In the darkest depths of winter, when my new-transplant-to-New York roommates and I feared that the cold and gray of January would never lift, we had an unfortunate and depressing tendency to chronicle all the things we would not miss about New York if we were to move and return to our respective southern homelands. A few selections from the list: people who don’t move all the way down the car on the subway, schlepping our groceries up three flights of stairs, frigid gusts of wind that take your breath away, subway vomit-ers. I could go on.

Finally, the bravest and least cold of us declared a new list-making game: things we would miss if we left New York. This game was infinitely more fun and celebratory than the first, and had the added benefit of reminding us in ways big and small of why the heck we were in New York in the first place.

At the top of my list: lunches at Bryant Park. Without a doubt, the best reason to take a job in midtown Manhattan – other than the obvious, “Hey! It’s a job! I need one of those” – is the promise of spring and summer lunches spent in that urban oasis of green. Sure, Central Park gets all the hype (despite the glamorous distinction of hosting New York’s Fashion Week, I have yet to see a Bryant Park magnet for sale in Chinatown) but I would argue that Bryant Park is better suited to the daily needs of the city dweller.

I refuse to concede that this is simply a product of my life-long prejudice in favor of the overlooked or under-appreciated; for me, Central Park is too much of an ordeal – too vast and overwhelming – to host a practical break in the middle of the day. To spend time in “The Park,” one has to really commit to it – there are often picnic blankets involved, not to mention all the carriage traffic to be dodged – and to be honest, I usually want my park-visits to be more like a comma than an out-loud reading of the genealogy of Christ. I need a moment to catch my breath in the middle of the day, not lose my breath trying to get to the memorable part. Frankly, I don’t have time for that.

I do have time for smelling the grass, eating my lunch under the shade of a London plane tree, watching old men perform tai chi, wondering if one of my co-workers would want to play chess one afternoon, browsing in the HSBC reading room and thinking about joining one of the free yoga classes – all of which I can actually do at Bryant Park without abandoning my workday attire or fighting with a heel stuck in the grass. The beauty of Bryant Park is that I can participate in the world of whimsy outside the office in a way that fits into my life. And for the full three-quarters of an hour that I’m there, it’s my life again.

The restorers of Bryant Park not only have provided amenities that I can actually characterize with the word “whimsy” – and that without mentioning the carousel, skating rink, or ping-pong tables – but they respect my layout sensibilities so much that I, park-going peon that I am, can place my hunter green folding chair wherever I see fit. Even on a day when there doesn’t seem to be any correlation between the effort and intent I put into my work, and the result (or lack thereof), I can actively shape and participate in the life of a public space. The simple gift of movable chairs is, in actuality, a gift of agency and empowerment to the thousands of people who eat their lunch in the shade of those lush trees. I am reminded that my actions do have consequences, that I can tangibly affect my world – even if, for today, that is only in the orientation of a Bryant Park chair.

Besides redeeming my lunch hour, the park’s own history is a compelling tale of urban life re-emerging from a symbol of urban decay. Like many parks in New York City, Bryant Park began as a potter’s field before the city grew out to meet it and the park’s interred inhabitants were relocated to Ward’s Island. As recently as the ’70s, some dubbed it “Needle Park,” and I’m pretty sure this wasn’t a prescient reference to the handiwork of the Project Runway finalists. It wasn’t until the vision of the Bryant Park Restoration Corporation was realized in the early ’90s that Bryant Park became the outdoor cafeteria and breath of fresh air that New Yorkers now know. A plot of land once characterized by poverty, death, and crime is now breathing life into its retail neighbors as well as its human neighbors.

In comparison to Central Park, Bryant is tiny – barely even visible from the top of nearby Rockefeller Center – but its size is precisely why it succeeds. Perfectly proportioned to give the passing pedestrian or lunching office drone a substantial drink of nature without being large enough to significantly obstruct traffic patterns, Bryant Park works beautifully with the pace of urban life. The green space between Fifth and Sixth Avenues interrupts just enough to give the city dweller the breath of air she needs to keep up her frantic pace, but not enough to symbolize (or for that matter, actualize) retreat. It’s compact – like my new apartment and my new standard of personal space. It knows its precise place as complement to the built environment, imagining itself as contiguous with the offices and commercial interests around it – even making space for kiosks aplenty – rather than trying to make visitors forget they are in one of the busiest commercial districts in the world. Bryant Park is a lesson in efficient relaxation; stepping in and out of that leisure zone is as easy as can be.

With a lunch break this idyllic and fuss-free, who needs a long weekend at the country house? Thoreau – Keep your Walden! Like Goldilocks, I’ve found my place and it fits just right.

