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!

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.

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

Viva Norway!

"Do you want to celebrate Norwegian National Day with us?"

It was really all SEP had to say, and I was totally in. Not only are there never enough Norwegians in my life, but I'm a huge nerd for new cultural experiences. I yammered on about it for weeks and even took part of Friday off to celebrate with CN and SEP. It's possible that I could have blown it out of proportion, but I didn't. It was just as awesome as I expected, which is very. 

Norwegian National Day is the 17th of May, the day in 1814 when the Norwegian Constitution was signed, declaring Norway's new role as a nation independent from Sweden. And, as I've mentioned before, there's a small yet bustling Norwegian population in New York, so there was much excitement for the holiday. 

To my delight, the day began with champagne that CN went out and purchased early Friday morning after she had her nails painted a patriotic Norwegian red. She popped open the bottle and started waving her Norwegian flag around the apartment, playing Norwegian national anthems on her iPhone. I ate a Kvikk Lunsj, which is like a better, Norwegian version of a Kit Kat bar. We were to get dolled up in spring finery and head to the Sjømannskirken, the Norwegian Seaman's Church, on 52nd Street between First and Second Avenues. The girls were adorned with their Norwegian ribbons and flags, and on the way to the bus stop we were stopped multiple times to ask what country the flag was from, or to be wished "Gratulerer Med Dagen," which means "Happy Birthday!"

At the church, many women were also wearing the traditional Norwegian costume called a bunad, a long embroidered skirt with a vest and blouse. Some little girls wearing the ensemble wore their hair in braids. Little boys wore Norway t-shirts and socks. Men wore navy suits, some even with Norwegian flag ties. Everybody waved Norwegian flags, drank the orange-flavored Norwegian soda called Solo from glass bottles, ate vaflen (waffles) with jam or Pølse med lompe, a sort of Norwegian hot dog (Pølse) served on a thick, potato-based crepe (lompe). I was too nervous to order for myself, so I asked SEP to get me one--my Norwegian accent still needs some work!

There were fishing games, sack races, and ring tosses for children, and music inside the church. People ambled around nibbling on white birthday cake swirled with raspberries. The girls shouted HIP-HIP-HUDDA! when we (and by "we" I mean everyone attending the festival) circled the block waving flags, a mini-parade of sorts.

Then, of course, we headed downtown to keep celebrating Norway, at a normally not-specifically-Norwegian bar that was decked out in flags, had a giant chalk drawing on the sidewalk that said 'Norway' and was selling Pølse. The bar's patio was packed with twentysomething and thirtysomething Norwegian New Yorkers, doing what young people do best to celebrate their national days the world over: getting wasted. Mostly by drinking frozen margaritas. Though I'm not sure those were specifically Norwegian...

 

Bouts of Punk Nostalgia

In the summer of 2005, I was a rising high school senior taking college classes at a university in New Haven, Connecticut. Because, well, I was a big ol’ nerd overachiever and that was super fun for me. One weekend, we were taken on a trip into New York City, where we could do as we pleased for the day. Picking up a copy of The Village Voice, I remembered that today could be the day I was finally able to visit my hallowed ground, what I felt was the mecca of all I held dear: CBGB.

I have written about my relationship with punk on here before, but just a quick recap: in my private-schooled, uptight-yet-starry-eyed universe, punk became my outlet. I’m not talking about the garbage peddled at Hot Topic, though—I’m talking about the real stuff, the seminal aches and pains borne of the Bowery in New York in the 1970s. This New York became my mind’s playground, a place where artists visual and musical roamed free, where the streets were dirty and covered in graffiti and dear god please don’t eat the chili. In the pages of Please Kill Me: An Uncensored Oral History of Punk by Legs McNeil and Gillian McCain, I escaped myself and I was allowed to be something other than the over-extracurriculared AP student that I was. If punk was the religion, CBGB was the temple.

