From this moment, i am officially homeless in this country.
Thanks to Mo, Verman, Youkyung, Roger, and Laura finally packing and moving disaster chapter one has come to an end. chapter two will continue at the end of July but for now i am alright.
Wednesday, May 28
Packing makes me depressed.
It depresses me, choosing between what to keep and what to throw out. and then the whole moving business. i mean on the whole it's a good occasion to simplify and get rid of unnecessary stuffs but the process is really no fun. and i can't say i'm not somewhat attached to this apartment. especially now that the trees outside my windows are covered with leaves. they're rustling in the wind so peacefully...
Poor Helene's struggling with her stuffs too.
It depresses me, choosing between what to keep and what to throw out. and then the whole moving business. i mean on the whole it's a good occasion to simplify and get rid of unnecessary stuffs but the process is really no fun. and i can't say i'm not somewhat attached to this apartment. especially now that the trees outside my windows are covered with leaves. they're rustling in the wind so peacefully...
Poor Helene's struggling with her stuffs too.
Saturday, May 24
It is a strange feeling to be writing from ST lab again. The keyboards are horrendously dirty and stiff from years of abuse. The boys at the table on the left are playing their online warcraft or another one of those online games.
So it has been a year since my own graduation. a year is not a long time but school has already become a strange concept. Middletown is so out of the way and wesleyan sits in its own protective bubble. a good place for experiments and academic ambitions but i have to say i enjoy the dirt of the street better. i'd loved this place dearly however, very dearly indeed. Life has been good and kind in many ways.
Keiji always looks happy and surprised to see me although i come back so often. Halfway through our conversation someone from the class of '88 came in to look for the pottery studio only to be disappointed that it's gone. I realized, for the first time, Keiji's office was the firing stove and that the walls were still covered with glaze and burnt marks.
Keiji is an image of the traditional artist who pursues his aesthetics, works persistently on his own and not care about the world too much. He said it wasn't important to know too much about all the art movements out there. It's better to just simply do it. I'm too curious to not want to know why and how people came up with what they did and what that language means. but a good part of me also really doesn't want to be bothered. why care. you make things because you're trying to find a way to communicate to yourself, to the world the confusion that you cannot otherwise express. you make things that relate to yourself, your history or the histories that you want to experience. but yes, in the end, you make things because you cannot not make things. it's simply that.
it is good, though, to see as much as I can of the art available in ny, to see the many ways the world can be, the many ways to appreciate, the many ways to tell.
So it has been a year since my own graduation. a year is not a long time but school has already become a strange concept. Middletown is so out of the way and wesleyan sits in its own protective bubble. a good place for experiments and academic ambitions but i have to say i enjoy the dirt of the street better. i'd loved this place dearly however, very dearly indeed. Life has been good and kind in many ways.
Keiji always looks happy and surprised to see me although i come back so often. Halfway through our conversation someone from the class of '88 came in to look for the pottery studio only to be disappointed that it's gone. I realized, for the first time, Keiji's office was the firing stove and that the walls were still covered with glaze and burnt marks.
Keiji is an image of the traditional artist who pursues his aesthetics, works persistently on his own and not care about the world too much. He said it wasn't important to know too much about all the art movements out there. It's better to just simply do it. I'm too curious to not want to know why and how people came up with what they did and what that language means. but a good part of me also really doesn't want to be bothered. why care. you make things because you're trying to find a way to communicate to yourself, to the world the confusion that you cannot otherwise express. you make things that relate to yourself, your history or the histories that you want to experience. but yes, in the end, you make things because you cannot not make things. it's simply that.
it is good, though, to see as much as I can of the art available in ny, to see the many ways the world can be, the many ways to appreciate, the many ways to tell.
Friday, May 23
Stayed at the Rail until 10 today and read a little about Robert Rauschenberg. Would have liked to stay and finish reading the book but had to leave for Linde's birthday bash. I am looking forward to moving into the office. It is such a wonderful place to read and write, Jed has gotten a lot of work done the past week apparently. I want to swallow as much as possible before leaving this city. I'm so behind, so so behind. I am struck every single day at how little I know about anything out there...
