We seemed to be the only people without umbrellas. I even remember leaving the apartment earlier in the evening, looking at the sky, opaque with grayish blue clouds. Nah, it won't rain. And if it does? I'll get wet. So I did.
Occasionally stepping in puddles I hoped would not give us Athlete's Foot, the rain started to feel more comfortable in that moment than an instant cease-water would have. Like running through a Slip-N-Slide or going to a water park as a child. This was New York's answer to those things, maybe? Because when there's no amusement park around you simply have to amuse yourself.
Why all the summer talk, then? Because in my mind, after this night, the season must be here. Summer, I think, is that season more than any other when people talk about their wild, misspent youth; long, lazy days free of responsibility and full of misbehavior. We leave our umbrellas home, we forget to wear sunblock, we get a little too tipsy at the beach. I mean, it's not like you can go out in February and just leave your coat at home, you know? It's almost like if it happens in the summertime it doesn't count. We have a summer fling--maybe not only with others but with ourselves, testing the limits of our personal boundaries just because it's hot outside.
So, New York, I'm living like it's summer now, whether or not the real summer is two weeks or so away. Give me your sticky nights that make my skin dewy, your rooftop parties, your french air conditioner kisses and your margaritas on the rocks. I'm ready.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Feeling Snappy
Sights and scenes from around the city, Spring 2013
Taylor Mac at Joe's Pub, May 21, 2013
Bushwick City Farm and Myrtle Avenue Train Station, May 19, 2013
Graffiti in Bushwick, May 10, 2013
Views from the Hudson River, May 9, 2013
Flowers, Upper West Side, April 2013
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