But that day in 2005, I made a mistake. A silly one, based less on idiocy than a lack of understanding of Manhattan geography. When I saw ‘Bleecker and Bowery’ as the intersection, I thought that if I walked long enough on Bleecker Street I would arrive at 315, the venue’s address. But the address was 315 Bowery, and I instead wound up somewhere in the West Village. I had already dragged my friends long enough through Manhattan to find an incorrect address that I felt awful to do it to them again. There were already rumors circulating that the club would close down (I still have my ‘Save CBGB’ shirt from when it was under debate), and I knew I may not have another chance. I was right—the venue shuttered in 2006. I never got to see it, and every time I think about it I get a little bit wistful. I did get to see the famed awning on display at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, but it wasn’t the experience it might have been (it’s Cleveland for chrissakes.)

December 2006, still hopeful
even after the venue closed.
Photo by A. Marakov.

In my mind, the ghosts of this punk playground run rampant through the East Village, clinging to it with desperate, white-knuckled grips, urging it not to set up another hotel with $17 cocktails, not another pre-fab glass condo that only a zillionaire from Dubai or a Trump can afford. My impression is not a new one—hosts of New Yorkers yearn for the days when New York, when Manhattan, when Brooklyn meant something else, something other than money and penthouse views. The punk New York is one that brought me here, that wildness and freedom and creative spirit still lives on the streets and causes me to wince every time I walk past the John Varvatos store that CBGB has become (though, to his credit, Varvatos left much of the original stickers and graffiti up to commemorate the space’s past). I refuse to go inside because I worry that part of me will die.

The reason for this nostalgia right now is two-fold. One, I have just finished reading the entrancing Love Goes to Buildings on Fire by Will Hermes. An editor at Rolling Stone, Hermes has penned the history of punk, salsa, contemporary classical, contemporary jazz, and hip-hop in the five years that each developed in New York, all interestingly from 1973-1978. Every step of the way, I was with Hermes at David Byrne’s apartment on 12th Street, at the Mercer Arts Center of yesteryear, at a performance space where the Ramones once held court that is now a designer pet clothing store. I was walking along the streets with Patti Smith, listening to Television with Lou Reed as he watched them play at CBGB, aching as Hermes himself missed the train to what turned out to be one of the most captivating Grateful Dead concerts in the band’s history. In a series of historical vignettes, Hermes shows us the events in New York that led to the creation of these pivotal times in music history. We aren’t just fed facts, but rather see, feel, and understand facets of people’s lives. The text is as much a sociological study as a survey of music history. To be rather general about it, it is a must for anyone who loves New York and the way and the reasons why people create music; it will somehow make you love both even more, when you didn’t even think that was possible.

I noticed myself more voraciously diving into the punk sections, but I am more than a little biased. Once again, reading Hermes’s words, I pumped new blood into my love for the punk movement. And yet, sometimes I wonder what I am doing here in this city that may no longer be a place where a venue like CBGB could survive. The New York that exists in my mind is one that’s different than the one I walk around in every day. Granted, this one is incredibly safer and I am far less likely to trip on a crackpipe in the middle of the street. I can walk around the East Village without fear of getting mugged, for which I am certainly grateful. But the spirit is still alive, isn’t it? That spirit of I can do, I can make whatever pleases me? I can think about work that I like and produce something that is simultaneously in homage and something new, spurred on by my peers who are doing the same? Perhaps that is the energy I feel now, but I like to think a lot of it is leftover from punk, that spirit of DIY and fuck-off-ness I hope has infused its way into my own life in some capacity.

This brings us to the second reason for this perhaps sudden bout of punk nostalgia: the annual Met Ball in celebration of the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s latest Costume Institute exhibition, “Punk: Chaos to Couture.” Though I am not often one to comment on current events, this one, as you may have guessed, hits close to home.