Phong surprisingly has been keeping up with the healthy lifestyle. no smoking. no drinking. 2 cups of coffee a day. and home made sandwiches. amazing. yes, now i believe he meant it - the human will.
Walter came in and basically spent the afternoon advising me on what kind of camcorder to get. i really want one and I think will get one before leaving. i also want a projector. it is insane judging on how much stuffs i already have but long term wise it is necessary, especially the camcorder.
Lu came in after office hour to use the computer. i sometimes have problem talking to her still, especially on issues relating to China. it is very hard to talk. she becomes very defensive. but yes, she works hard, tries hard. tries very hard in fact. it is something i respect so we get along fine. we're not made of the same material so it is not a natural click and run kind of relationship but strangely, sometimes i look at her and i feel a wave of endearment. she tries so hard.
Linde's party was quite nice. But to be honest, it is hard, meeting people you sort of know but aren't really friends with. it takes so much effort to make conversations. and the conversations are so repetitive and superficial. it's like pressing a recorded tape and watch yourself repeat through the whole introduction dialogue again and again, knowing you're probably not going to see them or become any better friends after this. it drives me crazy - this kind of interaction. Thank god Jo and Chesley are there.
Phong surprisingly has been keeping up with the healthy lifestyle. no smoking. no drinking. 2 cups of coffee a day. and home made sandwiches. amazing. yes, now i believe he meant it - the human will.
Walter came in and basically spent the afternoon advising me on what kind of camcorder to get. i really want one and I think will get one before leaving. i also want a projector. it is insane judging on how much stuffs i already have but long term wise it is necessary, especially the camcorder.
Lu came in after office hour to use the computer. i sometimes have problem talking to her still, especially on issues relating to China. it is very hard to talk. she becomes very defensive. but yes, she works hard, tries hard. tries very hard in fact. it is something i respect so we get along fine. we're not made of the same material so it is not a natural click and run kind of relationship but strangely, sometimes i look at her and i feel a wave of endearment. she tries so hard.
Linde's party was quite nice. But to be honest, it is hard, meeting people you sort of know but aren't really friends with. it takes so much effort to make conversations. and the conversations are so repetitive and superficial. it's like pressing a recorded tape and watch yourself repeat through the whole introduction dialogue again and again, knowing you're probably not going to see them or become any better friends after this. it drives me crazy - this kind of interaction. Thank god Jo and Chesley are there.
Wednesday, May 21
1:25pm. Old couple in the theatre.
old man: Finally we made it!
old woman: (snaps) NoT thanks to YOU!
old man: (laughs)
person in front of me giggles.
old man: you better hold on to this, you might get cold.
old woman: shut up.
person in front of me grins.
(pause)
old man: what time is it?
old woman: shut up!
(silence)
(screening starts)
------
10 minutes into the screening.
(loud snoring from the back)
someone: shhh!
------
2:36pm
(screening ends. everyone gets up to leave)
i'm one of the last to leave. on the left of the last row man lies fast asleep. Security guard comes in claps his hands and shouts HELLO!?
no reaction.
Security guard claps his hands louder, HELLO? HELLO!!
no reaction.
I leave the theatre.
Now, a Maya Deren might not be the easiest material to watch being black and white and without sound, but they were truly fascinating. The abstract experimental imagery and rich movement quality present in them makes it hard to believe they were made in the 40s. There is a story line in Meshes of the Afternoon and At Land but they're loose and fluid, not linear, more sensory than narrative driven. Perhaps it's because of Maya's background as a dancer that gave her this sensitivity to movement and freed her from the burden of dialogues.
I remember Taka lying on the floor, crawling near, telling me we'll go to Indian Hill and he'll zoom the camera in and I should just dance.
but i don't really dance.
you don't have to dance, just move sensually, i'll teach you how,
Film Forum is screening Godard for 5 weeks this month. They're showing Contempt again! i must go.
