Brooklyn. I miss it. So very much. I moved to Indiana about 3 weeks ago to start grad school. It's nice here, and I really do like it. My mind is getting exercised again, which is never a bad thing, and I have my own apartment, new things to explore, new people to meet, and new Italian verbs to learn. I keep having bouts of New York nostalgia, though, which involves me listening to Frank Sinatra and Jay Z loudly, probably to the chagrin of my neighbors. The pizza here is subpar, I refuse to even try the wings, and they refer to cream cheese as a "shmear" on a bagel, which is beyond weird, or at any rate, something people in NY do not say.
It's been fun blogging about Brooklyn. It's been fun reading your comments and having you all share in this wacky experience with me. So on that note, this will be the last post on 2.5 Million + 1. Enjoy reading the back entries--it functions as a journal for me, too, as I'm too scattered to keep a paper record.
The end of Brooklyn means the beginning of Bloomington, which means--NEW blog! Check that out at http://indi-anna.blogspot.com. I look forward to hearing from you.
Hugs, Me.
Tuesday, 14 September 2010
Thursday, 5 August 2010
Culture Shock
Thursday, 5 August 2010
Hello friends! Three reasons why I haven't written lately:
1. I moved from Brooklyn, almost 2 weeks ago now. The worst part was that with humidity it felt like it was over 100 degrees, and my poor cousin and sister had to help drag my stuff (and their stuff, we had a regular ol' caravan) onto the C train (having all sorts of elevator shenanigans on the way) to Penn Station, to get the Amtrak to Hudson, where another one of my awesome cousins picked us up, then to New Baltimore where my relatives live and where my dad was. It was a great few days there (as it always is) and then my dad, sister, and I drove the 6 1/2ish hours back to my hometown. So it was busy, and it was hard to say goodbye to Brooklyn. But actually not that hard, because it was SO. INFERNALLY. HOT. And due to a lot of people staying in our apartment, I spent the last night sleeping on a yoga mat that was half in the closet, so I was ready to boogie.
2. When I got home I promptly had jury duty, and out of the 180 people there, I was the 9th called up, subsequently got picked, and had to drive up to the county seat for 4 days. Being a unabashed nerd, I found the trial itself fascinating. We turned in a guilty verdict. I had wondered how I would feel about that--you're basically putting a man's life, so to speak, in the hands of 12 people, but he was so guilty. And as his crime was kidnapping his wife and doing a lot of terrible things to her (throughout their 18 year marriage, too) I feel zero remorse.
3. My parents have dial-up internet, so it takes a long time for anything to load on here, I'm too lazy to take my computer somewhere, and really, it's sunny out, and I have a lot of phenomenal people to see, so blogging is on the back burner. Doesn't mean I haven't missed you though! Because I have.
Anyway, culture shock. You wouldn't think you could get it within one state, but you can. I'm always annoyed when people think that NYC is full of sophisticates and that Upstate is full of bumpkins--perhaps "enraged" is a better word than "annoyed," actually. I was in line for the opera awhile ago (ha, that makes me sound like a twit) and actually had a woman say that Upstate "didn't really count as New York". You'll be happy to know that I said, as snappily as I get, "I believe that Upstate is more New York than New York City will ever be." I must admit that there are some noticeable differences, though:
--when I went to jury duty, there was not one non-white person in the room of 180 of us. That feeling of non-diversity was not something I've felt in over a year.
--my fam was heading out to dinner last Sunday and drove to 3 restaurants before finding one that was open. It was the Casino, so it was good and the lake was lovely, and it all worked out in the end, but it felt so strange not to just walk a few blocks to another restaurant (plus, most restaurants in Brooklyn don't really close, at least not for an entire day.)
--it's really nice not to have to buy my own food, or if I do, to just drive to Wegmans. I'm already getting spoiled. I have no idea why I didn't look for grad schools in close proximity to a Wegmans (seriously, what was I thinking?!) but I'm going to have to bring a bunch of their juice with me. I like to cook, depending, but it's a lot nicer when my dad makes Ratatouille with penne (as he did this evening) and the only thing I have to do is pour the wine.
--today I went to the dentist and the hygienist asked me about my grandmother (who also goes there) and how I liked "the city" and things she remembered from when I was there in January. That would not happen in Brooklyn, unless you had lived there a very long time, I think.
--also today, I went to pay a parking ticket and brought a book, because I am so used to waiting in lines (at the post office by my apartment, it was at least 15 minutes, when I had doctors appointments at the hospital, at least 2 hours). Of course, there was no line, and I was out in 5 minutes.
--the weather guy was saying how it was going to be almost 80 yesterday, and how horrible that was. Our apartment didn't get below 85, AT NIGHT, for the entire month of July. He also said he heard it was 88 in NYC, and how it probably smelled there. He would be right about that.
--the best 3 news stories since I've been home--1. the Amish man who was robbed while driving his buggy down the road (they caught the person who did it), 2. the goat who was stolen from the county fair, and was found behind the Chinese restaurant, alive, and 3. the horse who got loose in Falconer (or was it Frewsberg?), ran through Jamestown and dented a few police cars, before officers were able to subdue him.
Do I miss Brooklyn? I do. But for the moment, I'm just enjoying being here, with these people.
1. I moved from Brooklyn, almost 2 weeks ago now. The worst part was that with humidity it felt like it was over 100 degrees, and my poor cousin and sister had to help drag my stuff (and their stuff, we had a regular ol' caravan) onto the C train (having all sorts of elevator shenanigans on the way) to Penn Station, to get the Amtrak to Hudson, where another one of my awesome cousins picked us up, then to New Baltimore where my relatives live and where my dad was. It was a great few days there (as it always is) and then my dad, sister, and I drove the 6 1/2ish hours back to my hometown. So it was busy, and it was hard to say goodbye to Brooklyn. But actually not that hard, because it was SO. INFERNALLY. HOT. And due to a lot of people staying in our apartment, I spent the last night sleeping on a yoga mat that was half in the closet, so I was ready to boogie.
2. When I got home I promptly had jury duty, and out of the 180 people there, I was the 9th called up, subsequently got picked, and had to drive up to the county seat for 4 days. Being a unabashed nerd, I found the trial itself fascinating. We turned in a guilty verdict. I had wondered how I would feel about that--you're basically putting a man's life, so to speak, in the hands of 12 people, but he was so guilty. And as his crime was kidnapping his wife and doing a lot of terrible things to her (throughout their 18 year marriage, too) I feel zero remorse.
3. My parents have dial-up internet, so it takes a long time for anything to load on here, I'm too lazy to take my computer somewhere, and really, it's sunny out, and I have a lot of phenomenal people to see, so blogging is on the back burner. Doesn't mean I haven't missed you though! Because I have.
Anyway, culture shock. You wouldn't think you could get it within one state, but you can. I'm always annoyed when people think that NYC is full of sophisticates and that Upstate is full of bumpkins--perhaps "enraged" is a better word than "annoyed," actually. I was in line for the opera awhile ago (ha, that makes me sound like a twit) and actually had a woman say that Upstate "didn't really count as New York". You'll be happy to know that I said, as snappily as I get, "I believe that Upstate is more New York than New York City will ever be." I must admit that there are some noticeable differences, though:
--when I went to jury duty, there was not one non-white person in the room of 180 of us. That feeling of non-diversity was not something I've felt in over a year.
--my fam was heading out to dinner last Sunday and drove to 3 restaurants before finding one that was open. It was the Casino, so it was good and the lake was lovely, and it all worked out in the end, but it felt so strange not to just walk a few blocks to another restaurant (plus, most restaurants in Brooklyn don't really close, at least not for an entire day.)
--it's really nice not to have to buy my own food, or if I do, to just drive to Wegmans. I'm already getting spoiled. I have no idea why I didn't look for grad schools in close proximity to a Wegmans (seriously, what was I thinking?!) but I'm going to have to bring a bunch of their juice with me. I like to cook, depending, but it's a lot nicer when my dad makes Ratatouille with penne (as he did this evening) and the only thing I have to do is pour the wine.
--today I went to the dentist and the hygienist asked me about my grandmother (who also goes there) and how I liked "the city" and things she remembered from when I was there in January. That would not happen in Brooklyn, unless you had lived there a very long time, I think.
--also today, I went to pay a parking ticket and brought a book, because I am so used to waiting in lines (at the post office by my apartment, it was at least 15 minutes, when I had doctors appointments at the hospital, at least 2 hours). Of course, there was no line, and I was out in 5 minutes.
--the weather guy was saying how it was going to be almost 80 yesterday, and how horrible that was. Our apartment didn't get below 85, AT NIGHT, for the entire month of July. He also said he heard it was 88 in NYC, and how it probably smelled there. He would be right about that.
--the best 3 news stories since I've been home--1. the Amish man who was robbed while driving his buggy down the road (they caught the person who did it), 2. the goat who was stolen from the county fair, and was found behind the Chinese restaurant, alive, and 3. the horse who got loose in Falconer (or was it Frewsberg?), ran through Jamestown and dented a few police cars, before officers were able to subdue him.
Do I miss Brooklyn? I do. But for the moment, I'm just enjoying being here, with these people.
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
Pianos...Performance Art?
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
Pianos as Public Art.
TOTALLY cool. 60 pianos were set up in NYC for people to play. Most were painted, although I suspect that most of the elaborately decorated ones were in Manhattan--the ones I saw in Brooklyn were pretty plain by contrast. But no matter. It's a cool idea, one that breaks up the monotony a bit. I only played one once--I don't like "performing" when there are many people around, so that rules out a lot of times here! This time, it was almost midnight, so things were quiet around Borough Hall. My friend and I had decided to stop there on our way home from Manhattan, to get some ice cream and sit on the Promenade. I played "Happy Birthday" (since it happened to be this friend's birthday) and a few measures from Sindig's Rustle of Spring (the only piece I could remember anything from, sadly), and the D minor scale (always has been my favorite scale.) Fun stuff. And then we covered the piano back up and went on our way.
Best of all? As my aunt pointed out, you didn't have to be a Catholic to use the pianos.
I find this reminiscent of the fish that Erie had when I was a kid--the giant ones that were painted all differently. Or the buffalo in (where else?) Buffalo. In a way it is better than the fish and buffalo, however, because with the pianos there was a greater chance for the public to become invested and involved, to plunk out "Hot Cross Buns" or some Chopin, and have a bit of fun.
TOTALLY cool. 60 pianos were set up in NYC for people to play. Most were painted, although I suspect that most of the elaborately decorated ones were in Manhattan--the ones I saw in Brooklyn were pretty plain by contrast. But no matter. It's a cool idea, one that breaks up the monotony a bit. I only played one once--I don't like "performing" when there are many people around, so that rules out a lot of times here! This time, it was almost midnight, so things were quiet around Borough Hall. My friend and I had decided to stop there on our way home from Manhattan, to get some ice cream and sit on the Promenade. I played "Happy Birthday" (since it happened to be this friend's birthday) and a few measures from Sindig's Rustle of Spring (the only piece I could remember anything from, sadly), and the D minor scale (always has been my favorite scale.) Fun stuff. And then we covered the piano back up and went on our way.
Best of all? As my aunt pointed out, you didn't have to be a Catholic to use the pianos.
I find this reminiscent of the fish that Erie had when I was a kid--the giant ones that were painted all differently. Or the buffalo in (where else?) Buffalo. In a way it is better than the fish and buffalo, however, because with the pianos there was a greater chance for the public to become invested and involved, to plunk out "Hot Cross Buns" or some Chopin, and have a bit of fun.
Monday, 19 July 2010
The Art of the Busk
Monday, 19 July 2010
Busker: n., from the Italian buscare--to procure, gain; from the Spanish buscar--to look for. A person who entertains in a public place for donations.
--from Merriam-Webster
My time in Brooklyn is drawing to a close, and as usual, this is going much faster than I would like. I am so excited to go home and see my family and friends and DRIVE and sleep in a BED and have FRESH PRODUCE and go to JURY DUTY (seriously, I am excited about that), but at the same time, saying goodbye is so very hard. Some of the places I go this week I may never go to again, and that is always a terrifying feeling to have.
Anyway, one of the things that I will miss the most about Brooklyn and New York City in general is the amount of buskers who play instruments, sing, breakdance, beat box, slam poetry, and entertain on the street and on subways. I like those instances when everyone is involved in something collectively, especially if they are brought together through music or art in some way. (for an awesome example, check out this video that a friend forwarded to me--a mass Sound of Music dance number in Antwerp's Central Station. And here's another totally cool one, for those of you who tend more towards Jay-Z.) Here are some busking highlights:
--there is a mariachi band of sorts who seems to mostly stay on the R and N trains, usually in Brooklyn. I've seen them multiple times now, and they are professionals, by which I mean that they are really good at manuevering between train cars while playing, while the train is moving, which is impressive.
--Franklin Ave often has religious-y themed music on Saturday and Sunday mornings. A lot of times it is a twangy sort of guitar sound--ukelele? It reminds me of The Lawrence Welk show. The unintended consequence is that I end up with "Amazing Grace" stuck in my head for longer than I'd like.
--Atlantic Ave, which is probably the biggest station in Brooklyn (it has transfers for the Long Island Railroad and 8 subway lines) has a larger space for people to set up, so sometimes there are actual bands. Friday after work, a few weeks ago, I was passing through and there was a jazz group, made up of a few older people and some high school looking kids, who had attracted quite a crowd. People don't usually stop what they are doing to listen (NYers, as you may have heard, being busybusy people), but this group was big enough, loud enough, and good enough to draw a lot of commuters. People even clapped after the songs.
--I've been on the D train twice now when there was group breakdancing. Mostly this is men and boys between the ages of 13ish and 20ish. Seeing 5 men standing on their heads, spinning, and putting their feet on their shoulders, all while on the train on the Manhattan Bridge, is not something that you forget quickly.
--I was in the Union Square station lately, and there was a woman doing a rendition of "Something Wonderful" from The King and I. She had a beautiful voice. I suspect she may have been studying nearby, either at the New School or NYU, because she did look like a student. Either way, so good. As I headed down to the platform I heard her move into "On my Own" from Les Miserables.
--I saw someone playing a saw and someone else playing a comb. SO COOL. I forget where that was, though.
--There was a man last week who said he was auditioning for American Idol, and proceeded to sing "Lean on Me" with the words slightly changed to Brooklyn-themed ones. I heard him on one train, and then it turned out later that my friend heard him on a different one! So he is making the rounds.
--It's not all music--I've been treated to some (not very good, if I'm honest) poetry and there is a man who calls himself the Train Man and he imitates the noises of the subway--the different beeps, the "stand clear of the closing doors, please" chant, and the warning from the MTA about keeping your bags within your sight at all times.
--There is a man who is a little cracked but harmless who stands on the corner near-ish my place, playing the guitar. If you happen to be female, chances are good he will tell you he loves you. He grabbed my cousin's hand one time. Since it has been so infernally hot, he has been riding the shuttle back and forth, playing the guitar and professing his love to all and sundry.