Sigur Rós Redeems
the Music Video
By Jenni Simmons
In “Glósóli,” Icelandic band Sigur Rós creatively fuses music and cinema, renewing the lost art of the well-made music video.

A Human Revolution
By Josh Cacopardo
The Human Revolution promotes hope, love, and responsibility to your neighbors and your planet, all to a danceable groove – and they practice what they preach.

In Praise of Bryant Park
By Natalie Race
New York’s Bryant Park isn’t just a good place to relax – its design and history speak to some fundamental human needs.

Against the backdrop of a deepening blue, the murmurs of an eclectic crowd rise up and fizzle into the open space above East 7th Street. The sun hasn’t quite set as The Human Revolution takes the stage — a cozy corner atop a generous East Village roof — but an early start means anything except an early finish at this makeshift venue. “We’ll go all night if we feel like it,” says the band’s frontman, the charismatic man in the well-worn hat known simply as Human. “Nobody else parties the way New York parties.”

And Human has some authority to speak on the subject. In the month of May alone, The Human Revolution tackled fifteen venues in ten US cities from Portland, Oregon to New York City, promoting their new album, Love Revolution, and perhaps more importantly, a much-needed message of peace, love, and unity.

Like their New York set, the new record kicks off with the classic rock ballad, “To The People,” the opening lines grabbing the listener’s attention with immediate references to September 11 and the war that followed. Melodic pedal steel layered with a gentle electric lead and a soothing violin sets a somber mood, but is in no way indicative of the musical experience to come. Quite the contrary, the album pace picks up considerably with bluegrassy banjos on “Chuck The Raven” and the distantly ska-rock anthem, “Public Servant,” but the reason for choosing this tune as an opener is clear: Human has a message to deliver, and before we get too hasty with our dancing shoes, what’s more important is that we keep our ears open to listen.

With the call to attention out of the way, Love Revolution turns to what really defines the sound of The Human Revolution: a self-described “mystic country jam rock” ranging in style from Charlie Daniels’s fiddle to killer Clapton-esque licks and Willie Nelson politics. On the tracks “Consumer” and “Fear Not I,” Human successfully dabbles in solid reggae beats and island sounds, giving us the only musical taste of “mystic” on the album (the rest is left up to the lyrics). We even glimpse a brief lyrical rap on the bridge to “Soul Revival,” immersed, of course, in an ocean of harmonicas and rhythmic jams which keep the listener wondering if The Human Revolution can be classified in a sub-genre at all.

And that is, perhaps, precisely one of the things The Human Revolution seeks to, well, revolutionize: the way we look at music. Since the grunge era of the Nineties, when bands like Nirvana and The Smashing Pumpkins were lumped into an “alternative” genre of rock ‘n’ roll, sub-genres of rock music have popped up across the world, breaking sound-styles down into categories like indie (it’s a style, not a record label association), alternative, alternative rock (apparently there’s a difference), college rock, goth rock, post punk, trip-hop, electronica, and avant-garde; in short, there are enough sub-genres for all musicians to feel like they’ve done something unique and original. Yet while The Human Revolution has necessarily followed suit at least in part, their focus embodies far more than just the sound.

Take the title track, for example. Immediately following a powerful lead guitar intro, Human sings, “I’ve got two people inside myself, one who wants to fight, and one who wants to pray,” and then, “We’ve got to rise up and sing, dance around and play/The Love Revolution is right here, right now, it’s today.” Particularly during what’s been labeled “The Great Recession,” there are few people who haven’t felt sentiments at least vaguely similar to the dichotomy Human presents, but what medium besides the irresistible groove of country jam rock ‘n roll can really convince us that what we need to do is to stand up for what we believe in, dancing and singing all the while?

That’s where the true potency is found in Human’s songs. Though from time to time it may come across as idealism, Human employs what is actually a very pragmatic way to say the things that so many people are thinking. Speaking to me while on the road to Virginia, Human says, “I’m a very spiritual person. I believe in the power of prayer, but at the same time, I think we have to engage the world.” But “engagement” doesn’t mean hostility, no matter how angry we may feel from time to time. “You can’t fight violence with violence. The way to ‘fight’ the wrongs of the world is to be loving, to serve and help the planet.”

What sets The Human Revolution apart, however, is that their message doesn’t only appear on paper. They actually practice the lot of what they preach. Consider their current tour: The rotating-member band has traveled from Portland, Oregon to New York City on only eight gallons of petroleum-based gasoline. “We travel in a van designed to run ethanol, biodiesel, or just SVO (straight veggie oil). Sometimes refueling puts us a bit out of the way, but it’s worth it when you consider what we’re still saving both in terms of money and the earth.” Such feats as this put songs like “Conversion” in a very different light, one bright enough to call the American people out of the carbon caves we’ve been living in for most of our lives, yet not so bright as to blind us with reckless idealism and intangible hope for a cleaner future.