Tuesday, May 20
They're cleaning out the driers in this laundromat. they open the front of the machine and use a vacuum cleaner to suck out all the dust and lint. there is a lot of dust and lint. how often do they do this?---------
At a random coffee shop I write. I trekked all the way to MoMa in the pouring rain only to find that it's closed today. I've thought of this before leaving the house but got distracted and left without checking their schedule again.
Rain. rain. rain. Pouring rain. I like rain. rain always reminds me of home. at home there're only 2 seasons - wet and dry. half the year it rains. how can one not get attached to water from the sky to some extent. but right now, my shoes are soaking, they make squishy sounds when i walk. the lower half of my pants are also dripping. It's not the most enjoyable feeling, wet cold feet. it's not.
Somehow gotten myself into some interpretation situation from English to Vietnamese and vice versa. After reading her bio - Nguyen Van Anh, it made sense to volunteer for the job. I told them my vietnamese terminology is weak but they took me anyways. after all, they're probably not going to find free labor elsewhere... ahh...i always work for free. when will i learn to feed myself? Anyways, the first event is tonight. and the dinner is tomorrow night. it's not too bad.
Sunday, May 18
There are moments in life i'd like to capture as a whole but words and my camera are not enough. the mood, the atmosphere, my physically being in this moment taking in all of this... it is simply now, here that i'm feeling this. Tomorrow, no, an hour from now all will be gone except an after taste. But it is exactly this quality of life that can only be lived that i embrace. i'm alive.
Rodney's friends gave me their pass to the photo festival in Dumbo at lunch. Today's the last day of the show, so here I am following the stream of people from gallery to gallery. I'm slightly self-conscious when I take out my digital camera, everyone here have a big professional camera around their neck. They stand on street corners and point their bazuka lenses up to the sky towards the brooklyn bridge. snap snap snap.
There are some beautiful photos in the show.
Rodney's friends gave me their pass to the photo festival in Dumbo at lunch. Today's the last day of the show, so here I am following the stream of people from gallery to gallery. I'm slightly self-conscious when I take out my digital camera, everyone here have a big professional camera around their neck. They stand on street corners and point their bazuka lenses up to the sky towards the brooklyn bridge. snap snap snap.
There are some beautiful photos in the show.
Monday, May 19
I like walking across the Pulaski bridge from the 7 to the Rail. It feels a bit far on rainy days but there is something exhilarating, walking across the border from Queens to Brooklyn. The Pulaski bridge is a bascule bridge - a drawbridge that opens upward to let ships go through. the two halves that open are not joint together and tremble under your feet with each passing car, they especially tremble wildly like an earthquake when a truck zooms by. for first timers it is quite a terrifying experience. for me, it still is an experience."Mr. Gray" - as usual is tied to a tree on the corner of Ash and McGuinness. He's a beautiful husky with sad sad eyes. and he looks at me each time sad, sadly. then he turns away.
Along Ash street there must be a fish storage of some sort. Once I saw men transporting crates inside, crates that reeked fishy. It must be strange to work around fish all day, without the ocean wind to purge the smell from you.
The Rail as usual is like a second home. Jed is staying with Phong for the week as an experience...or experiment? he is typing a new article when I enter, orange ear plugs like baby carrots stick out of his ears. yes, it could be distracting here with people coming in and out, coming in and out. and the range of music selection going on at all times...Phong is trying to quit cigarettes and cutting down to 2 cups of coffee a day. He is pacing in and out, in and out.
Noon.
"The human will is amazing! Don't you think?"
Marcela: "uh huh"
1:30 pm.
"Time for my second coffee!"
"Are you sure it's your second?"
"It is! Isn't it?"
4:16pm
"Phong, what's happening? learning to take care of youself huh?"
"No, not really."
7:30 pm:
"Shit! I want cigarettes and coffee, my extra energy, so i can go on. But no."
"Ahh..I'll be back on Friday. let's see if you last."
"Don't jix it!"
"Ok, i won't."
Friday, May 17
When the toll reach the thousands, then the ten thousands, then the hundred thousands it becomes completely indigestible, incomprehensible, inaccessible, impossible. And all we can see is the number itself and not what it represents.