--Parks are another great place to see musicians. Washington Square, in particular, is always hopping, although Prospect Park has its fair share, too. Even Park Slope has the man who plays the accordion on the corner!
I hope these people make money and I hope they enjoy their lives. I don't always contribute, but I hope they know that they have made my commutes better, made me smile all over the place, and helped me de-stress. I'm sure I'm not the only one they have helped.
--from Merriam-Webster
My time in Brooklyn is drawing to a close, and as usual, this is going much faster than I would like. I am so excited to go home and see my family and friends and DRIVE and sleep in a BED and have FRESH PRODUCE and go to JURY DUTY (seriously, I am excited about that), but at the same time, saying goodbye is so very hard. Some of the places I go this week I may never go to again, and that is always a terrifying feeling to have.
Anyway, one of the things that I will miss the most about Brooklyn and New York City in general is the amount of buskers who play instruments, sing, breakdance, beat box, slam poetry, and entertain on the street and on subways. I like those instances when everyone is involved in something collectively, especially if they are brought together through music or art in some way. (for an awesome example, check out this video that a friend forwarded to me--a mass Sound of Music dance number in Antwerp's Central Station. And here's another totally cool one, for those of you who tend more towards Jay-Z.) Here are some busking highlights:
--there is a mariachi band of sorts who seems to mostly stay on the R and N trains, usually in Brooklyn. I've seen them multiple times now, and they are professionals, by which I mean that they are really good at manuevering between train cars while playing, while the train is moving, which is impressive.
--Franklin Ave often has religious-y themed music on Saturday and Sunday mornings. A lot of times it is a twangy sort of guitar sound--ukelele? It reminds me of The Lawrence Welk show. The unintended consequence is that I end up with "Amazing Grace" stuck in my head for longer than I'd like.
--Atlantic Ave, which is probably the biggest station in Brooklyn (it has transfers for the Long Island Railroad and 8 subway lines) has a larger space for people to set up, so sometimes there are actual bands. Friday after work, a few weeks ago, I was passing through and there was a jazz group, made up of a few older people and some high school looking kids, who had attracted quite a crowd. People don't usually stop what they are doing to listen (NYers, as you may have heard, being busybusy people), but this group was big enough, loud enough, and good enough to draw a lot of commuters. People even clapped after the songs.
--I've been on the D train twice now when there was group breakdancing. Mostly this is men and boys between the ages of 13ish and 20ish. Seeing 5 men standing on their heads, spinning, and putting their feet on their shoulders, all while on the train on the Manhattan Bridge, is not something that you forget quickly.
--I was in the Union Square station lately, and there was a woman doing a rendition of "Something Wonderful" from The King and I. She had a beautiful voice. I suspect she may have been studying nearby, either at the New School or NYU, because she did look like a student. Either way, so good. As I headed down to the platform I heard her move into "On my Own" from Les Miserables.
--I saw someone playing a saw and someone else playing a comb. SO COOL. I forget where that was, though.
--There was a man last week who said he was auditioning for American Idol, and proceeded to sing "Lean on Me" with the words slightly changed to Brooklyn-themed ones. I heard him on one train, and then it turned out later that my friend heard him on a different one! So he is making the rounds.
--It's not all music--I've been treated to some (not very good, if I'm honest) poetry and there is a man who calls himself the Train Man and he imitates the noises of the subway--the different beeps, the "stand clear of the closing doors, please" chant, and the warning from the MTA about keeping your bags within your sight at all times.
--There is a man who is a little cracked but harmless who stands on the corner near-ish my place, playing the guitar. If you happen to be female, chances are good he will tell you he loves you. He grabbed my cousin's hand one time. Since it has been so infernally hot, he has been riding the shuttle back and forth, playing the guitar and professing his love to all and sundry.
--Parks are another great place to see musicians. Washington Square, in particular, is always hopping, although Prospect Park has its fair share, too. Even Park Slope has the man who plays the accordion on the corner!
I hope these people make money and I hope they enjoy their lives. I don't always contribute, but I hope they know that they have made my commutes better, made me smile all over the place, and helped me de-stress. I'm sure I'm not the only one they have helped.
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
Deus Ex Machina
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
There have been some religious oddities happening around here lately.
Last night as I was walking home from the subway, nigh on 11 pm, I noticed that the Catholic church down the way (yes, the one that wouldn't let me use their piano) was all lit up. I could hear singing from a block away. I peered in the door and people were walking around the perimeter of the Nave, singing loudly. It looked like they were circling around, with a lot of arm-waving and feet stomping. I checked to see if it was a saint day of a special sort, but I don't think it was. I have never seen any of the churches on my street open at that time of night before, and the pentecostal one had all their lights on, too.
A few weeks ago I was walking to the library on a Sunday and there was a genuine procession from the Catholic church, but I looked that up and I think it was the Feast of Corpus Christi. Anyway, I was walking down the street, and suddenly there were all these people wearing full High Church gear--hats, dresses, and tights for the ladies, suits and hats for the gents. All walking along and singing, while the priests, in full vestments, carried the cross, high, at the front. All while it was 90+ degrees out. It made me hot just looking at them, and I admit to being a bit concerned about some of the people passing out.
Today on the subway a woman got on, dressed in what my father would call "Sunday go to Meetin' clothes" and she said something along the lines of "I'm not here to ask for money. I'm here to tell you that those signs you see on the street that spout hatred in the name of Christianity are wrong, because Jesus loves everyone. He loves all of you and he wants to let you in. 34 years ago I was ready to kill myself, but I prayed to him and he saved me, and if you want me to pray with you now, I will. Jesus is love and that is what Christianity truly is. Don't listen to the hatemongers who spread fear." She talked for about five minutes--quoting the New Testament, telling us not take drugs, saying more about her life and what Christ meant to her, but above all to trust, trust ourselves to something bigger than ourselves.
I was raised as a Lutheran (my current religious beliefs notwithstanding) and lemme tell you--testimonials, such as the one I witnessed today, are not our style. Touchy-feely religiousness, as a general rule, is not my style either. It was hard for me to listen to this woman without assigning an ulterior motive to her desire to speak to strangers on the subway. But I don't think she had an ulterior motive. I think she genuinely wanted to help people cope, to let them know that they weren't alone. Which is kind of nice.
Deus ex machina translates to "god from the machine." It's a device used in plays, of the Shakespearean variety, whereby a problem is abruptly solved in a contrived way, and things are made right for always, because god or something supernatural steps in. If you were a god(dess), what would you solve? A silly question, but mine would be 1. stop the oil leak so I don't have to look at pictures of oil-slicked pelicans and feel my heart break, 2. make it so my friends have jobs that they like, 3. make it so that I could be fluent in all languages, and 4. give each of my family members a superpower of their choice. And world peace and stuff.
Actually, I've been reading The Metamorphosis, and if I WERE a god(dess), chances are good I'd just be vindictive, changeable, and spending all my days attempting to sleep with attractive mortals. That's what they seem to have going for them, anyway.
Last night as I was walking home from the subway, nigh on 11 pm, I noticed that the Catholic church down the way (yes, the one that wouldn't let me use their piano) was all lit up. I could hear singing from a block away. I peered in the door and people were walking around the perimeter of the Nave, singing loudly. It looked like they were circling around, with a lot of arm-waving and feet stomping. I checked to see if it was a saint day of a special sort, but I don't think it was. I have never seen any of the churches on my street open at that time of night before, and the pentecostal one had all their lights on, too.
A few weeks ago I was walking to the library on a Sunday and there was a genuine procession from the Catholic church, but I looked that up and I think it was the Feast of Corpus Christi. Anyway, I was walking down the street, and suddenly there were all these people wearing full High Church gear--hats, dresses, and tights for the ladies, suits and hats for the gents. All walking along and singing, while the priests, in full vestments, carried the cross, high, at the front. All while it was 90+ degrees out. It made me hot just looking at them, and I admit to being a bit concerned about some of the people passing out.
Today on the subway a woman got on, dressed in what my father would call "Sunday go to Meetin' clothes" and she said something along the lines of "I'm not here to ask for money. I'm here to tell you that those signs you see on the street that spout hatred in the name of Christianity are wrong, because Jesus loves everyone. He loves all of you and he wants to let you in. 34 years ago I was ready to kill myself, but I prayed to him and he saved me, and if you want me to pray with you now, I will. Jesus is love and that is what Christianity truly is. Don't listen to the hatemongers who spread fear." She talked for about five minutes--quoting the New Testament, telling us not take drugs, saying more about her life and what Christ meant to her, but above all to trust, trust ourselves to something bigger than ourselves.
I was raised as a Lutheran (my current religious beliefs notwithstanding) and lemme tell you--testimonials, such as the one I witnessed today, are not our style. Touchy-feely religiousness, as a general rule, is not my style either. It was hard for me to listen to this woman without assigning an ulterior motive to her desire to speak to strangers on the subway. But I don't think she had an ulterior motive. I think she genuinely wanted to help people cope, to let them know that they weren't alone. Which is kind of nice.
Deus ex machina translates to "god from the machine." It's a device used in plays, of the Shakespearean variety, whereby a problem is abruptly solved in a contrived way, and things are made right for always, because god or something supernatural steps in. If you were a god(dess), what would you solve? A silly question, but mine would be 1. stop the oil leak so I don't have to look at pictures of oil-slicked pelicans and feel my heart break, 2. make it so my friends have jobs that they like, 3. make it so that I could be fluent in all languages, and 4. give each of my family members a superpower of their choice. And world peace and stuff.
Actually, I've been reading The Metamorphosis, and if I WERE a god(dess), chances are good I'd just be vindictive, changeable, and spending all my days attempting to sleep with attractive mortals. That's what they seem to have going for them, anyway.
Monday, 12 July 2010
Free, White and 21
Monday, 12 July 2010
I don't know if you all watch The Muppets as much as I do, but occasionally Animal gets really excited when a beautiful woman walks by and he follows her, yelling, "WOMAN! WOMAN! WOMAN!" This particular form of flirtation seems to be popular with some of the men of NYC.
New York City male, #1
I don't like getting asked out by random men on the street, I don't like the creepy comments ("hey baby, you have cute toes. Are you single or what?"--true occurrence), and I don't like the attention. I suppose that it's flattering, a little bit, but mostly just makes me feel like a commodity. I've never really experienced this before, at least not to this extent, and being a seriously nonconfrontational person, I am pretty bad at deflecting these people. Would that I could launch into a rendition of "My Short Skirt" from the Vagina Monologues, but I can't. Won't.
New York City male, #2
"The only way to bag a classy lady is to give her two tickets to the gun show... and see if she likes the goods." --Will Ferrell as Ron Burgundy
However, it's not just the ogling and the comments and the whistles. It's the way men shepherd me onto the bus ahead of them and open doors for me. Now, let's be clear--I think opening doors for people is really nice, and I do it whenever possible. I like people opening doors for me. But, I want it to be reciprocal. By my estimates, 95% of men will not go through a door first if I open it, and I'm not going to force them to go first, because that feels silly. It's all so silly.
For some perspective with my introspective feminism, I'm going to talk a bit about a piece of video art I saw a few weeks ago at the Studio Museum in Harlem. It's by Howardena Pindell and is called Free, White and 21 (1980). I admit to not being that into video art (yeah, I'm a narrowminded art historian, you will all just have to accept it) but this was arresting. I watched it twice. Pindell discusses experiences she'd had--how she was turned down for jobs that she was clearly qualified for because of her race (her BFA from Boston U and her MFA from Yale notwithstanding), for instance. The story I remember the most clearly was when she was a wedding attendant in Maine and people wouldn't shake her hand or dance with her. Then, the minister came over to see if she wanted to dance; while they were dancing he leaned over and said, "I'm in NYC a lot, maybe we should meet up sometime, work out an arrangement" and winked.
Pindell intersperses these remembrances with images of herself as a white woman, with a blond wig and sunglasses. The white Howardena chides the black Howardena for being ungrateful, churlish, and too willing to hold on to old grudges. She ends with the line, "but then...you're not free, white and 21."
Although I am assuredly more free than many, chances are decent that depending on my job, a man will get paid more than me for equal work, as will a taller woman. (I read that in a sociology book my sophomore year of college.) But things are so much better for me because of battles that my parents fought and barriers that my grandmothers broke, that it feels almost ungracious to be frustrated to be getting 76 cents for a male dollar; to be annoyed when a man on the street stares openly at my chest.
Unlike Pindell and countless others over the years, I've never been turned down for a job because I was a woman, unless it was so covert that I didn't pick up on it. The closest I've come to that feeling was in England, when one art history professor I had was intensely condescending to me and the other American woman in the class, usually dismissing what we said offhand. But I think his deal was more with us being Americans, and anyway, after we turned in our first papers he announced to the class that she and I had gotten the highest marks of anyone, and then he was fine with us.
So I don't know what it is like to have people refuse to shake my hand, but watching Free, White and 21 made me feel guilty and a little sick to my stomach. I can acknowledge the generations of privilege I have behind me. And I do. But what do I do about it? That seems to be the question I can't answer.
New York City male, #1
I don't like getting asked out by random men on the street, I don't like the creepy comments ("hey baby, you have cute toes. Are you single or what?"--true occurrence), and I don't like the attention. I suppose that it's flattering, a little bit, but mostly just makes me feel like a commodity. I've never really experienced this before, at least not to this extent, and being a seriously nonconfrontational person, I am pretty bad at deflecting these people. Would that I could launch into a rendition of "My Short Skirt" from the Vagina Monologues, but I can't. Won't.
New York City male, #2
"The only way to bag a classy lady is to give her two tickets to the gun show... and see if she likes the goods." --Will Ferrell as Ron Burgundy
However, it's not just the ogling and the comments and the whistles. It's the way men shepherd me onto the bus ahead of them and open doors for me. Now, let's be clear--I think opening doors for people is really nice, and I do it whenever possible. I like people opening doors for me. But, I want it to be reciprocal. By my estimates, 95% of men will not go through a door first if I open it, and I'm not going to force them to go first, because that feels silly. It's all so silly.
For some perspective with my introspective feminism, I'm going to talk a bit about a piece of video art I saw a few weeks ago at the Studio Museum in Harlem. It's by Howardena Pindell and is called Free, White and 21 (1980). I admit to not being that into video art (yeah, I'm a narrowminded art historian, you will all just have to accept it) but this was arresting. I watched it twice. Pindell discusses experiences she'd had--how she was turned down for jobs that she was clearly qualified for because of her race (her BFA from Boston U and her MFA from Yale notwithstanding), for instance. The story I remember the most clearly was when she was a wedding attendant in Maine and people wouldn't shake her hand or dance with her. Then, the minister came over to see if she wanted to dance; while they were dancing he leaned over and said, "I'm in NYC a lot, maybe we should meet up sometime, work out an arrangement" and winked.
Pindell intersperses these remembrances with images of herself as a white woman, with a blond wig and sunglasses. The white Howardena chides the black Howardena for being ungrateful, churlish, and too willing to hold on to old grudges. She ends with the line, "but then...you're not free, white and 21."
