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.

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

"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?