As of today, May 16:
- toll in Myanmar - official report: 78,000; estimation of real death toll: 200,000
- toll in China: at least 22,000
The size of my alma mater: roughly 3200~3300 students altogether from undergraduates to graduate and part time GLSPs. That plus a faculty of 300, and if roughly including other staff would amount to a population of 4000. This means that the toll in its low equals 25 Wesleyan, and its real estimation that of 55.5 Wesleyan.
The capacity of one subway car in New York is roughly 245 people. This makes the low equivalent: 410 cars, and its estimation: 910 cars.
One subway train usually consists of 8 cars, meaning low: 51 trains, and estimate: 113 trains.
I'm counting the train lines that go through manhattan. 23 I think, including the S. Meaning the toll would amount to wiping out 2 trains on each line in the low, and almost 5 on each line "die" according to the estimated toll.
And while doing all this math I am rounding up the numbers. Rounding up Death! total absurdity. and i am nowhere nearer to understanding a fraction of the misery on the other side of the world...
Confronted with the world's misery through mass media I'm not ready to deny that personal struggle and pain in our ordinary daily life does not mean anything. But at the back of my head floats an image of my dad walking around the house humming a line from Trinh Cong Son, Nguoi gian nan mo uoc binh thuong - The unfortunate dream of the norm.
As of today, May 16:
- toll in Myanmar - official report: 78,000; estimation of real death toll: 200,000
- toll in China: at least 22,000
The size of my alma mater: roughly 3200~3300 students altogether from undergraduates to graduate and part time GLSPs. That plus a faculty of 300, and if roughly including other staff would amount to a population of 4000. This means that the toll in its low equals 25 Wesleyan, and its real estimation that of 55.5 Wesleyan.
The capacity of one subway car in New York is roughly 245 people. This makes the low equivalent: 410 cars, and its estimation: 910 cars.
One subway train usually consists of 8 cars, meaning low: 51 trains, and estimate: 113 trains.
I'm counting the train lines that go through manhattan. 23 I think, including the S. Meaning the toll would amount to wiping out 2 trains on each line in the low, and almost 5 on each line "die" according to the estimated toll.
And while doing all this math I am rounding up the numbers. Rounding up Death! total absurdity. and i am nowhere nearer to understanding a fraction of the misery on the other side of the world...
Confronted with the world's misery through mass media I'm not ready to deny that personal struggle and pain in our ordinary daily life does not mean anything. But at the back of my head floats an image of my dad walking around the house humming a line from Trinh Cong Son, Nguoi gian nan mo uoc binh thuong - The unfortunate dream of the norm.
Thursday, May 15
Heavy clouds trimmed in gold hung low in the sky. the train curved the bend and headed into queens. i put my book down and gazed at the sky, the guy in font of me too has dropped his book and turned around, leaning on the window. That big big sky above us, soft with clouds and undisrupted by rows of skyscrapers felt like a giant comforter.My mind wandered to a conversation last night:
"Office jobs are pretty fun actually, if you think of it as a game and just play along."
"Don't you think it's just a defense mechanism so you can deal with the boredom?"
"I don't know, it's not bad."
Playing along might be all very well but after a week or even just a day you don't really know what's you and what's not any more. especially if you're in a position that's not exciting but not terribly awful - a relatively comfortable spot, it would numb your mind and sedate your desires to break off and do something you find meaningful. I don't know about other people but I definitely don't want my life to be largely fake and pretense.
--------------------------------
Socrates Sculpture Park is only 15 minutes' walk from my apartment. After work i dropped my stuffs off at home, changed into jeans and went for a walk.2 blocks away from my place is a high school. the sport teams were practicing noisily in the adjunct field. all kinds of sports in one common space - a big concrete field painted bright green.
Dogs run free in the park, delirious with unbounded freedom. they filled the place with happy barking.
our shadows stretched long under the evening sun and the smell of newly mowed grass rose up from the earth. i stood beside the river listening to the sound of water licking the bank. it's like lying back on a cradle, rocking back and forth.
manhattan rise on the other side, reduced to silhouettes in the setting sun.