Although I am assuredly more free than many, chances are decent that depending on my job, a man will get paid more than me for equal work, as will a taller woman. (I read that in a sociology book my sophomore year of college.) But things are so much better for me because of battles that my parents fought and barriers that my grandmothers broke, that it feels almost ungracious to be frustrated to be getting 76 cents for a male dollar; to be annoyed when a man on the street stares openly at my chest.
Unlike Pindell and countless others over the years, I've never been turned down for a job because I was a woman, unless it was so covert that I didn't pick up on it. The closest I've come to that feeling was in England, when one art history professor I had was intensely condescending to me and the other American woman in the class, usually dismissing what we said offhand. But I think his deal was more with us being Americans, and anyway, after we turned in our first papers he announced to the class that she and I had gotten the highest marks of anyone, and then he was fine with us.
So I don't know what it is like to have people refuse to shake my hand, but watching Free, White and 21 made me feel guilty and a little sick to my stomach. I can acknowledge the generations of privilege I have behind me. And I do. But what do I do about it? That seems to be the question I can't answer.
Wednesday, 7 July 2010
Overheard at the Met
Wednesday, 7 July 2010
Marie-Denise Villers, Young Woman Drawing (1801)
Metropolitan Museum of Art (image from them, too--cheers!)
Today I was standing in front of this painting, as I often do, to admire the way the light frames her hair and simultaneously casts her face in shadow. It's one of those paintings which makes me wonder if this is, in fact, Marie-Denise Villers depicting herself (the wall label says yes), and if so, I want to know about her. She died when she was 47, and was barely older than I am when she painted this. Did she have a good life? Who did she paint for, and what did they do, and what did she say, and what was her house like? Did she have a studio? What was it like studying with Girodet? Why decide to paint yourself in a white dress when chances are good no artist would be drawing in that outfit? It is a gorgeous dress, sumptuous and lovely, and you can almost sense the shafts of sunlight that cascade over those delicate feet.
Anyway, I was musing on how big her eyes are and getting ready to mosey on, when a woman and her two kids came over next to me. The kids, a girl and boy, 3ish and 5ish years old, were looking at the painting with some interest (it's HUGE. It's hard not to look at). This is what happened next:
The mom: oh my, Lily! She looks just like you. You have the same curls.
[I sneak a glance. the girl looks uncannily like the Young Woman Drawing. Big eyes, blonde curls.]
The girl: I like her dress.
The boy: what is she drawing?
The mom: I'm not sure. I think maybe she is drawing herself. That is what is called a self-portrait.
The girl: the lady is a painter?
The mom: yes, she is a painter, from a long time ago, but we can still see what she made now, because she was such a good painter.
The girl: She IS a good painter. I think I want to be a painter too!
Ow. My feminist art historian heart just exploded a little bit with joy.
Tuesday, 6 July 2010
Musings on the 4th of July
Tuesday, 6 July 2010
For someone without much nationalist spirit, I do love me a good display of fireworks. I also love smores, bonfires, eating lots of pie, canoeing, and being with my awesome family, all of which I did this weekend with my Albany-area relatives (if any of you are reading this--I MISS YOU ALREADY.)
As I say, my nationalist spirit is pretty much nonexistent, which started when I was 8 years old and was obsessed with the Daughters of the American Revolution after learning about the Revolutionary War from my 3rd grade teacher. Being a member of the DAR was my life goal. My mother had to inform me that due to my great-grandparents being immigrants (or my great-great-great-grandparents being untraceable), I wouldn't be able to join the DAR. This seemed ridiculous to my 8 year old self, and my nativism (such as it was) stopped right there. Still, I admit to having a big crush on John Adams. That Ben Franklin was a good egg, too.
Anyway, I am back in Brooklyn with quite the sunburn, and it is 103 degrees so I am holed up in the library reveling in the air conditioning, of which our apartment has none. Here are some of my favorite Independence Day-related tales:
1. Last year I went to the Coney Island Hot Dog Eating Contest, and blogged about it in one of my first posts! It was a truly ridiculous, remarkable, and revolting undertaking, and I'm mostly bummed that I missed it this year because Kobayashi got arrested! I can't imagine what Coney Island looked like while that went down. This year I spent most of the 4th on a canoe, in the creek on an inner-tube, eating gratuitous amounts of meat (seriously, the most meat I've eaten in 6 months--this is what being a pseudo-vegetarian does to you), and then going to watch the fireworks.
2. When I was in 3rd grade and learning about the Revolutionary War (are you sensing a trend?), we each got a nice piece of paper and were told to write "Taxation without Representation is Tyranny" in cursive, which we had just learned how to do. Well, I misspelled one of the words, although I can't remember which one now--I have a feeling it was "tyranny". Anyway, I was gutted because the paper wasn't white so it's not like I could white it out without it being super-obvious, and since it was nice paper we only got ONE each. I had to white it out and it looked dumb. It's weird that I remember this so vividly, but I've never forgotten the phrase "Taxation without Representation is Tyranny."
3. My grandmother went to go see "Independence Day" when it came out, on Independence Day, because she thought it was going to be a patriotic movie. She got there late and it was dark so she got a seat in the middle of the row and then the movie came on and was all gory and alien-y and she stayed, for the whole thing, because she didn't want to stand up to leave and block someones view. To this day, she describes this is as a "horrifying experience".
4. The library in my hometown has a drillteam, ie librarians with book carts doing formations, often to music or to the shouted encouragement of Earl, who drives the bookmobile behind them in the Mayville 4th of July Parade. It's quite the sight. If you want a taster of the awesomeness, check out these pictures. It's a high point of the parade. I was going to be handing out bookmarks with them one year when I was working there, but then it rained so they didn't go because they didn't want the book carts to get rusty--which was probably just as well, since the only red shirts I had to wear were one which said "the vaginas are coming" and another which featured the kids from The Boondocks.
5.
This is a work called White Flag by Jasper Johns (1955). I admit to never being that into Jasper Johns, but it's a different story when you see his works in person, which I've had the luxury to do this past year. White Flag is made with encaustic (heated wax and pigments, which is super temperamental and dries really quickly), oil, newsprint and charcoal, which basically means that this work, like many of his others, is richly textured while still being monochromatic. I don't know why I like this one, but something about the tactility of the media and the layering of the newsprint makes me think about America in all its contradictions. We are a country which whitewashes--we pretend we have overcome racism, homophobia, what we have done in other countries in the names of war and peace and safety, severe class inequalities, the way immigrants are treated--when in fact we've just covered up these injustices with slick marketing campaigns. Yes, other countries have these problems. Yes, we're not the worst. But we're not the best, either.
John Adams was the lawyer for the English after the Boston Massacre, because he believed that everyone should have a fair trial and a fair defense. He also said, "The science of government it is my duty to study, more than all other sciences; the arts of legislation and administration and negotiation ought to take the place of, indeed exclude, in a manner, all other arts. I must study politics and war, that our sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. Our sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history and naval architecture, navigation, commerce and agriculture in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry and porcelain."(letter to Abigail Adams, 1780.)
Thanks, John.
As I say, my nationalist spirit is pretty much nonexistent, which started when I was 8 years old and was obsessed with the Daughters of the American Revolution after learning about the Revolutionary War from my 3rd grade teacher. Being a member of the DAR was my life goal. My mother had to inform me that due to my great-grandparents being immigrants (or my great-great-great-grandparents being untraceable), I wouldn't be able to join the DAR. This seemed ridiculous to my 8 year old self, and my nativism (such as it was) stopped right there. Still, I admit to having a big crush on John Adams. That Ben Franklin was a good egg, too.
Anyway, I am back in Brooklyn with quite the sunburn, and it is 103 degrees so I am holed up in the library reveling in the air conditioning, of which our apartment has none. Here are some of my favorite Independence Day-related tales:
1. Last year I went to the Coney Island Hot Dog Eating Contest, and blogged about it in one of my first posts! It was a truly ridiculous, remarkable, and revolting undertaking, and I'm mostly bummed that I missed it this year because Kobayashi got arrested! I can't imagine what Coney Island looked like while that went down. This year I spent most of the 4th on a canoe, in the creek on an inner-tube, eating gratuitous amounts of meat (seriously, the most meat I've eaten in 6 months--this is what being a pseudo-vegetarian does to you), and then going to watch the fireworks.
2. When I was in 3rd grade and learning about the Revolutionary War (are you sensing a trend?), we each got a nice piece of paper and were told to write "Taxation without Representation is Tyranny" in cursive, which we had just learned how to do. Well, I misspelled one of the words, although I can't remember which one now--I have a feeling it was "tyranny". Anyway, I was gutted because the paper wasn't white so it's not like I could white it out without it being super-obvious, and since it was nice paper we only got ONE each. I had to white it out and it looked dumb. It's weird that I remember this so vividly, but I've never forgotten the phrase "Taxation without Representation is Tyranny."
3. My grandmother went to go see "Independence Day" when it came out, on Independence Day, because she thought it was going to be a patriotic movie. She got there late and it was dark so she got a seat in the middle of the row and then the movie came on and was all gory and alien-y and she stayed, for the whole thing, because she didn't want to stand up to leave and block someones view. To this day, she describes this is as a "horrifying experience".
4. The library in my hometown has a drillteam, ie librarians with book carts doing formations, often to music or to the shouted encouragement of Earl, who drives the bookmobile behind them in the Mayville 4th of July Parade. It's quite the sight. If you want a taster of the awesomeness, check out these pictures. It's a high point of the parade. I was going to be handing out bookmarks with them one year when I was working there, but then it rained so they didn't go because they didn't want the book carts to get rusty--which was probably just as well, since the only red shirts I had to wear were one which said "the vaginas are coming" and another which featured the kids from The Boondocks.
5.
This is a work called White Flag by Jasper Johns (1955). I admit to never being that into Jasper Johns, but it's a different story when you see his works in person, which I've had the luxury to do this past year. White Flag is made with encaustic (heated wax and pigments, which is super temperamental and dries really quickly), oil, newsprint and charcoal, which basically means that this work, like many of his others, is richly textured while still being monochromatic. I don't know why I like this one, but something about the tactility of the media and the layering of the newsprint makes me think about America in all its contradictions. We are a country which whitewashes--we pretend we have overcome racism, homophobia, what we have done in other countries in the names of war and peace and safety, severe class inequalities, the way immigrants are treated--when in fact we've just covered up these injustices with slick marketing campaigns. Yes, other countries have these problems. Yes, we're not the worst. But we're not the best, either.
John Adams was the lawyer for the English after the Boston Massacre, because he believed that everyone should have a fair trial and a fair defense. He also said, "The science of government it is my duty to study, more than all other sciences; the arts of legislation and administration and negotiation ought to take the place of, indeed exclude, in a manner, all other arts. I must study politics and war, that our sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. Our sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history and naval architecture, navigation, commerce and agriculture in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry and porcelain."(letter to Abigail Adams, 1780.)
Thanks, John.
Wednesday, 30 June 2010
Bon Voyage (and some Blog Housekeeping)
Wednesday, 30 June 2010
First--today is my one year Brooklyn-anniversary (how NUTS is that??). Thanks for reading--let's make the next 3ish weeks spectacular, shall we? I mean, I did my laundry today, so we're already off to a very exciting start! Har har.
Second--check out the blogroll over on the right ----> I just updated it, and there is some good stuff on there. Art, politics, silliness, and another Brooklyn blog! (authored by one of my sweet friends, Gtown native, and fellow WS alumna).
Thirdly (and most imperatively)--my superstar cousin is on her three week adventure in the Balkans--she got a grant from the Fun for Teachers Fund, because she's awesome, and she will be blogging daily about what is happening. So, check that out here (also on the blogroll). And leave her comments! And learn some stuff. She is en route to Dubrovnik, Croatia, as I'm writing. Yaaaay Melis!
Second--check out the blogroll over on the right ----> I just updated it, and there is some good stuff on there. Art, politics, silliness, and another Brooklyn blog! (authored by one of my sweet friends, Gtown native, and fellow WS alumna).
Thirdly (and most imperatively)--my superstar cousin is on her three week adventure in the Balkans--she got a grant from the Fun for Teachers Fund, because she's awesome, and she will be blogging daily about what is happening. So, check that out here (also on the blogroll). And leave her comments! And learn some stuff. She is en route to Dubrovnik, Croatia, as I'm writing. Yaaaay Melis!
Sunday, 27 June 2010
West Side Story--Brooklyn story?
Sunday, 27 June 2010
A-Rab (as a psychologist): In my opinion, this child don't need to have his head shrunk at all. Juvenile delinquency is purely a social disease.
Action: Hey, I got a social disease!
--Gee, Officer Krupke
(many thanks to West Side Story's Broadway site for the pictures!)
I went to see West Side Story last night with The Birthday Girl (welcome to the big 2-3, lady!!). It was PHENOMENAL. I haven't watched the movie in awhile, and I'd forgotten how amazing the choreography is--that Jerome Robbins knew his stuff! I happen to despise Romeo and Juliet (which West Side Story is based on) and I'm also not that fond of the movie, but the play was so much better. I think part of the reason was that Maria and Tony weren't as dippy on stage--part of the reason I don't like the movie much is because I don't care about their love story. Natalie Wood was not able to play a Puerto Rican very realistically, and Marni Nixon, lord love her, sounds even less like one.
But this Maria (Josephina Scaglione) and Tony (Matthew Hydzik) were vibrant and real--you could sort of sense that he was so devoted to her and she was in love but more strong than he was. When he died it was awful, awful. Her line at the end--about "You all killed him! And my brother, and Riff. Not with bullets, or guns, but with hate. Well now I can kill, too, because now I have hate!" was good and so sad and not overly melodramatic. And the dancing, as I mentioned, was totally cool. I like Sondheim and Bernstein A LOT, and their lyrics and music don't disappoint with this one. Some cool dissonance and timing, which the cast did really well. I would imagine it's a hard musical to sing, but they pulled it off.
Another totally cool thing is that Arthur Laurents, who wrote the original book for West Side Story, directed this new Broadway revival and rewrote some of the Sharks songs ("I Feel Pretty") and dialogue into the Spanish that the Sharks, as recent Puerto Rican immigrants, would have been speaking. Here is a pretty good article about the change. And here is another one which discusses Laurents's motivation for the rewrites. AND, here is an article with some clips. The Spanish works. Very well. It adds to the tension, as one of the actors points out in one of the articles--with the language barrier, it's another alienation between the groups, which highlights the alienation between recent immigrants, established street toughs, and the cops who don't respect them and don't know how to handle them.
Before moving to Brooklyn, most of my knowledge of gang-culture came from listening to West Side Story, much as most of my knowledge of nannies comes from Mary Poppins, and most of my knowledge of fake-cockney accents comes from My Fair Lady. Here is an anecdote to illustrate this point: I was helping my cousin set up her classroom last September, and I was doodling on some of the folder labels to decorate--mostly spirals, stars, waves, etc. After glancing over at me, my cousin said, "get rid of the 5-point stars, or my Crip kids are going to think I'm siding with my Blood kids, and that could cause me some problems." I was helping her rip paper out of notebooks last week, and this time I barely even noticed all the notebooks with 5-pointed stars etched on them and how a lot of those kids only wrote their notes in red (Blood colors) to make a point. It's interesting what a difference a year makes, eh?