The Met Ball is to many the super bowl of fashion, material sister of my other life-blood, style. Highest of high A-List celebrities, fashion and otherwise, are invited to attend in theme of each exhibition. So several celebrities try their hand at “punk style,” some really just going overboard and some showing a sincere effort that elicits at most a regretful “Well, you tried.” But seeing fashion and punk so closely together, not only at the same party but holding hands there, leaves me uncharacteristically numb. I am almost excited, almost jumping for joy that I would get to see so many of my favorite artistic expressions in one venue; and I am almost confused, because punk never was a fashion movement to those who truly started it, those in New York (in case you were wondering, all of this Sex Pistols torn up business was more of a marketing tactic by Pistols manager Malcolm McLaren after he failed to fashionably market his previous band, the New York Dolls). Yes, I think it’s nice that fashion could take cues from Patti Smith because, well, look at her, she’s absolutely stunning—I myself cite her as a personal style muse. But I don’t know whether to celebrate or revile the idea that fashion has taken so many of its ideas from punk. Imagine if you have a ripped t-shirt that you wear because it’s old and you love it and maybe you can’t afford a new one. Then a designer sees you, loves your look, and makes the exact same shirt ripped in the same way but sells it for $400—do you feel honored or exploited? I want to believe the exhibition is tasteful and acknowledges true punk history. At the same time, I feel myself uneager to point my toes toward 80th and 5th and enter the exhibition, for fear it will rip apart and twist the truth to streams of people who don’t know better. What do you think Patti Smith would do?

Vinyl and Wool

The only place I had found recently that played delicious old soul tunes was the mailing and packing store near my house. Unfortunately, if I showed up there with some girlfriends and we tried to get our dance on in the middle of the store, the owners would probably not be too pleased and customers would be awkwardly shoving past us to get their mail. As appealing as bright white fluorescent lights and bubble wrap are, I was looking for something else. There had to be a club somewhere in New York that played old school soul, funk, and hip-hop, I just hadn't found time to research or investigate it. But last week, into my inbox came the email for the I Love Vinyl party at Le Poisson Rouge.

No, I Love Vinyl isn't some sort of vegan S&M party. It's a crew of DJs who love spinning vinyl so much they dedicated an entire party series to it. Launched in 2009, the DJs have over 100,000 records between them, including 45s and 33s. They play not only old school soul, but "Disco, Dilla, Boogie, Hustle, Hip-Hop, House, Techno, No Wave, New Jack Swing, Dancefloor Jazz, Latin, Funk, Electro, Punk/Funk or Afrobeat." Hot damn. Where do I sign up? Yes please and thank you.

Actually, I had signed up for the party's mailing list ages ago because how could one go wrong dancing to music that's only coming from vinyl? I just never had the opportunity to go until TDS was in town the same weekend a party was going on. My dance club partner in crime, I knew she would be down. So we RSVPd (only $5 admission before 11, baby!) and arrived with AS and got our dance on. I heard Lyn Collins, I heard the Jackson 5, I heard early '90s hip-hop, '70s soul and god knows what else. What's even better is that the drink prices were reasonable and the guys were not creepy! People come to dance, not hump strangers, which is refreshing to say the least. By the end of the night, our feet and our hips were happily exhausted. Where had this party been all my life?

If you're interested in checking it out, it happens "4th Saturdays at the Gallery at LPR (Le Poisson Rouge) and 2nd Saturdays at 70 N. 6th Street in Williamsburg, Brooklyn." Get your soul (or funk or punk or hip-hop) on, son.

 --

My grandmother didn't knit (she grew African violets and miniature roses), so I never really got into the whole 'grandma chic' knitting thing. From what I had seen, lots of girls who look like Zooey Deschanel are really into it, and that's cool for them, but I didn't really know much more about it. TDS had gotten into knitting fairly recently, and on this particular trip to New York set her sights on visiting Purl SoHo, a chic little knitting and craft store in the neighborhood for which it's named. I was glad to take her there (also because I was promised a trip to Topshop afterward), and upon entering was pleasantly surprised by all the bright pops of color twinkling at me throughout the store. Wools and yarns and threads beckoned me, begging me to learn how to knit and join them in all their crafty glory. There were turquoises and fuchsias and navys and sequins and braids and fabrics and lalala color everywhere must look at everything at once and take too many pictures! Also, a woman wrapped yarn into a ball for TDS right there in the store! I don't know if this is standard practice for knitting stores (wool stores? yarn stores? what are they actually called?), but it was so cool to watch. Check out some pictures below! Being there almost made me want to knit. Almost.