Wednesday, May 14
Walking through Central Park.
Young moms pushing baby carriages. bikers in helmets zooming down the road. people in suits, breathing deep the life outdoor.
The ice cream man rings bells, selling hotdogs and chocolate vanila cones side by side. Have both if you'd like. it won't hurt.
Bag pipe music streaming from the North. I search and he was found. gray hair, standing off the pathway under the bridge. something in the music sings nostalgia.
Children playing baseball in the field, the sun kissing the sand gold under their feet. Children swinging in the playground. their parents pushing, swinging higher and higher. and their laughter burst through the air like ripples.
It is so green here. The evening sun danced among the shadows around my feet. the leaves rustling, harmonizing with the birds. background strumming.
girls in sport clothing walking in a big group, their knees smeared with dirt but they really don't care.
I walk to the other side of the park, bag pipe music trailing after me. and i find a spot on a rock in the breeze. settle down, look, listen, write. taking my time.
Tuesday May 13
It is nice, the rare days I manage to get out of bed early. to sit in the kitchen with a book and a cup of tea. it is nice. slowly waking up to the world.
I made hundreds of photocopies for some Macy's discount announcement at work today. the photocopier kept getting jammed. i opened and closed the paper door. it printed. it jammed. i opened and pulled the crumpled papers out. it printed. it jammed. it printed. sure enough it's a mule's work, and i just detached myself, mechanically went through the process and returned to my book. my mind was a thousand miles away, between the pages. i stood reading for almost two hours while the photocopier did its thing with occasional disruptions.
Rushed out of the office. starving. these days i eat a small breakfast and a big dinner. and by dinner time i wolf down anything edible in sight.
A blind man on the subway, black, bent, dried up like a piece of fruit under the sun. He sang "if you think i'm sexy and just reach out and touch me..." maybe it was meant to be funny but the corner of my mouth could only curve downwards. the subway went quiet. or maybe his voice was loud. a voice that caused discomfort, that demanded attention.
I'm disturbed and the initial desire is to block it all out. i'm tired after work, i do not need to be confronted with your misery. But out of pity or guilt, i know not, i dug into my purse and retrieved a meek 50 cents, held them ready in my hand. When he approached his collecting bucket was on the other side, away from me. too far. i hesitated. Hesitation turned into too late in a matter of seconds. The train stopped and he fumbled out, and i was still sitting there debating on whether to get up or not. The door closed. I stayed, quarters burning hot in my palm, damp with unwanted guilt.
This happens often, New York is filled with the homeless, the drunkard slumped on subway steps, the crippled begging for money. and people learn to tune them out and look away. but even when I turn away I see them at the corner of my eyes and feel even more uneasy. but giving them a dollar, a couple of quarters isn't really going to help. it's not a question of whether they deserve the dollar or not. with these people coming from nothing, it's only a matter of too little not too much. but it's not really going to help, that stupid dollar given to purchase an ease of mind.
i look at them. i avert my eyes. i look at myself. and i walk away and continue on with my life. laughing dryly at my hypocrisy. why should i feel responsible. but then what about this uneasiness?
Union square, young people, lots of young people in hip clothing carrying skateboards, guitars, shopping bags. The girl on my right pulled out a video camera and did a mock interview with her friends. I couldn't hear what they were saying. i was too interested in the camera. Wouldn't it be swell to own one?
A South Indian couple sat down on the steps on my left. She was very pretty. very cheerful. and he kept kissing her. and i smiled when i think they'd never have suspected that i'd written their moment down. it was their moment. their spring of love.
A japanese boy, musician of some sort passed by. he looked at me sideways, through the corner of his eye, never once turning.
two dogs on a single leash, walking parallel.
Susie waved from across the square. made her way over and pounced on me.