That being said, gang-culture is not about dancing and it's not any better now than it was in the 1950's, although the players have changed. I have trouble figuring out gang-culture and warfare because it is so different from anything I've personally experienced, but it's not alien to me anymore. I live in between two gang territories, and while it is very unlikely that I'll be caught in the crossfires (literally and figuratively), I'm aware of it. Marking your territory with graffiti? Objectifying women, in ways that I can't even fathom? Racist assumptions from the police? Stupid, macho, and it makes me lived. And yet--as Riff points out, "when you're a Jet, you're a Jet all the way." You always have someone to back you up, to be there for you. At the end of the day, that is something that I think we all want. At the end of the day, I can sort of see the appeal of that.
Action: Hey, I got a social disease!
--Gee, Officer Krupke
(many thanks to West Side Story's Broadway site for the pictures!)
I went to see West Side Story last night with The Birthday Girl (welcome to the big 2-3, lady!!). It was PHENOMENAL. I haven't watched the movie in awhile, and I'd forgotten how amazing the choreography is--that Jerome Robbins knew his stuff! I happen to despise Romeo and Juliet (which West Side Story is based on) and I'm also not that fond of the movie, but the play was so much better. I think part of the reason was that Maria and Tony weren't as dippy on stage--part of the reason I don't like the movie much is because I don't care about their love story. Natalie Wood was not able to play a Puerto Rican very realistically, and Marni Nixon, lord love her, sounds even less like one.
But this Maria (Josephina Scaglione) and Tony (Matthew Hydzik) were vibrant and real--you could sort of sense that he was so devoted to her and she was in love but more strong than he was. When he died it was awful, awful. Her line at the end--about "You all killed him! And my brother, and Riff. Not with bullets, or guns, but with hate. Well now I can kill, too, because now I have hate!" was good and so sad and not overly melodramatic. And the dancing, as I mentioned, was totally cool. I like Sondheim and Bernstein A LOT, and their lyrics and music don't disappoint with this one. Some cool dissonance and timing, which the cast did really well. I would imagine it's a hard musical to sing, but they pulled it off.
Another totally cool thing is that Arthur Laurents, who wrote the original book for West Side Story, directed this new Broadway revival and rewrote some of the Sharks songs ("I Feel Pretty") and dialogue into the Spanish that the Sharks, as recent Puerto Rican immigrants, would have been speaking. Here is a pretty good article about the change. And here is another one which discusses Laurents's motivation for the rewrites. AND, here is an article with some clips. The Spanish works. Very well. It adds to the tension, as one of the actors points out in one of the articles--with the language barrier, it's another alienation between the groups, which highlights the alienation between recent immigrants, established street toughs, and the cops who don't respect them and don't know how to handle them.
Before moving to Brooklyn, most of my knowledge of gang-culture came from listening to West Side Story, much as most of my knowledge of nannies comes from Mary Poppins, and most of my knowledge of fake-cockney accents comes from My Fair Lady. Here is an anecdote to illustrate this point: I was helping my cousin set up her classroom last September, and I was doodling on some of the folder labels to decorate--mostly spirals, stars, waves, etc. After glancing over at me, my cousin said, "get rid of the 5-point stars, or my Crip kids are going to think I'm siding with my Blood kids, and that could cause me some problems." I was helping her rip paper out of notebooks last week, and this time I barely even noticed all the notebooks with 5-pointed stars etched on them and how a lot of those kids only wrote their notes in red (Blood colors) to make a point. It's interesting what a difference a year makes, eh?
That being said, gang-culture is not about dancing and it's not any better now than it was in the 1950's, although the players have changed. I have trouble figuring out gang-culture and warfare because it is so different from anything I've personally experienced, but it's not alien to me anymore. I live in between two gang territories, and while it is very unlikely that I'll be caught in the crossfires (literally and figuratively), I'm aware of it. Marking your territory with graffiti? Objectifying women, in ways that I can't even fathom? Racist assumptions from the police? Stupid, macho, and it makes me lived. And yet--as Riff points out, "when you're a Jet, you're a Jet all the way." You always have someone to back you up, to be there for you. At the end of the day, that is something that I think we all want. At the end of the day, I can sort of see the appeal of that.
Wednesday, 23 June 2010
Heat
Wednesday, 23 June 2010
I don't know if it's my Nordic blood (or what), but any time it gets to be 80 degrees or higher in NYC, I cease to be a valuable member of society (am I ever a valuable member of society? I suppose that is a valid question). I just want to watch TV and drink sweet tea, with a fan blowing directly on my face. Probably people in hotter climates would scoff at this pansiness (with good reason!) but I will say that it is not just me. People migrate out to their stoops and stairs to catch whatever tiny hints of breeze may be found. On the subway platforms, they seem to be wilting, their make-up melting, their suitcoats damp with sweat.
I can see why the upper crust, for the past 200+ years, has gotten away from the city in the summer months. It starts to smell--backed up sewers, food in garbage cans, unwashed clothes and people en masse. On the plus side, Melis got us egg and cheese sandwiches on hard rolls this morning--if there is one food I could live on, it would be egg and cheese sandwiches.
Anyway, the point of this post is to show you this painting:
Heat (1919), by Florine Stettheimer, from the Brooklyn Museum--thanks to them for the image!
I like this work a lot, but something about it also makes me sad. There is a sense of the sinister that seems to be lurking in it, especially with the trees in the back. It reminds me of Edward Gorey meets The Great Gatsby. Stettheimer was depicting her mother's birthday (hence, the cake on the table) and has painted herself, her mother, and her three sisters. She is the one on the lower right.
It reminds me of the wiltiness that I feel whenever I've eaten a big meal (ie Thanksgiving) and just want to pull up a pillow and lie on the floor. I like the composition and how the figures kind of echo and mimic each other, leading the eye to the matriarch on the top--but I mainly like it because it makes me feel sleepy and serene and a little bit creeped out. Plus, the colors are cool.
Heat is what Brooklyn feels like today.
Not an overly profound statement, but I stand by it.
I can see why the upper crust, for the past 200+ years, has gotten away from the city in the summer months. It starts to smell--backed up sewers, food in garbage cans, unwashed clothes and people en masse. On the plus side, Melis got us egg and cheese sandwiches on hard rolls this morning--if there is one food I could live on, it would be egg and cheese sandwiches.
Anyway, the point of this post is to show you this painting:
Heat (1919), by Florine Stettheimer, from the Brooklyn Museum--thanks to them for the image!
I like this work a lot, but something about it also makes me sad. There is a sense of the sinister that seems to be lurking in it, especially with the trees in the back. It reminds me of Edward Gorey meets The Great Gatsby. Stettheimer was depicting her mother's birthday (hence, the cake on the table) and has painted herself, her mother, and her three sisters. She is the one on the lower right.
It reminds me of the wiltiness that I feel whenever I've eaten a big meal (ie Thanksgiving) and just want to pull up a pillow and lie on the floor. I like the composition and how the figures kind of echo and mimic each other, leading the eye to the matriarch on the top--but I mainly like it because it makes me feel sleepy and serene and a little bit creeped out. Plus, the colors are cool.
Heat is what Brooklyn feels like today.
Not an overly profound statement, but I stand by it.
Monday, 21 June 2010
The Art Notebook Saga
Monday, 21 June 2010
Since I am sporadically employed (SIGH) I had some time last week to museum-hop, which, of course, I do enjoy very much. I left the Met and was pumped because there was a man outside wearing a pink suit and playing "Oh, Canada" on the sax (the best national anthem IN THE WORLD, if you ask my relatives). Anyway, I was a few blocks away before I realized that my little art notebook wasn't in my purse, and that I must have left it somewhere.
Now, this wouldn't have been the end of the world, and there is nothing that profound in it (as you'll soon see), but I had been using this notebook for about a year, so I was pretty attached. I hustled back to the museum to look for it. Not helping matters was the fact that I'd already returned my little metal thing that you wear when you gain admission to the Met, so I had to wait in line again to get back in. I was also wearing a Holter Monitor at the time, so I looked absurd. "Like a bomber in an old cartoon," one of my friends said when I saw her later that day. "Like you have TNT strapped around your waist and you carelessly left the wires hanging out. Stay away from Times Square."
Happily--I did not get arrested, AND I found the notebook on a back bench in the Greek and Roman galleries, which was the last place I'd remembered sitting down. Since it was back in my possession, I decided to take a gander through it to see if there was anything interesting I could share with you. It is turning out to be not so much "interesting," as "notably ridiculous." Here goes.
1. Far and away the work that I took the most notes on was Caravaggio's The Denial of Saint Peter (c. 1610). I counted 6 separate mentions. Here is a sample of what I mean when I say "notes":
--PETER'S HANDS & UNDER EYE SHADOWS
--background little red flicks shadows on sleeve highlights highlights HIGHLIGHTS
--they glow from across room, through doorways, vibrant, LIFE
--today it is noses and hands ("noses" underlined 3 times)
--soldier shadowed angular distinct mustache?
--FOREHEADS
--glows from across room [again--apparently this was a theme]
Maybe I should work on coherent sentences. Or sentences, period.
2. Speaking of coherent, try this on for size:
"post--C of T--sober RCC, Ven. "Birth of the Virgin" on wall, [illegible] based Durer. quote from Cesare Vecellio--proper dress for widows = NUNS. Lotto, Portrait of Married Couple, squirrel on table (does not look like squirrel.)"
This does make some sense to me, but who the HECK is Cesare Vecellio, and perhaps I should have written down what he said? This was all one long non-sentence too--stream of consciousness art history ramblings? Yeah, that is how I do.
3. Joachim Patnir, Penitence of Saint Jerome (c. 1518.) "huge head, presumably for his massive brain. Ha! alien shaped. [I proceed to draw alien shaped Jerome head]. lovely blue robe--color stunning. cerulean meets teal? Camels cute. Jer looks too healthy, other than being old. Supposed to be penitent who beats self with rocks."
4. Here is another gem: "Triumph of the Phallus, 1540. Self-explanatory." Yes, it probably is. (But Anna, who created it, and why? Erm.)
5. And what did I have to say about George de la Tour's Penitent Magdalen? "chiaroscuro, big time. IS this the painting in Ariel's secret stash when she sings Part of your World?" The answer to that is actually no--THAT painting, I found out just now, is George de la Tour's Magdalen of the Night Light (1640-45), which is in the Louvre. I suppose I should be proud that I got the correct artist of a painting that is shown for .3 seconds in The Little Mermaid. Or maybe I should just be concerned.
6. Flipping a few pages, I wind up at the Brooklyn Museum, where I saw Jane Dickson's Cops and Headlights V (1991), and said, "compositional zig-zag, blues & blacks w/ pops of yellow headlights. FAB." It is fab, although the image they have posted doesn't really do the colors justice, but you'll have to make do.
7. Most of my notes from The Frick seem to be pretty substantial and even include drawings, but here is a good one:
"I WANT HIS BOOKS"
This follows a page on Giovanni Bellini's St Francis in the Wilderness (1480), but I can't imagine I was talking about St Francis's books. Perhaps I meant Henry Clay Frick? There are bookshelves around the house, and I was probably jealous. Who can say, really.
8. I'm not normally big on Edouard Manet, but his Bullfight (1864), also from the Frick, got a few mentions. The composition is totally cool--it was a painting which was (I believe) cut in half, and the Frick has the top half.
9. I had a lot to say about the Francis Bacon show that the Met had last summer, including:
--Head III--I like the ear, but mouth unnerving
--FB obsessed with "Battleship Potemkin"--what is that?
--Men in Blue, '50's, DREAD, Cold War, apocalyptic, drapes, shrouded, foreboding, isolation
--blood (?) looks like bubblegum
10. Skipping ahead about 20 pages: "Anthony van Dyck--Self Portrait. what I imagine Oscar Wilde looked like." [no idea which museum this is in]
11. From PS 1, a series about Helen Keller, called Punk Helen Keller (2003) by Johnathan Horowitz: "from HK: make a junk heap of your masters religion, his civilization, his kings and his customs. 1915. right on."
12. MoMA, Claude Monet's Water Lilies room, (1914-1916). "Overheard: Jack, have a look, because it's very famous... more [squiggley line] for water; more [vertical lines] for sky. celdaon, turquoise, curvy. Various times of day, different types of weather."
13. MoMA, Salvador Dali, Retrospective Bust of a Woman (1933): "bread & corn. Picasso's dog allegedly ate the original loaf. True? I hope so."
14. Skip a few more pages, and I seem to end with a few to-do lists, a knitting pattern I copied from a library book, and a recipe for chicken wing dip. A bit more on Watteau, Limbourg gospels, and...finished.
Looking it over, I seem to be disturbingly Eurocentric, although I definitely go to museums more often than I take notes, so this isn't a very fair sample. I can't imagine these notes will ever help me, ever, but it did make me remember some works I had forgotten about, and more importantly, made me remember how these works made me feel. The amount of exclamation points that accompany Caravaggio sightings, the hearts I drew next to Edward Hopper's name--those tell more of a story.
Now, this wouldn't have been the end of the world, and there is nothing that profound in it (as you'll soon see), but I had been using this notebook for about a year, so I was pretty attached. I hustled back to the museum to look for it. Not helping matters was the fact that I'd already returned my little metal thing that you wear when you gain admission to the Met, so I had to wait in line again to get back in. I was also wearing a Holter Monitor at the time, so I looked absurd. "Like a bomber in an old cartoon," one of my friends said when I saw her later that day. "Like you have TNT strapped around your waist and you carelessly left the wires hanging out. Stay away from Times Square."
Happily--I did not get arrested, AND I found the notebook on a back bench in the Greek and Roman galleries, which was the last place I'd remembered sitting down. Since it was back in my possession, I decided to take a gander through it to see if there was anything interesting I could share with you. It is turning out to be not so much "interesting," as "notably ridiculous." Here goes.
1. Far and away the work that I took the most notes on was Caravaggio's The Denial of Saint Peter (c. 1610). I counted 6 separate mentions. Here is a sample of what I mean when I say "notes":
--PETER'S HANDS & UNDER EYE SHADOWS
--background little red flicks shadows on sleeve highlights highlights HIGHLIGHTS
--they glow from across room, through doorways, vibrant, LIFE
--today it is noses and hands ("noses" underlined 3 times)
--soldier shadowed angular distinct mustache?
--FOREHEADS
--glows from across room [again--apparently this was a theme]
Maybe I should work on coherent sentences. Or sentences, period.
2. Speaking of coherent, try this on for size:
"post--C of T--sober RCC, Ven. "Birth of the Virgin" on wall, [illegible] based Durer. quote from Cesare Vecellio--proper dress for widows = NUNS. Lotto, Portrait of Married Couple, squirrel on table (does not look like squirrel.)"
