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.

-------------------------------

"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...