I made hundreds of photocopies for some Macy's discount announcement at work today. the photocopier kept getting jammed. i opened and closed the paper door. it printed. it jammed. i opened and pulled the crumpled papers out. it printed. it jammed. it printed. sure enough it's a mule's work, and i just detached myself, mechanically went through the process and returned to my book. my mind was a thousand miles away, between the pages. i stood reading for almost two hours while the photocopier did its thing with occasional disruptions.
Rushed out of the office. starving. these days i eat a small breakfast and a big dinner. and by dinner time i wolf down anything edible in sight.
A blind man on the subway, black, bent, dried up like a piece of fruit under the sun. He sang "if you think i'm sexy and just reach out and touch me..." maybe it was meant to be funny but the corner of my mouth could only curve downwards. the subway went quiet. or maybe his voice was loud. a voice that caused discomfort, that demanded attention.
I'm disturbed and the initial desire is to block it all out. i'm tired after work, i do not need to be confronted with your misery. But out of pity or guilt, i know not, i dug into my purse and retrieved a meek 50 cents, held them ready in my hand. When he approached his collecting bucket was on the other side, away from me. too far. i hesitated. Hesitation turned into too late in a matter of seconds. The train stopped and he fumbled out, and i was still sitting there debating on whether to get up or not. The door closed. I stayed, quarters burning hot in my palm, damp with unwanted guilt.
This happens often, New York is filled with the homeless, the drunkard slumped on subway steps, the crippled begging for money. and people learn to tune them out and look away. but even when I turn away I see them at the corner of my eyes and feel even more uneasy. but giving them a dollar, a couple of quarters isn't really going to help. it's not a question of whether they deserve the dollar or not. with these people coming from nothing, it's only a matter of too little not too much. but it's not really going to help, that stupid dollar given to purchase an ease of mind.
i look at them. i avert my eyes. i look at myself. and i walk away and continue on with my life. laughing dryly at my hypocrisy. why should i feel responsible. but then what about this uneasiness?
Union square, young people, lots of young people in hip clothing carrying skateboards, guitars, shopping bags. The girl on my right pulled out a video camera and did a mock interview with her friends. I couldn't hear what they were saying. i was too interested in the camera. Wouldn't it be swell to own one? A South Indian couple sat down on the steps on my left. She was very pretty. very cheerful. and he kept kissing her. and i smiled when i think they'd never have suspected that i'd written their moment down. it was their moment. their spring of love.
A japanese boy, musician of some sort passed by. he looked at me sideways, through the corner of his eye, never once turning.
two dogs on a single leash, walking parallel.
Susie waved from across the square. made her way over and pounced on me.
Monday, May 12
Every time i see a building wrapped up under construction i think of Christo and Jeanne-Claude...
Sunday, May 11
Mo walked up the subway steps and I followed closely behind. She stopped and checked the schedule on the screen once more before proceeding to the main lobby. She passed the flower store, turned and examined herself in the displaying mirrors, flashed a smile and continued on. This forms her weekday routine - her path from Astoria to the subway, to Grand Central, to White Plains. i'm sure it happens all the time, but it does feel a bit peculiar to be conscious that you are walking another's well-treaded path.Late Sunday morning, off-peak, but the train was crowded. People with newspapers, people with flowers. people heading home for mother's day. we, too, are holding flowers. i don't remember celebrating this particular day in Vietnam. not that i remember many specialized days to be honest. but who would, unless they see tons of signs on display in the stores, winking "mother's day" - "buy something." I rather prefer coming home on random days with flowers. it's easier on the mind and more true to the heart. a rupture of feelings, an occasion when my heart swells with the thought of you.
New Haven was in full bloom. dogwood cover their branches with white and pink, decking the sidewalks like millions of butterflies gathering for a ball. Jim picked us up from the station and when he pulled into the parkway of the red Hadlerian house it felt like coming home.
We made dumplings. hundreds of them from scratch. i rolled the dough, a long strip that could wrap nothing. a square piece. a small piece. an oversized piece. finally a round decent one! the desire to improve glued me to me seat for 2 hours. and indeed they got better. then the shoulder got tired and more people arrived. so i sneaked to the back yard and talked to the lilacs. they smelled achingly sweet and i kept sniffing. in in in all those sweetness of spring. this time next year i will see you no longer. smell you no more but in my memories.