This does make some sense to me, but who the HECK is Cesare Vecellio, and perhaps I should have written down what he said? This was all one long non-sentence too--stream of consciousness art history ramblings? Yeah, that is how I do.
3. Joachim Patnir, Penitence of Saint Jerome (c. 1518.) "huge head, presumably for his massive brain. Ha! alien shaped. [I proceed to draw alien shaped Jerome head]. lovely blue robe--color stunning. cerulean meets teal? Camels cute. Jer looks too healthy, other than being old. Supposed to be penitent who beats self with rocks."
4. Here is another gem: "Triumph of the Phallus, 1540. Self-explanatory." Yes, it probably is. (But Anna, who created it, and why? Erm.)
5. And what did I have to say about George de la Tour's Penitent Magdalen? "chiaroscuro, big time. IS this the painting in Ariel's secret stash when she sings Part of your World?" The answer to that is actually no--THAT painting, I found out just now, is George de la Tour's Magdalen of the Night Light (1640-45), which is in the Louvre. I suppose I should be proud that I got the correct artist of a painting that is shown for .3 seconds in The Little Mermaid. Or maybe I should just be concerned.
6. Flipping a few pages, I wind up at the Brooklyn Museum, where I saw Jane Dickson's Cops and Headlights V (1991), and said, "compositional zig-zag, blues & blacks w/ pops of yellow headlights. FAB." It is fab, although the image they have posted doesn't really do the colors justice, but you'll have to make do.
7. Most of my notes from The Frick seem to be pretty substantial and even include drawings, but here is a good one:
"I WANT HIS BOOKS"
This follows a page on Giovanni Bellini's St Francis in the Wilderness (1480), but I can't imagine I was talking about St Francis's books. Perhaps I meant Henry Clay Frick? There are bookshelves around the house, and I was probably jealous. Who can say, really.
8. I'm not normally big on Edouard Manet, but his Bullfight (1864), also from the Frick, got a few mentions. The composition is totally cool--it was a painting which was (I believe) cut in half, and the Frick has the top half.
9. I had a lot to say about the Francis Bacon show that the Met had last summer, including:
--Head III--I like the ear, but mouth unnerving
--FB obsessed with "Battleship Potemkin"--what is that?
--Men in Blue, '50's, DREAD, Cold War, apocalyptic, drapes, shrouded, foreboding, isolation
--blood (?) looks like bubblegum
10. Skipping ahead about 20 pages: "Anthony van Dyck--Self Portrait. what I imagine Oscar Wilde looked like." [no idea which museum this is in]
11. From PS 1, a series about Helen Keller, called Punk Helen Keller (2003) by Johnathan Horowitz: "from HK: make a junk heap of your masters religion, his civilization, his kings and his customs. 1915. right on."
12. MoMA, Claude Monet's Water Lilies room, (1914-1916). "Overheard: Jack, have a look, because it's very famous... more [squiggley line] for water; more [vertical lines] for sky. celdaon, turquoise, curvy. Various times of day, different types of weather."
13. MoMA, Salvador Dali, Retrospective Bust of a Woman (1933): "bread & corn. Picasso's dog allegedly ate the original loaf. True? I hope so."
14. Skip a few more pages, and I seem to end with a few to-do lists, a knitting pattern I copied from a library book, and a recipe for chicken wing dip. A bit more on Watteau, Limbourg gospels, and...finished.
Looking it over, I seem to be disturbingly Eurocentric, although I definitely go to museums more often than I take notes, so this isn't a very fair sample. I can't imagine these notes will ever help me, ever, but it did make me remember some works I had forgotten about, and more importantly, made me remember how these works made me feel. The amount of exclamation points that accompany Caravaggio sightings, the hearts I drew next to Edward Hopper's name--those tell more of a story.
Sunday, 20 June 2010
City Lights
Sunday, 20 June 2010
Last night we went to watch Field of Dreams on the flight deck of the Intrepid. I've never been to a free movie series here, although there are quite a few. Also, I don't usually bandy around words like "magical" with phrases like "flight deck," but it was. Magical, I mean. We got there and passed through security with our lawn chairs, water, burgers and fries, and various types of m&ms, and took the see-through elevator up to the top of the Intrepid. The Intrepid is a large ship which is now part of the Sea, Air, and Space Museum (which I've never been in!! Must change that, immediately.) So we were actually docked in the Hudson River--the movie started at sunset, and we ate our food with the other 100 or so people who were there and watched New Jersey get brighter and brighter as the sky got darker and darker.
I have seen Field of Dreams approx. 967 times, but I still love it. My whole family is pretty obsessed--my cousin can quote the "baseball has marked the time" speech in its entirety. The friend I was with had seen bits of it before, but she was pretty uninitiated in the FoD magic, so that was exciting. The movie was winding down--I had cried at the part (as I ALWAYS do) when Doc Graham goes off the field to save Karin and he can't go back, and Shoeless Joe says, "hey rookie! you were good" (sob!) and the part when Ray asks his dad to have a catch (double sob!!). We were packing up, and simultaneously turned around, and there was New York City, all lit up. Since the flight deck is pretty high up, we could see everything--the Empire State Building, Rockefeller Center, all the other myriad skyscrapers with their glowing, glittering, prismatic lights.
Rarely am I speechless, but that did it. Especially considering that the end credits were playing (for a listen, check this out), which gave the moment a sense of grandeur. Everyone just kind of froze, and we stood there are a group for a few seconds, stunned. And then the spell lifted and we walked down many stairs, and the city looked less amazing from the ground--but for that minute, I understood why someone would spend a bazillion dollars for a penthouse apartment, to be able to see that every day.
Because I like to reference people who are more articulate than I am (not hard to be), I'm going to leave you with a passage from Pat Conroy's Prince of Tides. I read it a few weeks ago, and it is great--I had to take a Conroy break, though, because the man packs an emotional wallop. But I flagged this part at the time--and now I can safely say that I know what Tom Wingo must have felt like, looking over the city from Dr. Lowenstein's apartment:
"The huge buildings of the lower city turned sapphire and rose in the descendent retreat of sunlight, then began to answer back with their own interior light. The city was laid out before me in a forest of transfigured architecture, devotional and splendid. The sun, exhausted, caught one building whole in its last sight and imparted the hues of a coral reef in a thousand grateful windows, then slide halfway down as the whole city rose like a firebird into the singing night. The city shook off the last foils of sunset and in a thrown-back, overreaching ecstasy transformed itself into an amazing candelabrum of asymmetrical light. From where I sat, in complete darkness now, the city looked as if it were formed from glass votive candles, lightning, and glowing embers. In the beauty of those rising geometrics and fabulous metamorphosed shapes, it seemed to enlarge the sunset, improve upon it." (Conroy, 332-333)
Magical.
I have seen Field of Dreams approx. 967 times, but I still love it. My whole family is pretty obsessed--my cousin can quote the "baseball has marked the time" speech in its entirety. The friend I was with had seen bits of it before, but she was pretty uninitiated in the FoD magic, so that was exciting. The movie was winding down--I had cried at the part (as I ALWAYS do) when Doc Graham goes off the field to save Karin and he can't go back, and Shoeless Joe says, "hey rookie! you were good" (sob!) and the part when Ray asks his dad to have a catch (double sob!!). We were packing up, and simultaneously turned around, and there was New York City, all lit up. Since the flight deck is pretty high up, we could see everything--the Empire State Building, Rockefeller Center, all the other myriad skyscrapers with their glowing, glittering, prismatic lights.
Rarely am I speechless, but that did it. Especially considering that the end credits were playing (for a listen, check this out), which gave the moment a sense of grandeur. Everyone just kind of froze, and we stood there are a group for a few seconds, stunned. And then the spell lifted and we walked down many stairs, and the city looked less amazing from the ground--but for that minute, I understood why someone would spend a bazillion dollars for a penthouse apartment, to be able to see that every day.
Because I like to reference people who are more articulate than I am (not hard to be), I'm going to leave you with a passage from Pat Conroy's Prince of Tides. I read it a few weeks ago, and it is great--I had to take a Conroy break, though, because the man packs an emotional wallop. But I flagged this part at the time--and now I can safely say that I know what Tom Wingo must have felt like, looking over the city from Dr. Lowenstein's apartment:
"The huge buildings of the lower city turned sapphire and rose in the descendent retreat of sunlight, then began to answer back with their own interior light. The city was laid out before me in a forest of transfigured architecture, devotional and splendid. The sun, exhausted, caught one building whole in its last sight and imparted the hues of a coral reef in a thousand grateful windows, then slide halfway down as the whole city rose like a firebird into the singing night. The city shook off the last foils of sunset and in a thrown-back, overreaching ecstasy transformed itself into an amazing candelabrum of asymmetrical light. From where I sat, in complete darkness now, the city looked as if it were formed from glass votive candles, lightning, and glowing embers. In the beauty of those rising geometrics and fabulous metamorphosed shapes, it seemed to enlarge the sunset, improve upon it." (Conroy, 332-333)
Magical.
Tuesday, 15 June 2010
Bettin' on the Ponies
Tuesday, 15 June 2010
I'll be honest here. I consider myself a pretty classy dame, but I also have a deep love for county fairs, street festivals, or any other occasion where I can consume a funnel cake. Funnel cake, corn dogs, cotton candy--this is why county fairs are awesome (that, and I like seeing all the different types of chickens.) So, any opportunity where I get to eat funnel cake, have a beer before noon (and be socially acceptable), AND people watch, is an opportunity I will be sure to take up. This opportunity presented itself last weekend, when we went to the Belmont Stakes, which is the third leg of the Triple Crown. I've never actually been to a horse race, although I've watched the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness many a time on TV, so this was new and exciting.
I think the best part of the day was truly all the different sorts of people. Here are some photographic records of the best ones:
We are prepared. We bought the NY Times so we could wave it and whack it on stuff. We had massive bottles of water. We had blankets to sit on and gum to chew. We were good for the 6 hours that we sat in the sun, although it did get quite hot. We also won a bit, at least enough to break even (and I only broke even because I had to place bets for my family and my dad let me keep the money he won in the final.) Anyway, here is my stellar cousin doing a solid impression of an excited fan in the Jamaica Long Island Railroad station.
There was a man behind us on the train who was having a phone conversation, which went something like, "well Chris, it's NOT like the derby (note: how did he know? we hadn't even gotten there yet!) We went to Brooklyn Burger yesterday..yep, yep and we paid $40 for lunch. Now, I don't normally hold with paying $40 for lunch, but how often do you eat in Times Square? (note: that's why it was $40!!!) and now we're on the train..." He was right about it being not like the Kentucky Derby in that there weren't as many people wearing hats, but there were some. Nothing too elaborate, though.
Where I went to college, there was a particular breed of male that we nicknamed "Hobies" (to go with "Smithies," which is much more ubiquitous.) Hobies, in general, are gents who wear pants with embroidered golf balls, American flags, or whales on them. These pants are generally pink. They sometimes wear loafers with no socks and smoke cigars. Often, they major in economics. I had to partner with one once for a project, and I got to hear all about his yacht. My friend was in the airport last week, and a similar fella called her "champ." You get the idea. To tell the truth, I haven't missed seeing these men that much. And as I got to see some pink shorts at the races, that helped fill whatever void there was in my life. Melis said that these outfits (and the AMAZING seersucker suits that I didn't photograph) were really similar to ones that she saw in New Orleans on Easter.
A bit of monologue: "hey man, I saw you from across the lawn, and I just wanted to tell you that I think it shows a lot of guts to wear that hat. I wanted to tell you that I admire your style." I should perhaps mention that the best outfit was on my "Belmont boyfriend," but I'm not putting a picture up because it might scar your retinas. Suffice it to say, he had a mohawk which was somehow growing into a mullet, and he was wearing a see-through shirt and two pairs of boxers--black under white--instead of normal shorts.
I haven't mentioned anything about the actual races, have I? They are quite exciting for the 2 or so minutes when the horses are running, and especially during the 10 seconds when they are right in front of you. We saw 11 races, and by the time the actual Belmont Stakes happened, there were 50,000 people at the park, which is actually not that many--last year there were 150,000. There was no hope of a Triple Crown this year, so I don't think people cared as much. It was neat seeing the different jerseys of the jockeys, and betting was actually pretty fun, too. I learned a lot about trifectas and the like. I also saved all my losing ticket stubs (there were LOTS) so I should make a collage with them, or something.
What I don't know is how horse racing is for the horses. It doesn't seem like they are harmed (no whipping) but I just don't know. That will determine whether I go again or not. But either way--the Belmont was fun, the sky was gorgeous, and I got to eat a funnel cake.
I think the best part of the day was truly all the different sorts of people. Here are some photographic records of the best ones:
We are prepared. We bought the NY Times so we could wave it and whack it on stuff. We had massive bottles of water. We had blankets to sit on and gum to chew. We were good for the 6 hours that we sat in the sun, although it did get quite hot. We also won a bit, at least enough to break even (and I only broke even because I had to place bets for my family and my dad let me keep the money he won in the final.) Anyway, here is my stellar cousin doing a solid impression of an excited fan in the Jamaica Long Island Railroad station.
There was a man behind us on the train who was having a phone conversation, which went something like, "well Chris, it's NOT like the derby (note: how did he know? we hadn't even gotten there yet!) We went to Brooklyn Burger yesterday..yep, yep and we paid $40 for lunch. Now, I don't normally hold with paying $40 for lunch, but how often do you eat in Times Square? (note: that's why it was $40!!!) and now we're on the train..." He was right about it being not like the Kentucky Derby in that there weren't as many people wearing hats, but there were some. Nothing too elaborate, though.
Where I went to college, there was a particular breed of male that we nicknamed "Hobies" (to go with "Smithies," which is much more ubiquitous.) Hobies, in general, are gents who wear pants with embroidered golf balls, American flags, or whales on them. These pants are generally pink. They sometimes wear loafers with no socks and smoke cigars. Often, they major in economics. I had to partner with one once for a project, and I got to hear all about his yacht. My friend was in the airport last week, and a similar fella called her "champ." You get the idea. To tell the truth, I haven't missed seeing these men that much. And as I got to see some pink shorts at the races, that helped fill whatever void there was in my life. Melis said that these outfits (and the AMAZING seersucker suits that I didn't photograph) were really similar to ones that she saw in New Orleans on Easter.
A bit of monologue: "hey man, I saw you from across the lawn, and I just wanted to tell you that I think it shows a lot of guts to wear that hat. I wanted to tell you that I admire your style." I should perhaps mention that the best outfit was on my "Belmont boyfriend," but I'm not putting a picture up because it might scar your retinas. Suffice it to say, he had a mohawk which was somehow growing into a mullet, and he was wearing a see-through shirt and two pairs of boxers--black under white--instead of normal shorts.
I haven't mentioned anything about the actual races, have I? They are quite exciting for the 2 or so minutes when the horses are running, and especially during the 10 seconds when they are right in front of you. We saw 11 races, and by the time the actual Belmont Stakes happened, there were 50,000 people at the park, which is actually not that many--last year there were 150,000. There was no hope of a Triple Crown this year, so I don't think people cared as much. It was neat seeing the different jerseys of the jockeys, and betting was actually pretty fun, too. I learned a lot about trifectas and the like. I also saved all my losing ticket stubs (there were LOTS) so I should make a collage with them, or something.