OXHEART Interview: Muffinhead

Dear friends,

Once upon a time, my crayon box exploded. I was in shock at all of the color and geometry in front of me. I had a similar feeling the first time I saw Muffinhead in photographs. He was not so much a creature of the night as a creature of the nightlife, extending his hand and parading toward me in bright white, red, black, and lord knows what else. As a person always bedazzled by color and costume, I was instantly smitten with this living, moving, breathing art form and filled with the desire to raid his closet. 

We at OXHEART and Bodega de la Haba are utterly thrilled to welcome Muffinhead, living art performer (note the active avoidance of phrase "performance artist") and illustrator, to our May 1 event, "The Wrong of Spring."* He has been kind enough to answer a few questions about his enchanting work below.

In case you didn't catch the last blog post, "The Wrong of Spring" will be held at the divine Bowery Hotel. Tickets are $15 in advance at tickets.oxheart.net, and $20 at the door. Doors open at 7pm! We'll have free cotton candy and popcorn all night, plus amazing avant-garde rock musicians, fancy light performances, and a lady who dances with snakes. Hell yeah. Won't you join us, dahlings? Hoping to see your gorgeous faces there.

OX-LOVE,

Miss M



Interview with Muffinhead,
of OXHEART/BODEGA DE LA HABA's "THE WRONG OF SPRING"

Muffinhead,
photo by Adrian Buckmaster

How did the idea for Muffinhead arise? What are your goals with each presentation/performance?
I'm glad you caught that, I've always thought of Muffinhead as an idea that goes a bit beyond a character or characters I've invented. Honestly, the concept came about when I was still in LA-I was going to be showing work for the first time in some underground gallery spaces and I felt that my work needed to be represented by something other than a man in reading glasses and a suit. The name itself was whispered to me, strangely enough. I was waking up one day and I literally heard the name whispered into my ear. I realized right away that this was my name and it has been ever since.

What can OXHEART-goers expect from a Muffinhead performance?
Sometimes I'm not sure what to expect myself! A lot of times I'll come up with a vision of what I'm doing just a few days in advance...I always start with something of a look and that look becomes a live painting of sorts in the right environment...actually this time I think I'll play a tree; that way I won't have to speak or move! Very springy, right?

What inspires your costume designs, and how long does it take you to construct each one? Where and how do you store them?
That's a funny question because I really don't know where it all comes from. Partially I think it has to do with the boredom I feel from modern fashion. I think there are so many ways to push an envelope and so few of those possibilities are ever utilized-so it seems to be a revolutionary or a slightly illegal act when those wayward fantasies are appropriated toward reality. I don't know, I just happen to wander out of the box a lot I suppose.
 
A lot of the outfit pieces take months to put together; weeks, some evolve over several years at times...

Ohhh I just store them all in my house. Store is a light word, they're actually starting to eat my house alive.

What do you do when you're not performing?
I'm always working! I work nightlife quite a lot and do a bit of design work as well as the accessories line I'm beginning called "Muffinhead: TKo Accessories" which I'm launching in May.

What is your artistic background like?
I've been drawing and making art since I was a child, like most artists. It's the only thing I've ever felt that I belong to. It's my religion in a way. I'm also self taught, never went to art school which works because I think it would've ruined art for me in retrospect: the freedom and love of it all can't be explained. 

What role does New York nightlife play in your work? How did you get involved in that scene?
Nightlife plays a huge role in my work. It's my gallery in many ways. I've never really been accepted in the art world I feel but nightlife always took me in. Now I'm at a point with events like Susanne Bartsch's Catwalk where I can display myself as a living painting and an installation all at once. It feels great, and most importantly, it feels like we've stumbled upon a new genre.

What are your goals for your work in the future?
I'm excited to launch my accessories line and I definitely want to design more professionally...it really doesn't have to be me suffering for my art with a 20-pound chandelier on my head...if I can get someone else to suffer for me that would be perfect! :) 

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