Mo took a good picture of me sitting on the back porch. the sun was shining. shining. and it was so green. and sweet. ahh... if love could bloom this brightly.
Saturday, May 10
I walked in when Owen and Khalia were improvising. It was quite fascinating, the things they come up with with the minimum prop - the table and the piece of plastic. It was a surprised to see Khalia. I didn't quite piece the Khalia in the email with the beautiful Khalia I knew at wes. The dance is still very loosely put together and I'm not quite sure yet what we're trying to convey. But the fact that I am moving in ways that I would never move ordinarily pleases me. It is like trying to think, to see in different ways. We sometimes forget that the world is under our feet and contacts our skins, and it's not only our eyes and ears that constructs our reality, our body does too. to lie on the ground and concentrate my sensation on my feet or my arms, it's delicious. everyone should take some time once in a while to feel the way their toes move, or the way their blood circulates through their veins.
I was walking to the Rail when loud Hispanic music flooded the street. When I turned to search for the source as the sound grew louder, the man biked into view. The amount of sound generated from the speakers on that bike is quite incredible. the music wasn't bad and the idea was fairly reasonable. but why the american flags stuck to the back I wonder? sometimes i come upon such strange people in this city it is kind of like a surreal experience.
It rained all day today. I was eating breakfast when Helene opened the door and announced that winter has returned. Helene left for a friend's wedding in Boston around noon so I ended up in the apartment by myself, trying to finish the application for the CELTA course. Grammar drives me up the wall and it was hard to focus. All i wanted to do was continue reading Jonas' I Had Nowhere to Go.
It was pouring but we still decided to go all the way to the Brooklyn Museum to see Oh, Saigon. I had a vague idea of the film but since there are very few films about Vietnam out there i usually go indiscriminately if time permits. It turned out to be a really interesting documentary. It is not very often for those who live in Vietnam to get a glimpse into the sad and bitter side of the Vietnamese who had to flee the country after the war. A good number of my friends in the South have relatives in the States. This slipped in and out of conversations with little reference to the political reason as to why they are in the here in the first place. "My aunt lives in the state, they're coming back to visit next month," someone would announce, either neutrally or often, strangely, with a hint of pride. Back in Vietnam I'd never have thought of them as socially displaced people. I'd never given much thought to them, actually.
This is considered art. It reminds me of the time Richard Serra said in an interview that after Yale he went to Europe and in an attempt to unlearn the academic teachings tried to exhibit with live animal. In any case, the creator of the piece above, Tom Sachs, had a huge opening/party at a fancy space in Gordon Bunshaft’s Modernist Park Avenue tower afterwards. People in shimmering silk and crispy suits holding champagne glasses drift about between 10-foot tall hello kitties. They seemed more interested in the drinks than the sculptures. This side of the art world is something i've never quite understood or, to be honest, have any interest in understanding.
Chelsea is a strange animal. It is like a high-end fashion district, except what's sold are artworks. While i do not feel strongly against artworks being sold (hey, artists need to eat) the fact that these artworks are displayed in such spaces that only pretty well-off people would ever step feet in bothers me.
Art for me is, perhaps, a way of life, a form of expression, a better channel for pain and depression. The more i get involved the harder it is to quit and imagine doing anything else. It's like getting used to living with electricity. makes it hard to go back to living under candle lights. That makes all of the above reasons of personal nature, but surely, people don't become artists to make arts for themselves solely. But then with the gallery system in this city who are all of those artists trying to get to?
One thing I greatly respect about Eiko and Koma is their outdoor performances. Dances that melt into the surrounding. Dances that are not necessarily easily accessible, but are opened for all to see.
In contrast to the above rants about exclusive shiny chelsea galleries, here is a piece from Tom Otterness' public sculpture installed in the 14th St/8th Ave subway station. They really brighten up the dingy underground.