What I don't know is how horse racing is for the horses. It doesn't seem like they are harmed (no whipping) but I just don't know. That will determine whether I go again or not. But either way--the Belmont was fun, the sky was gorgeous, and I got to eat a funnel cake.
Saturday, 12 June 2010
Negligent Blogger Apologies
Saturday, 12 June 2010
It's been awhile since I've written, and it's not because nothing is happening, but because things are happening too fast. I leave Brooklyn in 6ish weeks, which is exciting because I'm on to other things, but so sad because I feel like I just got here and I love it here and there is so much more that I want to see. And I'm working full time and it's nice out so I haven't been on the computer as much.
But! It is supposed to rain tomorrow so I'll get back in the writing groove soon enough. What have I been up to, you may ask? Well, quite a few sporting events (which is WEIRD, for me) and random encounters in parks with strange and interesting people. I've consumed a lot of bagels and finished quite a few crossword puzzles--not the NYTimes, mind, but I have to start somewhere. Today I made my first attempt at gluten-free cookies (they're good too, I'm eating one now) and then went to watch the US-England World Cup match in Manhattan. After that I met a friend and her parents for drinks and dinner, at a really good Spanish restaurant whose name I never learned. I got Paella Valenciana which is something that I've never had but always wanted to. I brought home a lot of it. That chorizo is good stuff!!! The Spanish white wine was good too, but I have no idea the name of that either. I'd be a terrible restaurant critic, eh? (although I could find the place again, so I suppose I could figure out the name.)
So things are good, I promise. More to follow, very very soon. And until we next talk--be well!
But! It is supposed to rain tomorrow so I'll get back in the writing groove soon enough. What have I been up to, you may ask? Well, quite a few sporting events (which is WEIRD, for me) and random encounters in parks with strange and interesting people. I've consumed a lot of bagels and finished quite a few crossword puzzles--not the NYTimes, mind, but I have to start somewhere. Today I made my first attempt at gluten-free cookies (they're good too, I'm eating one now) and then went to watch the US-England World Cup match in Manhattan. After that I met a friend and her parents for drinks and dinner, at a really good Spanish restaurant whose name I never learned. I got Paella Valenciana which is something that I've never had but always wanted to. I brought home a lot of it. That chorizo is good stuff!!! The Spanish white wine was good too, but I have no idea the name of that either. I'd be a terrible restaurant critic, eh? (although I could find the place again, so I suppose I could figure out the name.)
So things are good, I promise. More to follow, very very soon. And until we next talk--be well!
Sunday, 6 June 2010
Washington Square Park, Friday Evening
Sunday, 6 June 2010
It was Friday. There were three of us, and we were very excited to be together, because:
1. one of us lives in Harlem which is kind of a trek, so the Brooklynites don't see her too often.
2. it was Fleet Week, which is when thousands of Navy and Marines men and women come ashore and roam around NYC in their uniforms. It's a great time.
3. it was the Friday before Memorial Day, and the long weekend beckoned.
It was a very New York City-type evening, the type that only seems to happen in movies. We went to Pala Pizza, which is a (pricey) really, really tasty pizza and pasta joint, down the street from Katz's Deli, and one of the few anywhere that has gluten-free crusts (one of us, as you may deduce, can't eat gluten.) What did we get? For starters, the potato croquettes, which were delicious, and then we split the spinaci pizza, which was spinach, ricotta, cherry tomatoes, and a bunch of garlic--probably some other stuff too, and the special pizza, which was prosciutto, peaches, goat cheese, and..olive oil? SO GOOD. We sat outside and people-watched, which is especially promising there in the East Village. A band was setting up at the club next to us, and intriguing people wandered by--I think there may be more fedoras in the East Village, per capita, than anywhere else! The waitress was great, really friendly. And I have to say, I've had some non-appetizing gluten-less bread-type experiences, but the pizza crust at Pala tastes better than most flour-based pizza crusts. It just seems lighter and fresher. Healthier. At least that's what I tell myself.
After this feast, we sluggishly wandered north, around Chinatown and further up through the East Village to get to Babycakes, which is (you guessed it) a really good gluten-free bakery. My friend's mom makes the best potato and rice flour concoctions I've ever had (her orange cupcakes are great) but Babycakes might be even better. I got a lemon one this time. They use agave instead of sugar, too. We ate those and wandered some more, using Robert Frost poems to guide us ("'And looked down one as far as I could/To where it bent in the undergrowth;/Then took the other, as just as fair,/And having perhaps the better claim,/' alright guys, Bob says we should turn away from the park"). We eventually got over to Greenwich Village (where people were just heading to dinner) and walked through Washington Square Park which glitters at night. We were in front of the arch when we heard the music.
There was a band set up, which is not too unusual: a portly man in a suit singing, a few guitar players, a fedora-wearing skinny piano man, and the usual bunch of weirdos milling about. They weren't great, musically, but what they lacked in tunefulness they made up for in showmanship. Because here was the odd thing about this group of musicians--there were a lot of people standing around them, perched on benches, en route to dinner or clubs, and EVERYONE was singing along. Yes, it was a dance party in the park. There were a lot of NYU students, but also older people walking their dogs, cops, people who were sort of drunk, people who were definitely sober, people in high heels and tiny dresses, frat boys, nerdy engineering students, business people, hippies--and us, full of pizza and cupcakes. Once they launched into a rendition of "Billie Jean," we decided to stay for a bit. We stayed for over two hours.
Here are some highlights, from what I can remember:
--the older gent with the MoMA bag who frenetically danced in front us to the Jackson 5.
--how the band changed the lyrics in "Don't Stop Believin'" from "just a city boy, born and raised in south Detroit/He took the midnight train goin' anywhere," to "just a city boy, born in NEW YORK CITY (everyone cheered)/He took the Q train goin' anywhere."
--there was a guy by us wearing a black robe, and I whispered to my friend, "what's his deal, do you think he's a judge?" She responded, "he can't be a judge, he looks younger than us!" Someone must have finally asked him, because it turned out he had graduated that day, and was still wearing the robe, for some reason. So then random people were going, "congratulations, man!" and giving him high-fives.
--everyone trying to sing Lady Gaga. There was a stately looking Asian man near us who ended up slow dancing with the singer during a version of "Bad Romance."
--the obviously inebriated (although harmless) man who lurched around playing the air guitar, and telling everyone to donate to the band. "Maybe he's their manager," my friend whispered, "and he's not a very good one, so that's why they're playing in the park."
--when the piano player got up to breakdance (very well), and a woman in the crowd yelled, "move your body, white boy!" and then everyone cheered.
--the fact that we sang along to everything, even if we didn't know the lyrics--and so did everyone else.
--during "Benny and the Jets," they changed the part where it's a call between "Benny" and "Jets" to "Benny" and "Giants," and occasionally "Mets" and "Yankees" too. At one point the singer said, "Patriots" instead, and the crowd booed.
--the people who were hula hooping over to the side.
--the woman with the violin who jumped up from the benches and joined in during one of the songs.
--the way you can see the Empire State Building through the arch in the park.
--the closing song was "Bohemian Rhapsody," and it was so horribly sung (especially the falsetto) but with so much dancing and clapping, that really, who cares?
The band is apparently there a few nights a week. I may never see them again, but I want to thank them for making us laugh so hard, and dance like idiots, and see so many varied and interesting people.
A good night, in what is often a very good place to live.
1. one of us lives in Harlem which is kind of a trek, so the Brooklynites don't see her too often.
2. it was Fleet Week, which is when thousands of Navy and Marines men and women come ashore and roam around NYC in their uniforms. It's a great time.
3. it was the Friday before Memorial Day, and the long weekend beckoned.
It was a very New York City-type evening, the type that only seems to happen in movies. We went to Pala Pizza, which is a (pricey) really, really tasty pizza and pasta joint, down the street from Katz's Deli, and one of the few anywhere that has gluten-free crusts (one of us, as you may deduce, can't eat gluten.) What did we get? For starters, the potato croquettes, which were delicious, and then we split the spinaci pizza, which was spinach, ricotta, cherry tomatoes, and a bunch of garlic--probably some other stuff too, and the special pizza, which was prosciutto, peaches, goat cheese, and..olive oil? SO GOOD. We sat outside and people-watched, which is especially promising there in the East Village. A band was setting up at the club next to us, and intriguing people wandered by--I think there may be more fedoras in the East Village, per capita, than anywhere else! The waitress was great, really friendly. And I have to say, I've had some non-appetizing gluten-less bread-type experiences, but the pizza crust at Pala tastes better than most flour-based pizza crusts. It just seems lighter and fresher. Healthier. At least that's what I tell myself.
After this feast, we sluggishly wandered north, around Chinatown and further up through the East Village to get to Babycakes, which is (you guessed it) a really good gluten-free bakery. My friend's mom makes the best potato and rice flour concoctions I've ever had (her orange cupcakes are great) but Babycakes might be even better. I got a lemon one this time. They use agave instead of sugar, too. We ate those and wandered some more, using Robert Frost poems to guide us ("'And looked down one as far as I could/To where it bent in the undergrowth;/Then took the other, as just as fair,/And having perhaps the better claim,/' alright guys, Bob says we should turn away from the park"). We eventually got over to Greenwich Village (where people were just heading to dinner) and walked through Washington Square Park which glitters at night. We were in front of the arch when we heard the music.
There was a band set up, which is not too unusual: a portly man in a suit singing, a few guitar players, a fedora-wearing skinny piano man, and the usual bunch of weirdos milling about. They weren't great, musically, but what they lacked in tunefulness they made up for in showmanship. Because here was the odd thing about this group of musicians--there were a lot of people standing around them, perched on benches, en route to dinner or clubs, and EVERYONE was singing along. Yes, it was a dance party in the park. There were a lot of NYU students, but also older people walking their dogs, cops, people who were sort of drunk, people who were definitely sober, people in high heels and tiny dresses, frat boys, nerdy engineering students, business people, hippies--and us, full of pizza and cupcakes. Once they launched into a rendition of "Billie Jean," we decided to stay for a bit. We stayed for over two hours.
Here are some highlights, from what I can remember:
--the older gent with the MoMA bag who frenetically danced in front us to the Jackson 5.
--how the band changed the lyrics in "Don't Stop Believin'" from "just a city boy, born and raised in south Detroit/He took the midnight train goin' anywhere," to "just a city boy, born in NEW YORK CITY (everyone cheered)/He took the Q train goin' anywhere."
--there was a guy by us wearing a black robe, and I whispered to my friend, "what's his deal, do you think he's a judge?" She responded, "he can't be a judge, he looks younger than us!" Someone must have finally asked him, because it turned out he had graduated that day, and was still wearing the robe, for some reason. So then random people were going, "congratulations, man!" and giving him high-fives.
--everyone trying to sing Lady Gaga. There was a stately looking Asian man near us who ended up slow dancing with the singer during a version of "Bad Romance."
--the obviously inebriated (although harmless) man who lurched around playing the air guitar, and telling everyone to donate to the band. "Maybe he's their manager," my friend whispered, "and he's not a very good one, so that's why they're playing in the park."
--when the piano player got up to breakdance (very well), and a woman in the crowd yelled, "move your body, white boy!" and then everyone cheered.
--the fact that we sang along to everything, even if we didn't know the lyrics--and so did everyone else.
--during "Benny and the Jets," they changed the part where it's a call between "Benny" and "Jets" to "Benny" and "Giants," and occasionally "Mets" and "Yankees" too. At one point the singer said, "Patriots" instead, and the crowd booed.
--the people who were hula hooping over to the side.
--the woman with the violin who jumped up from the benches and joined in during one of the songs.
--the way you can see the Empire State Building through the arch in the park.
--the closing song was "Bohemian Rhapsody," and it was so horribly sung (especially the falsetto) but with so much dancing and clapping, that really, who cares?
The band is apparently there a few nights a week. I may never see them again, but I want to thank them for making us laugh so hard, and dance like idiots, and see so many varied and interesting people.
A good night, in what is often a very good place to live.
Monday, 31 May 2010
Brighton Beach, Wednesday Evening
Monday, 31 May 2010
Now that I've lived in Brooklyn for almost a year (HOW is that possible??) I've stopped carrying my camera with me. This means that sometimes really great things happen and I have no photographic record of them. The next few posts will be about these great things.
It was Wednesday. It was 90 degrees and I was feeling sick-ish. My evening plans were to eat some Rice Krispies and then start a Dorothy Sayers book while wallowing in my surliness and sweat. And then, like a divine intervention (or whatever) I got a text from my cousin, something along the lines of: "I just got out of work and I need to be in a wide-open space. Wanna meet at Coney Island?" The answer to that is yes, of course.
And let me tell you, Coney Island is a great place on the first 90 degree day of the year. People were hilarious. The old men had set up their chess boards, the women were stripping, and the kids were running everywhere. The handball courts were full and the ocean breeze was, well, breezy. I took a few deep breaths, buried my feet in the sand, and felt immediately better. My cousin and I found each other on the boardwalk ("I could tell it was you from far away because of how you walk," she said. Huh.) and as she hadn't eaten in awhile, we looked for a place for dinner. And we found it. When you walk down Coney Island to Brighton Beach, there are a row of Russian seafood places with a lot of outdoor seating on the boardwalk. We picked Tatiana's, which was kind of in the middle.
I don't quite know how to describe Tatiana's. The menu is in Russian on one side and English on the other, and the servers all take their smoke breaks on the boardwalk about three feet from the tables. We both got kvas to drink, which is sort of a non-alcoholic beer. I really liked it--it reminded me of a strong, natural root beer (and I do love me some root beer!). I wasn't that hungry so I ordered the calamari, while my cousin got some concoction of seafood, broccoli, cauliflower, asparagus and about a pint of cheese, cream, and butter. The food was more expensive than we usually indulge in, but the portions were BIG. The calamari was enough for two meals, and was really tasty--the broccoli I sampled from the other dish was good too. A man came by and offered to sell us some pillows (my question was, who buys pillows while they're eating? while my cousin's was, who buys pillows from some dude on the street?)
We ate outside, but the indoor decor deserves a mention. Think Eastern European brothel meets Czarist Palace meets some sort of classy law office. A lot of mirrors and carpets, and outside the bathroom: two lamps which were womens' bodies with lampshades instead of heads; one black, one red. There were a bunch of weird figurines--I took a pic on my phone of the shelf containing a bikini-clad woman hugging a tiger, which was flanked by figurines of Santa Claus and a polar bear. The bathrooms themselves were really nice, in case you were curious.
The sun set and the full moon rose, and the twinkling Christmas lights came on under the awning we were sitting under. It was beautiful, quiet except for the other patrons chatting in Russian and the clink of glass and far far away the sound of waves. It felt like we were on another continent. A wizened man with an accordion wandered around, taking requests. We didn't recognize the first few songs, but other people were singing along. He eventually launched into, "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean," "La Vie En Rose," "Bicycle Built for Two," and any American patriotic song you can think of. Let me tell you, you haven't heard the "Star Spangled Banner" properly until you've heard it on the accordion!