The pill, then, that seems like it might be hardest to swallow is the one that delivers the message of spirituality along with the organic, hug-your-neighbor, cut down on carbons and cut out the corporation vibe. In an increasingly atheistic nation, infusing feel-good beats with any idea even vaguely indicating a spiritual authority is risky business. But we’re not becoming atheists because we can’t tolerate God; we’re becoming atheists because we’ve become complacent in taking God seriously, another agenda The Human Revolution makes no bones about addressing.

Taking a lead from less-religiously-reserved reggae artists (though he does not identify as Rastafarian or Jewish), Human sends another important message to the American people in “Fear Not I”: “For as long as I walk upon this land, I know that Jah will protect me…Money it will come and go, I will have no fear of poverty/I will spread the abundance when Jah give it to I, for money will not make I free…” The exact opposite of hard to swallow, the medicine The Human Revolution offers tastes sweet, soothing as it goes down, and if we take it in the proper doses with some regularity, we’ll find that the spirituality they promote does, in fact, have the power to heal during these confusing and broken times.

Far from idealism, The Human Revolution offers a positive and powerful message of reform desperately needed by the American people perhaps now more than ever. While newspapers fill their pages with stories of suicides, crimes, illnesses, and hopelessness related to economic downturn and increased cultural strife, Human has done just the opposite. He and his band have reminded the world that there is always hope, there is always goodness to be had and life to be enjoyed, and none of it has to rely on money or any of the myriad popular vices we’ve come to accept as a way of life.

A human revolution? Maybe. Or maybe it’s really just a human reminder calling us back to the way we once were, and the way we were supposed to be in the first place.

The rest of The Human Revolution’s tour dates are available on their website, as are their albums (also available on iTunes) and booking information. Because the musician lineup rotates, there’s no guarantee that every show will have a full set-up, but you can be sure that whatever you get, it will be full of hope, love, and a danceable groove.

I haven’t watched MTV in years; the last time I tuned in, the programming schedule didn’t include many music videos. Inane game shows and morbidly fascinating reality shows were about it. Any actual videos jarred my psyche like a fingernail dragged down a chalkboard. It wasn’t the various forms of gratuitous vulgarity that disturbed me – it was bad art. The lyrics were ridiculous. The music wasn’t what I would call “creative.” The choreography was repetitive and boring. Were they singing anywhere near on pitch, or was it all Auto-Tune matched to a pretty face? With very few exceptions, I was convinced that the music video as art was doomed.

But one evening three years ago, as I wrote and listened to the music streaming from my husband’s computer in the study, I heard a melody so haunting and beautiful that I stopped typing, my fingers frozen above the keyboard mid-sentence. I just sat there, all ears.

“Sweets,” I yelled, “Who is that?”

“A band from Iceland a friend told me about: Sigur Rós. It’s the video for their song ‘Glósóli’ – you gotta see it,” he said.

An unconventional melody from an Icelandic band, surely far away from the musical-visual shores of MTV. I bolstered my artistic reserves and walked into the study. Did my eyes behold a music video? I was floored by stark, quiet, light-suffused melancholy scenes and the wide-open geometric Nordic landscape. It looked more like a short film. This telecine magic was directed within three days by natives Arni & Kinski and captured on 35mm film by cinematographer Chris Soos. But the video would not be what it is without a band of überphotogenic children found in Reykjavík.

The story of “Glósóli” – a childlike rendering of “Glowing Sun” – opens to a little towheaded drummer boy sitting by a lake. He looks down at the drumstick in his hands. He taps his boot to the slow rhythm of a bass drum and a music box. He stands and slings a drum over his shoulder. Lead singer Jón Birgisson softly wails in his mournful, ethereal voice:

Nú vaknar þú (Now you are waking up)
Allt virðist vera breytt (Everything seems different)
Ég gægist út (I look around)
En ég sé ekki neitt (But I see nothing at all)

The boy hikes over black lava rock, pauses, and beats his drum. Two girls emerge from behind a stone tunnel, one wearing a fuzzy-bear hat. The drummer gives them a kind, knowing smile, and they skip a step to follow him. As the light grows, he continues to attract and collect those with whom his path crosses – a boy and girl kissing in the shelter of tall grass; a hesitant freckle-faced boy; two misfit boys about to torch an old car; and two girls building a stone altar.

The children follow the leader through night and day, until he rouses the ragtag lot to charge with abandon toward a cliff, seemingly toward a certain plummet. But Sigur Rós’s otherworldly music soars and sails and their story comes to a surprising close.