I spent 3 hours in the Met today between 3 aisles of the American Arts Gallery. The number of good works of art available in this one room is amazing. But I am not pleased with the glass cases and the way all the paintings are cramped side by side into such a small space. The poor paintings have no room to breath, and the lights from the ceiling reflect on the glass, completely disrupting with their colors and textures.I saw Albert Ryder's work for the first time. They are of small sizes but with such intensity and power, something of darkness too which appeals to me. Yes, i like darkness. darkness is a very large part of human nature.
The last piece I saw that spoke to my mood was Jefferson David Chalfant's "Violin and Bow" 1889, painted in the trompe l'oeil style.
"Violin and Bow" inspiring stories, spinning music out of silence - a quiet type of music that seeps into the air. your bow to the heart, pulling chains of memories. memories of a place, a life i'd never lived. yet with fondness i remember.
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"Tino, I hit 3 home runs today!" the boy repeated excitedly and held up his hand, ready for a high five. "No, seriously!" he exclaimed."Tino, what's the best muffin today?" another boy asked.
They giggled and cluttered, 5 of them, spilling that bountiful adolescent energy all over the counter. Tino smiled, wrapped a banana muffin and handed it over, shaking his head when the boy pulled out his wallet.
Situated on the corner of 79th and Madison Ave amongst high-end fashion boutiques, the place surprisingly exuded the warmth and approachability of a small neighborhood store. How many more generations of baseball youths in the area will grow up munching Tino's muffin?
you, sir, sat across from me, smiled and told everyone that you're still considering whether or not to make a film. and i wanted to tell you that the small portion of your work that i was introduced to recently filled me with happiness. they are visual poetry. they are precious life captured. and in watching them the joy of being alive bubbled inside of me.-------------------------------
had i walked east instead of west, which i was supposed to, i wouldn't have come across you. had i not have a camera with me, perhaps i wouldn't have noticed you. and even with that, your edges were blurry because that was as much as i could see. snug in my comfortable spot, how much do i care? people's trash, your treasure. in the darkness of the night you pulled the loads of life.
T
T sat at the end of the row of performers, playing his balafon. the evening sunlight poured through the window and gleamed on your red curls and i thought you looked beautiful. that was a year ago. i still think you're beautiful, and i don't think i'll ever change my mind.
it still awes me each time we say good night, of how kind and wonderful you are. how genuinely patient and acceptive. and forgiving. and with that i cannot shake off the feeling of guilt. yes, i love you, but not enough. never enough. and trust me, i'm sorry. because i'll never meet anyone as genuine as you. but there's not much either of us can do about it...
sometimes i sit and wonder about what i'd do without you when i go home. the loneliness and the hard edges of living in this city are always softened by your voice over the phone. i call you when i'm lonely. i call you when i'm happy. i call you when i'm depressed and restless. i call you when i'm upset. i call you when i just want to ramble. i call you when i'm walking home in the dark and scared. i call you because i know you'd listen, you'd stay on the line till i get home safely; you'd accept me as i am, however confused and messed up. i can never do enough to return your kindness. never. and it sometimes fills me with sadness. i wish life is a little bit more balanced. i wish i can do more...
it still awes me each time we say good night, of how kind and wonderful you are. how genuinely patient and acceptive. and forgiving. and with that i cannot shake off the feeling of guilt. yes, i love you, but not enough. never enough. and trust me, i'm sorry. because i'll never meet anyone as genuine as you. but there's not much either of us can do about it...
sometimes i sit and wonder about what i'd do without you when i go home. the loneliness and the hard edges of living in this city are always softened by your voice over the phone. i call you when i'm lonely. i call you when i'm happy. i call you when i'm depressed and restless. i call you when i'm upset. i call you when i just want to ramble. i call you when i'm walking home in the dark and scared. i call you because i know you'd listen, you'd stay on the line till i get home safely; you'd accept me as i am, however confused and messed up. i can never do enough to return your kindness. never. and it sometimes fills me with sadness. i wish life is a little bit more balanced. i wish i can do more...
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