If you're looking for a laugh, do check out Tatiana's website here. It's hilarious, and contains both a "morning after" drink recipe, and the suggestion that men shave before going there, because "there are plenty of people to impress." Perfect antidote to the mid-week blahhs.
It was Wednesday. It was 90 degrees and I was feeling sick-ish. My evening plans were to eat some Rice Krispies and then start a Dorothy Sayers book while wallowing in my surliness and sweat. And then, like a divine intervention (or whatever) I got a text from my cousin, something along the lines of: "I just got out of work and I need to be in a wide-open space. Wanna meet at Coney Island?" The answer to that is yes, of course.
And let me tell you, Coney Island is a great place on the first 90 degree day of the year. People were hilarious. The old men had set up their chess boards, the women were stripping, and the kids were running everywhere. The handball courts were full and the ocean breeze was, well, breezy. I took a few deep breaths, buried my feet in the sand, and felt immediately better. My cousin and I found each other on the boardwalk ("I could tell it was you from far away because of how you walk," she said. Huh.) and as she hadn't eaten in awhile, we looked for a place for dinner. And we found it. When you walk down Coney Island to Brighton Beach, there are a row of Russian seafood places with a lot of outdoor seating on the boardwalk. We picked Tatiana's, which was kind of in the middle.
I don't quite know how to describe Tatiana's. The menu is in Russian on one side and English on the other, and the servers all take their smoke breaks on the boardwalk about three feet from the tables. We both got kvas to drink, which is sort of a non-alcoholic beer. I really liked it--it reminded me of a strong, natural root beer (and I do love me some root beer!). I wasn't that hungry so I ordered the calamari, while my cousin got some concoction of seafood, broccoli, cauliflower, asparagus and about a pint of cheese, cream, and butter. The food was more expensive than we usually indulge in, but the portions were BIG. The calamari was enough for two meals, and was really tasty--the broccoli I sampled from the other dish was good too. A man came by and offered to sell us some pillows (my question was, who buys pillows while they're eating? while my cousin's was, who buys pillows from some dude on the street?)
We ate outside, but the indoor decor deserves a mention. Think Eastern European brothel meets Czarist Palace meets some sort of classy law office. A lot of mirrors and carpets, and outside the bathroom: two lamps which were womens' bodies with lampshades instead of heads; one black, one red. There were a bunch of weird figurines--I took a pic on my phone of the shelf containing a bikini-clad woman hugging a tiger, which was flanked by figurines of Santa Claus and a polar bear. The bathrooms themselves were really nice, in case you were curious.
The sun set and the full moon rose, and the twinkling Christmas lights came on under the awning we were sitting under. It was beautiful, quiet except for the other patrons chatting in Russian and the clink of glass and far far away the sound of waves. It felt like we were on another continent. A wizened man with an accordion wandered around, taking requests. We didn't recognize the first few songs, but other people were singing along. He eventually launched into, "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean," "La Vie En Rose," "Bicycle Built for Two," and any American patriotic song you can think of. Let me tell you, you haven't heard the "Star Spangled Banner" properly until you've heard it on the accordion!
If you're looking for a laugh, do check out Tatiana's website here. It's hilarious, and contains both a "morning after" drink recipe, and the suggestion that men shave before going there, because "there are plenty of people to impress." Perfect antidote to the mid-week blahhs.
Monday, 24 May 2010
What is Your Word?
Monday, 24 May 2010
I am in the midst of reading Eat, Pray, Love, which is crazy good. I was a bit dubious going in, because I wasn't sure how much spirituality-talk was going to happen (I tend to find that sanctimonious, depending, especially since I am untrained at meditation and when I do try and meditate, it just makes me nervous). But it is mostly not sanctimonious--it's about life getting really gross and having your heart broken in many ways and then working to make things right for yourself again, because that is what we all deserve. Balance. Pleasure. Meaning. Good food. Good friends. Travel, if you are fortunate enough to be able to do so. Happiness. Also, it made me hate Elizabeth Gilbert a little bit (even though she seems like a cool person) because I wanted to go to Rome so, so badly after reading her Italy section.
Anyway, there is a chapter in the Italy section where she and one of her Rome friends discuss how cities have one word which describes them or sums them up. He claims that Rome's is SEX, and the Vatican's is POWER. Gilbert thinks New York City's is ACHIEVE and Los Angeles's is SUCCEED. Her Swedish friend thinks Stockholm's is probably CONFORM. (Gilbert, 103-104).
My brain loves this idea. I spent most of my commute today germinating on this. What would my hometown be? I settled on BEHAVE. Although, since my hometown was founded by Swedish and Italian immigrants, maybe some combination of SEX and CONFORM would be apt (oh, it would definitely be apt). I discussed this with a friend, who thought her hometown's was probably WALLOW. What about Geneva? Maybe LEARN, or THINK. At this time of year, VERDANT. Or CONTRADICTORY. The house where I lived with my friends? LOVELY, or maybe RIDICULOUS. My parents house? WACKY. HOME. COMFORTING.
And what about Brooklyn? Today--SLUGGISH (my bus was stopped behind a semi for 10 minutes this morning). BLOSSOMING (well, the botanical gardens, anyway). HUMMING. CRABBY. I was reading Eat, Pray, Love over the weekend on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade and was trying to wrap my head around meditating for 5 hours a day and how group meditation and all the energy might be able to help you commune with god(dess) (or whatever you want to call it.) Needless to say, I could not imagine how anyone meditates in Brooklyn, because I was having trouble concentrating on reading with everyone squawking around me. My neighborhood's would be COLORFUL. Or LIVELY.
Not all the words are good, though. What of those places or people that are DESPERATE, DANGEROUS, SAD, or DULL? Maybe though, even if you are those words, you wouldn't pick them for yourself. I feel like those are only words that others might label you as (you probably don't think you're DULL, but maybe I would. Or you might think I'm DULL. Very likely, actually.) I found myself doing that on the subway today--"guy in the suit. PRETENTIOUS. nurse. TIRED. man with the goatee. ENIGMATIC."
As for my word? Tricky, that. WANDERER, ROVER? Maybe, but also NESTER, HOMEBODY. Definitely LISTENER, but also definitely TALKER. SEEKER. STUMBLER (literally--over curbs, down stairs, and figuratively--into ideas, out of ideas, whatever). AWKWARD (yup). CLASSY (when the mood strikes). Mostly, though--CONTENT.
What is your word? What is your town's word? Do you wish your words were different?
Anyway, there is a chapter in the Italy section where she and one of her Rome friends discuss how cities have one word which describes them or sums them up. He claims that Rome's is SEX, and the Vatican's is POWER. Gilbert thinks New York City's is ACHIEVE and Los Angeles's is SUCCEED. Her Swedish friend thinks Stockholm's is probably CONFORM. (Gilbert, 103-104).
My brain loves this idea. I spent most of my commute today germinating on this. What would my hometown be? I settled on BEHAVE. Although, since my hometown was founded by Swedish and Italian immigrants, maybe some combination of SEX and CONFORM would be apt (oh, it would definitely be apt). I discussed this with a friend, who thought her hometown's was probably WALLOW. What about Geneva? Maybe LEARN, or THINK. At this time of year, VERDANT. Or CONTRADICTORY. The house where I lived with my friends? LOVELY, or maybe RIDICULOUS. My parents house? WACKY. HOME. COMFORTING.
And what about Brooklyn? Today--SLUGGISH (my bus was stopped behind a semi for 10 minutes this morning). BLOSSOMING (well, the botanical gardens, anyway). HUMMING. CRABBY. I was reading Eat, Pray, Love over the weekend on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade and was trying to wrap my head around meditating for 5 hours a day and how group meditation and all the energy might be able to help you commune with god(dess) (or whatever you want to call it.) Needless to say, I could not imagine how anyone meditates in Brooklyn, because I was having trouble concentrating on reading with everyone squawking around me. My neighborhood's would be COLORFUL. Or LIVELY.
Not all the words are good, though. What of those places or people that are DESPERATE, DANGEROUS, SAD, or DULL? Maybe though, even if you are those words, you wouldn't pick them for yourself. I feel like those are only words that others might label you as (you probably don't think you're DULL, but maybe I would. Or you might think I'm DULL. Very likely, actually.) I found myself doing that on the subway today--"guy in the suit. PRETENTIOUS. nurse. TIRED. man with the goatee. ENIGMATIC."
As for my word? Tricky, that. WANDERER, ROVER? Maybe, but also NESTER, HOMEBODY. Definitely LISTENER, but also definitely TALKER. SEEKER. STUMBLER (literally--over curbs, down stairs, and figuratively--into ideas, out of ideas, whatever). AWKWARD (yup). CLASSY (when the mood strikes). Mostly, though--CONTENT.
What is your word? What is your town's word? Do you wish your words were different?
Saturday, 22 May 2010
Real Estate Fate
Saturday, 22 May 2010
With real estate there are no rules. It's like check-in at an Italian airport.
--30 Rock
--30 Rock
I'm moving to Indiana in approximately 3 months and I have no idea what I'm doing. I think part of the problem is that I have never rented an apartment before, and have an overly romanticized view of Midwestern boarding houses. I secretly want to live in a Thin Man movie (yeah, I know they are not from Indiana) in the 1930s, with a crotchety old landlady and a raggle taggle yet good-hearted group of boarding housemates. I want to barter for services (I'll trade knitted coasters for fresh eggs or fixed tires). I realize that this kind of thing doesn't really exist any more, if it ever existed at all.
My magical undergrad advisor once pointed out the house where she rented a room when she first started teaching. It was owned by Arthur Dove's brother (yes, really). However, considering the general magicalness of this person, it is very likely that while she ended up sipping sherry with Arthur Dove's brother and hearing stories about Georgia O'Keefe rollerskating through downtown, I would end up with Grant Wood's weird great-niece, or an heir to a BB gun fortune, or a bassoon playing sociopath. I've had really, really good roommates up until now, and I don't want to tempt fate on this. Moreover, my google search for "Victorian house rooms for rent Bloomington" turned up nothing, and the subsequent search for "Victorian house turret rooms for rent Bloomington" was even more in the realm of wishful thinking.
My magical undergrad advisor once pointed out the house where she rented a room when she first started teaching. It was owned by Arthur Dove's brother (yes, really). However, considering the general magicalness of this person, it is very likely that while she ended up sipping sherry with Arthur Dove's brother and hearing stories about Georgia O'Keefe rollerskating through downtown, I would end up with Grant Wood's weird great-niece, or an heir to a BB gun fortune, or a bassoon playing sociopath. I've had really, really good roommates up until now, and I don't want to tempt fate on this. Moreover, my google search for "Victorian house rooms for rent Bloomington" turned up nothing, and the subsequent search for "Victorian house turret rooms for rent Bloomington" was even more in the realm of wishful thinking.
One of the nice things about living in Brooklyn and living in numerous other places (some furnished, some not) in the past few years is that my possessions have become pretty streamlined. Although this does mean that I don't have any pots and pans, but I do have an avocado slicer, corkscrew, and garlic press, which are, after all, the essentials. I have good pillows but no towels. I have many mugs and wine glasses but no cutlery (and no tea pot.) And I don't really have any furniture...
My friend who just moved here has been subletting, which means that you aren't signing a lease, but sometimes filling in for people who are out of town for a few months. Sublets can be a few weeks long, or a few months, it just depends. It's a good way to go about moving to NYC, I think, since you can get a taster of a few different neighborhoods before committing. I've been on a few sublet visits with her and they have been...interesting. Her first sublet was rented from an older Brazilian woman who talked to us for quite awhile, and was super nice. One we visited later claimed to be in downtown Brooklyn, but was definitely not (it was near a lot of subways, to be fair).
Another one, the most hilarious of the visits, was in East Williamsburg, Brooklyn, which is a mix of warehouses and hipster hang-outs. It was a loft apartment (those are the ones that are a large room, very open, with a few almost bunk-like bedrooms. Except they aren't bedrooms, they are just beds up by the ceiling. It would be a tricky place to live, even with really good friends.) This loft was in a warehouse, which looked like a bit like a college dorm + bullet holes, and the door of the apartment we were looking for was bright purple and pink. We knocked, and the girl who opened the door was a hipster poster child. She looked us up and down, and it was immediately apparent that we were not going to be cool enough for her (clearly, the black trenchcoats we were wearing--because it was raining--meant that we were too conservative, or something). So we go in, and it was spectacularly awkward, and both of us were getting the giggles but trying to hide it so we couldn't really look at each other. The hipsters were kind of vague about where their other roommate (who my friend would be replacing) had gone, and when we asked when they would like a decision, they said, "um, by...tomorrow?" so we figured that we were out of the running. We got out in the hall and made it about 3 feet before we cracked up about these women and their art studio and their turtle pond and the zero privacy. My friend ended up getting a nice room in a place about 4 blocks from Prospect Park, which is fabulous. And as there is an Italian Ice stand between her place and the park, well, that is fabulous too.
I wish I knew more about housing markets and how all of this stuff works. How do certain areas get so inflated and gentrified? Here, is it because of closeness to Manhattan, to subways, to other members of your racial group? The worst, the absolute worst, and something I will never get used to, is people who have no home at all. For a few months when I was working the later shift and taking the bus at midnight, I was seeing people asleep on the streets on a near-regular basis. It's not quite as common a scene in Brooklyn as it is in Manhattan, I think, but it certainly occurs. I know it happens in every town, too, but it's just such a high number here. I didn't even think about this until my cousin mentioned it--how do they get counted in the Census? The phrase "falling through the cracks" seems especially apt. And especially sad.
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
Greenwood Cemetery
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
I've never consciously thought about this, but it turns out I really like cemeteries. I tend to visit them when I move or visit someplace new (much like other people scope out churches or grocery stores). As such, I have a hierarchy of cemeteries I like, based on sereneness, aesthetics, interesting statues, lawn beauty, and age of graves/amount of famous people. (Hey Jazz, remember that cemetery in Paris where we thought we'd get attacked by feral cats?) Based on my criteria, Greenwood Cemetery in Sunset Park, Brooklyn, might be the best I've ever been to. It might also be one of my top three favorite places in NYC now.
The day helped. It was a sunny Saturday, I had just eaten a delightful lemon Italian ice, and I was with two people that I very much like (one of them, my cousin, took all these pictures. Thanks Melis!) None of us had been to Greenwood, but it's very neat. It was originally a 478 acre park, and is full of rolling hills, ponds with fountains, and lovely architecture, some of which was designed by Richard Upjohn (be excited, Genevans!). It is the highest point in Brooklyn and involved the first hills I've seen in awhile. A very calm, quiet, lovely place. And free, of course, which is even better.