I suppose there are many subjective takes on the visual story set to “Glósóli,” but I can’t help to see the Gospel narrative. The little drummer boy never says a word, but his eyes speak, “Come, and follow me.” The children drop what they’re doing and obey, and trek behind him without looking back. Sigur Rós’s frontman, Birgisson, plays a part in the story, too, as the voice of the Other who sings the way for the drummer and his short motley crew to go. Most songs I listen to are nonfiction, or poetry, but “Glósóli” is fantasy. As each child takes that last step off the stone cliff toward the Other, the unexpected and miraculous occurs – optimistic, in our often nihilistic society.

I cannot stomach MTV to this day. For me, “Glósóli” was the redemption of music video. Music and cinema are fused creatively in the hands of Sigur Rós. Most music videos are obviously a commercial advertisement for an album, when a song should be able to stand alone as a work of art. Sigur Rós accomplished an exquisite piece of non-commercial art with magical visuals deep enough for a big screen, and even a redemptive melody. Between bookends of music box chimes, the intellectual, post-rock song quietly, steadily crescendoes to a climax – Birgisson’s ethereal voice like another instrument – perfectly matching the pace of the video. The melody makes the ache of melancholy beautiful. I love the entire album (Takk), but I both listen to and watch “Glósóli” repeatedly and never grow weary. From comments I’ve read online, I’m not the only one mesmerized by the video – it’s as if we all recognize that there is a song of the Other guiding us on our pilgrimage; we are a people acquainted with sorrow, yet also with triumph.

But in the end of the video, one lone little boy cannonballs off the cliff instead of following the others. Does he live? Was he just doing his own thing? Did he take a leap of faith, then follow his friends after the camera wasn’t looking? Is the conclusion real, or was it merely a dream? One really doesn’t know, and it’s that element of unanswered mystery, even possible tragedy, that makes art good and true – it reflects those parts of our lives that will never line up with logic. The “Glósóli” video is not so much ambiguous as it is a contemplation of mystery and transcendence.

The potency of interval training is nothing new. Many athletes have been straining through interval sessions once or twice a week along with their regular workout for years. But what researchers have been looking at recently is whether humans, like that second group of rats, can increase endurance with only a few minutes of strenuous exercise, instead of hours? Could it be that most of us are spending more time than we need to trying to get fit?

The answer, a growing number of these sports scientists believe, may be yes.

Now, I like my parents. A lot. I really do. That’s why I make the 1,500-mile trip to visit them three or four times a year. I did not, however, spend the bulk of my adult life perfecting the fine art of establishing boundaries only to have them toppled by the click of a mouse. If I wanted them to have unfettered access to my life, I wouldn’t have put the “keep out” sign on my room at age 10. I would have lived at home through college. I would have bought the house next door to them in Minneapolis and made them an extra set of keys.

At some time during the aftermath of modernism, beauty ceased to receive those tributes. Art increasingly aimed to disturb, subvert, or transgress moral certainties, and it was not beauty but originality—however achieved and at whatever moral cost—that won the prizes. Indeed, there arose a widespread suspicion of beauty as next in line to kitsch—something too sweet and inoffensive for the serious modern artist to pursue. In a seminal essay—“Avant-Garde and Kitsch,” published in Partisan Review in 1939—critic Clement Greenberg starkly contrasted the avant-garde of his day with the figurative painting that competed with it, dismissing the latter (not just Norman Rockwell, but greats like Edward Hopper) as derivative and without lasting significance. The avant-garde, for Greenberg, promoted the disturbing and the provocative over the soothing and the decorative, and that was why we should admire it.

The shifting lunchtime habits, which are more pronounced in large cities such as Paris, are part of a social tug of war in France between the imperatives of a modern industrial economy and a long-cherished tradition of fine food produced and prepared by artisans devoted to their crafts. The increasingly common sight of a young French office worker walking down the street munching on a sandwich suggests tradition is more and more on the losing side as the years go by.

So it’s no surprise that Salinger’s lawyers are now going after 60 Years Later: Coming Through the Rye, a book written by a pseudonymous Swedish author J.D. California, which is billed as a “sequel” to Catcher in the Rye. Details are sketchy (the book is supposed to have been published already in England, though I can’t seem to find a review written by anyone who has actually read the thing), but the story seems have two main characters—“Mr. C,” who is obviously Holden Caulfield, and Salinger himself. In the new book, Mr. C is 76 years old and seemingly as peripatetic and confused as Holden was at 15.

Upgrade Me
By Jonathan Fitzgerald
Are we getting better, or just newer?

Lost in the Cosmos
By Casey Downing
The off-Broadway play Night Sky deals with language, selflessness, and a world rearranged.

Night In At The Movies
By Sarah Hanssen
Why – and how – to start a movie night in your home.