We made it through about a third of the cemetery (in over an hour, mind) and saw a few famous plots. Louis Comfort Tiffany's was very unobtrusive (we couldn't find it originally, in fact) and Boss Tweed had an entire family plot. We were interested in seeing the Steinway Family Mausoleum and the guide by the gate told us, "you can't miss it. It is large enough for about 200 bodies." And yet, we did miss it. We walked by it, twice, both times because we spotted interesting statues farther away. But up close, the Steinway Mausoleum is about the size of a house. (for a cool Steinway story, check this out.)
There are plenty of other famous-ish people interred there: Henry Ward Beecher, Leonard Bernstein, DeWitt Clinton, Currier and Ives, Alice Roosevelt, Margaret Sanger, Lorenzo da Ponte (ack!!) and a few slightly less famous but still interesting people: William "Bill the Butcher" Poole (head of the Bowery Boys gang), Susan McKinney Steward (the first black woman to get a medical degree in NY), Laura Keene (actress who was on stage when Lincoln was shot), and Henry Bergh (founder of the ASPCA).
And here are some statues of note:
Greenwood is awesome; therefore, Brooklyn is awesome. It is one of those places that Manhattan doesn't have and never will. It's a beautiful place, especially in the May sun with good friends. After we left there was a street fair a few blocks away, and we got some roasted corn-on-the-cob and wandered among balloons and smoke and cotton candy, not to mention booming basses. Again: Brooklyn is awesome. But we all knew that already.
Monday, 17 May 2010
A Year in Numbers
Monday, 17 May 2010
I graduated from college a year ago today. I was expecting graduation itself to be a teary farewell mess, but surprisingly I was dry-eyed through it all. Perhaps I was too cold, perhaps the speeches were too inane,* perhaps I knew that the people I really loved and cared about I would see again and talk to fairly often, but in any case I stayed pretty stoic. Mostly I just wanted to drink something celebratory (and bubbly), hug some professors, eat some cake with my friends, and go to sleep (which is, in fact, exactly what I did.) I feel like a lot has happened in the past 365ish days, and alternately that nothing has happened. I didn't chop off my hair, or get an amazing job. I didn't travel anywhere exotic, learn another language, or take up any thrilling hobbies. I did, however, move to Brooklyn. So things have changed, of course. Here are some figures:
Number of blog posts written: this makes 91. Word.
Number of jobs held: jobs--2, internships--1.
Number of weeks unemployed, in Jamestown, or on sick leave: 16ish (egads)
Number of cover letters written: at least 30
Number of job interviews that resulted from said cover letters: 5?
Number of graduate school admissions essays written: 5
Number of months it took me to completely apply to grad school: 3 1/2 (egads, again)
Number of Amtrak journeys: at least 20
Number of cross-state bus journeys: not counting transfers--4, counting transfers--10ish
Number of times I had to spend 5 hours in the Buffalo Bus Station--2 (fun fact: one was New Years Eve)
Number of operas attended: 3
Number of hours spent waiting in line for opera tickets: 12
Number of plays attended: 4? 5?
Number of states visited, other than NY: 4
Number of Art History books read: 6ish (bad, very bad)
Number of German verbs which I still remember how to conjugate: 2 (bad, very bad)
Number of novels read: a LOT (good, very good)
Number of times I exploded soup while pureeing it in a blender: 2
Number of immersion blenders received as a birthday gift from a friend who was concerned about my inability to make soup: 1
Number of nun themed or Virgin Mary themed presents received: 3 (and so it begins)
Number of Red Bulls consumed: 2 (by contrast, number consumed in the month prior to graduation: at least 15)
Number of different curries tried: 4
Number of museums visited: at least 15, most more than once
Number of scarves acquired: 4
Number of days when I have missed Geneva, at least in some sense: 365
Number of days when I was glad I was not in college, at least in some sense: 200, give or take
Number of days when I missed high school: 2
Number of different NYC subways I've taken: all except the M, J, and Z
Number of boroughs visited: all 5 (I think the most I've done is 3 in one day)
Number of live sporting events attended: 3
Number of times that our apartment has ordered ginger noodles from the Thai restaurant up the block: well, a lot
Number of bagels consumed: weekly? 2 or so. You do the math.
Number of days I've missed sleeping on a bed: 365
Number of days I'm glad I live in Brooklyn: 355
Number of days before I move to Indiana: 97
*(side note: I think they should not spend money on someone boring and platitude-spewing and instead have a professor make the main grad speech. They're a lot more interesting and insightful, by and large. Or, hire someone with a lovely voice to read Adrienne Rich's "Claiming an Education.")
Number of days before I move to Indiana: 97
*(side note: I think they should not spend money on someone boring and platitude-spewing and instead have a professor make the main grad speech. They're a lot more interesting and insightful, by and large. Or, hire someone with a lovely voice to read Adrienne Rich's "Claiming an Education.")
Thursday, 13 May 2010
Bus Tales
Thursday, 13 May 2010
There are certain points of Brooklyn that you can't get to by subway, and so you have to take the bus (like Red Hook, where I work, or Canarsie, where my cousin works). Ah, the bus. It's like a microcosm of New York City--the good, the bad, the funny, the nutty, it's all there, and it's all contained. I like it because I can look around outside. I don't like it because I can't read on it without getting sick. Also, I fell over the first time I took the bus, but have sorted myself out. Well, kind of.
So, a lot of bus riding has occurred of late, and some great stuff has happened. Here are the highlights.
B61 to downtown Brooklyn
Ahead of me boarding are two men with Fairway Market shirts on.
Guy 1: I'm sure you got the job.
Guy 2: I don't know man, I'm not very qualified, I'm trying not to get my hopes up too high..I could really use the money though.
They back away to find seats.
I swipe my card.
The busdriver, over the loudspeaker: Hey! I don't need that type of negativity on my bus! I'm sure you got the job, brother.
Guy 2 (who is now in the middle of the bus and has to yell): Well, maybe, but I don't want to get too excited about it.
Busdriver: Positive thinking, man. It works.
Guy 2: And I have a job now, so at least my family won't starve.
Busdriver: Good, that's what I like to hear.
Guy 2: Hey, maybe I want your job.
Busdriver: Brother, you do not want this job. They're cutting us all over the place.
[note: this is true. The MTA just cut a LOT of bus routes and jobs, effective at the end of June. It's miserable. And some of the bus drivers have started announcing some stops like, "Union St, transfer to the B71, FOR NOW, before somebody cuts it." Not a great climate with the MTA right now.]
10 minutes go by, and the bus has filled up a lot by then. People are standing a bit too close to the rear door, so the busdriver picks up the loudspeaker again.
Busdriver [in a deep and scary voice]: Please step away from the back door. The last man who stood that close is no. longer. with. us. Poor Tom. May he rest in peace.
[Pause]
Busdriver: That means YOU, gentleman in the blue jacket!
Blue jacket gentleman is either zoned out or does not understand English, because he does not move. The man next to me reached over and gently tapped him on the shoulder and moved him away from the door.
B65 to downtown Brooklyn
Quiet Saturday morning. I'm sitting next to a woman who has two daughters with her, probably about ages 3 and 6. They are adorable. There is a fashionable looking woman and her partner across the aisle from us.
Fashionable woman: I just wanted to let you know that your daughters are beautiful.
Mom: Oh, thank you. I had to stop telling them that because I didn't want it to go to their heads!
Fashionable woman (to the girls): just always know that you are beautiful and no one can ever, ever take that away from you.
Partner, squeezing her hand: No, they can't.
Older girl: Ok.
B65 to Crown Heights
Woman 1: did you ever have that moment when you were reading a book as a kid? And you were sitting under a tree on a blanket and thinking that you were suddenly in another world, and there was no where else you would rather be? Mine was The Secret Garden. That's when I realized what reading could do.
Woman 2: Mine was Little House on the Prairie. I felt like I was Laura. I never forgot that.
Me (in my head, not out loud): Mine was Walk Two Moons.
B65 to downtown Brooklyn
Early morning, and 3 girls get on for school; I presume they are sisters. The youngest is very young, probably 5, and the oldest is maybe 12, and the middle around 8. The 12 year old is in charge of them. She sits next to me, and they sit in the seats behind us.
5 year old: I don't like the way the brakes sound. They go squeeeeeeak.
8 year old: Me either. Hey, did you press the secret accelerator?
5 year old: No! Ready...NOW!! [they simultaneously kick the back of our seats]
12 year old: KNOCK IT OFF. Please don't embarrass me.
8 year old: Warp speed! We need the emergency break.
5 year old [poking her sister in the head]: We're going into space!! WE'RE GOING INTO OUTER SPACE!!!
12 year old: Oh, please stop yelling.
5 year old: BLAST OFF!!!!!
Me: [bursts out laughing]
B65 to Crown Heights
We are stopped at a red light and see a cab cut off a biker. It didn't seem like that big a deal to me--the cab wasn't anywhere close to hitting him--but the bike driver freaks out and punches the fender of the cab, while screaming. I can't hear anything through the glass. I think I'm the only one even looking at this scene. The cab stops. The bus driver whips out his bike lock and is waving it at the cab as if to go for the window. The light turns green and we go on.
B63 to Atlantic Avenue
The seats are mostly full, but the bus is not super crowded. An older woman gets on with a 2 year old, who toddles on while her grandma/aunt/babysitter hunts for her card. The girl is about half way to the back on the bus when the busdriver starts to pull away from the curb, and I'm not kidding when I say that every person within a 6 foot radius, myself included, lunged out to make sure she didn't fall. People stuck out legs, arms, canes, and one man held on to her until her grandmother could get back to her.
B6 to East New York, courtesy of my cousin:
A lady gets on, sits down for 3 seconds, and proclaims loudly in an amazing Caribbean accent: "Jesus is coming, people." She then continues on a rant about the state of the world. This happens on a daily basis. Finally, one day...
Lady: "Jesus is coming, people."
Random guy: "WHEN IS HE COMING? You've been saying this every day and he's not here yet."
And a bonus boat story:
I am eating lunch outside on the docks, and am walking to throw out my trash. I'm holding a bottle of seltzer in one hand. A wizened, shirtless man standing on his boat (which is called "My Lady") yells over to me, "Hey doll! Hope it's vodka in that bottle." I responded with, "oh, I wish it were," and then we waved and went our separate ways.
So, a lot of bus riding has occurred of late, and some great stuff has happened. Here are the highlights.
B61 to downtown Brooklyn
Ahead of me boarding are two men with Fairway Market shirts on.
Guy 1: I'm sure you got the job.
Guy 2: I don't know man, I'm not very qualified, I'm trying not to get my hopes up too high..I could really use the money though.
They back away to find seats.
I swipe my card.
The busdriver, over the loudspeaker: Hey! I don't need that type of negativity on my bus! I'm sure you got the job, brother.
Guy 2 (who is now in the middle of the bus and has to yell): Well, maybe, but I don't want to get too excited about it.
Busdriver: Positive thinking, man. It works.
Guy 2: And I have a job now, so at least my family won't starve.
Busdriver: Good, that's what I like to hear.
Guy 2: Hey, maybe I want your job.
Busdriver: Brother, you do not want this job. They're cutting us all over the place.
[note: this is true. The MTA just cut a LOT of bus routes and jobs, effective at the end of June. It's miserable. And some of the bus drivers have started announcing some stops like, "Union St, transfer to the B71, FOR NOW, before somebody cuts it." Not a great climate with the MTA right now.]
10 minutes go by, and the bus has filled up a lot by then. People are standing a bit too close to the rear door, so the busdriver picks up the loudspeaker again.
Busdriver [in a deep and scary voice]: Please step away from the back door. The last man who stood that close is no. longer. with. us. Poor Tom. May he rest in peace.
[Pause]
Busdriver: That means YOU, gentleman in the blue jacket!
Blue jacket gentleman is either zoned out or does not understand English, because he does not move. The man next to me reached over and gently tapped him on the shoulder and moved him away from the door.
B65 to downtown Brooklyn
Quiet Saturday morning. I'm sitting next to a woman who has two daughters with her, probably about ages 3 and 6. They are adorable. There is a fashionable looking woman and her partner across the aisle from us.
Fashionable woman: I just wanted to let you know that your daughters are beautiful.
Mom: Oh, thank you. I had to stop telling them that because I didn't want it to go to their heads!
Fashionable woman (to the girls): just always know that you are beautiful and no one can ever, ever take that away from you.
Partner, squeezing her hand: No, they can't.
Older girl: Ok.
B65 to Crown Heights
Woman 1: did you ever have that moment when you were reading a book as a kid? And you were sitting under a tree on a blanket and thinking that you were suddenly in another world, and there was no where else you would rather be? Mine was The Secret Garden. That's when I realized what reading could do.
Woman 2: Mine was Little House on the Prairie. I felt like I was Laura. I never forgot that.
Me (in my head, not out loud): Mine was Walk Two Moons.
B65 to downtown Brooklyn
Early morning, and 3 girls get on for school; I presume they are sisters. The youngest is very young, probably 5, and the oldest is maybe 12, and the middle around 8. The 12 year old is in charge of them. She sits next to me, and they sit in the seats behind us.
5 year old: I don't like the way the brakes sound. They go squeeeeeeak.
8 year old: Me either. Hey, did you press the secret accelerator?
5 year old: No! Ready...NOW!! [they simultaneously kick the back of our seats]
12 year old: KNOCK IT OFF. Please don't embarrass me.
8 year old: Warp speed! We need the emergency break.
5 year old [poking her sister in the head]: We're going into space!! WE'RE GOING INTO OUTER SPACE!!!
12 year old: Oh, please stop yelling.
5 year old: BLAST OFF!!!!!
Me: [bursts out laughing]
B65 to Crown Heights
We are stopped at a red light and see a cab cut off a biker. It didn't seem like that big a deal to me--the cab wasn't anywhere close to hitting him--but the bike driver freaks out and punches the fender of the cab, while screaming. I can't hear anything through the glass. I think I'm the only one even looking at this scene. The cab stops. The bus driver whips out his bike lock and is waving it at the cab as if to go for the window. The light turns green and we go on.
B63 to Atlantic Avenue
The seats are mostly full, but the bus is not super crowded. An older woman gets on with a 2 year old, who toddles on while her grandma/aunt/babysitter hunts for her card. The girl is about half way to the back on the bus when the busdriver starts to pull away from the curb, and I'm not kidding when I say that every person within a 6 foot radius, myself included, lunged out to make sure she didn't fall. People stuck out legs, arms, canes, and one man held on to her until her grandmother could get back to her.
B6 to East New York, courtesy of my cousin:
A lady gets on, sits down for 3 seconds, and proclaims loudly in an amazing Caribbean accent: "Jesus is coming, people." She then continues on a rant about the state of the world. This happens on a daily basis. Finally, one day...
Lady: "Jesus is coming, people."
Random guy: "WHEN IS HE COMING? You've been saying this every day and he's not here yet."
And a bonus boat story:
I am eating lunch outside on the docks, and am walking to throw out my trash. I'm holding a bottle of seltzer in one hand. A wizened, shirtless man standing on his boat (which is called "My Lady") yells over to me, "Hey doll! Hope it's vodka in that bottle." I responded with, "oh, I wish it were," and then we waved and went our separate ways.
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