uncapitalized ... vignettes

mid-winter malaise

Sun, 07 Feb 2010 13:34:29 -0500

This is the part of winter when normal things become too much work. The herbs that initially made it through the transition indoors have now turned brittle from the combination of months of dry heat and insufficient sun. You can't water them more since a bad bag of soil from the hardware store brought with it a colony of fungus gnats that take advantage of any extra moisture around any available plant. They zip around everywhere, often directly into the cups of soapy water placed in key locations with the hope that they will drown themselves to local extinction.

Sweaters are already played out for the season. Your coat lost a button and, while you managed to rescue it, it's still sitting on the bureau unsewn, more due to that right pocket of thin, satiny lining fabric that can no longer be trusted with anything; that much time for a needle and thread seems impossible to set aside. Strict budgets allow for no wardrobe refreshing.

Those ambient noises you only notice when the windows are closed start become grating, even if technically far less annoying that screaming children out your window several hours each night. So there is always music or people talking coming from speakers somewhere. Even the upbeat songs manage to sound melancholy, or happy only in a nostalgic, unattainable manner.

Thankfully the days are also noticeably lengthening and after-office life now includes the occasional dusk experience. Every day that the light lasts a little longer, even if there are also new instances of snow and numbingly cold walks to and from subway stops, the refresh of spring beckons.

jaded art lovers

Fri, 15 Jan 2010 23:34:45 -0500

Friends recommended going to see Chris Berens' show The Only Living Boy in New York on the Lower East Side, noting that it seemed to be some combination of photography and digital work. So we went and felt underwhelmed at first. The cute and dreamy images of squishy animals, melancholy brunettes, and NYC landmarks surrounded by 19th century objects were appealing, but we assumed they were just digital prints with pieces of more prints added on top for the rectangular texture. This seemed like a gimmicky, perhaps even a lazy way of adding interest where it wasn't really needed. The pieces ranged from the thousands to the tens of thousands in price. While quietly debating the possible details of his technique, we continued staring at them.

A couple of women came in who knew the gallery lady up front, and we eavesdropped long enough to hear her describe Berens' technique, which actually involves painting every single image by hand on archival photo paper, waiting days for it to dry completely, and then peeling away the transparent layer from the paper backing. He then layers all those painted transparent pieces on top of each other creating that hazy depth. Seriously. Basically his process is on the exact opposite of the meticulousness scale than we determined with jaded eyes.

This is what you get as a viewer tired from at-times-excessive digital manipulation: the abashed feeling of having assumed "Photoshopped!" when it's actually a complicated, non-standard technique.

directions in the city

Wed, 13 Jan 2010 22:26:02 -0500

Say what you will about Portland and its hipsters, hippies, and gentrifiers, I left after a few years living there with a far more polite public persona. While I once scowled when quiet walks in Boston's parks were interrupted by tourists asking me to take a photo, I now find myself going so far as to volunteer bus detour information to the audibly confused, even when they haven't yet asked me anything.

So it happened that last week a woman at the corner of Allen and Houston stumped me by asking where Orchard Street was. For some reason I can never remember which direction most Lower East Side streets run --- north/south, east/west? In NYC it's perfectly fine to shrug your shoulders and keep walking if you don't know, but I knew it was "in this direction," holding my left hand along Houston with the right cupping Allen, and she was pretty sure it was parallel to Allen... We were trying to work it our between us when suddenly I remembered that I have a phone that can tell me exactly where I am on a map. She said, "Oh. Right," before sheepishly pulling out her own device. We conferred with Google Maps, and she was right, it was one block east, parallel to Allen (maybe now I'll finally remember). As we parted at the corner, definitively navigated, we laughed at ourselves for not thinking to turn to technology when we really needed it.

But a few days later, evidence arose as to why perhaps New Yorkers can come off rude. On the N/R/D (and sometimes M) platform within the Atlantic-Pacific hub in Brooklyn, a woman asked me how to get to the Metropolitan stop on the M line. Except it was the weekend, so the M train wasn't running into that part of Brooklyn, which I told her, adding that I wasn't sure where she could connect with it. A guy next to me piped up saying that she could take the N train to Canal and transfer to the M where it was running into Brooklyn the other way. Which I promptly agreed with. Despite the utter clarity of this, the woman didn't seem to understand or, perhaps, believe us. We repeated the directions a couple of times each. "The N train, here at this platform. You take it one stop, over the bridge, look for the signs for the brown trains---" To which she said, "What do you mean 'brown trains'? I'm from Manhattan!"

We all wound up on the same car, so we both had to witness the woman, obviously unhappy with our directions, query every other willing passenger. The older Latino couple closest to the map started out helpful and then became as annoyed with her as we had. Eventually a woman with an iPhone volunteered to Hopstop directions for her once she had service on the bridge. Naturally, the easiest way was to get off at Canal and transfer there to the M; the woman wrote this down carefully.

For the rest of the weekend, I related the story, declaring, "If this is any indication of the people who live in Manhattan, they are the wimpiest borough by far."

contemplation with balloons

Sun, 06 Dec 2009 18:00:00 -0500

Last month, a bit of synchronicity.

I finally saw Pixar's animated feature UP, where a crotchety old man attaches enough balloons to his house to carry it to South America.

A few days later, at a film performance at Light Industry by Emma Hart and Benedict Drew, there was a row of similarly colored balloons at the back wall of the space. They were all attached to one piece of clear film, and when the performance started, the artists fed the film into the projector. The dust from the floor-dragged film specked the light of the projection, which also created vibrant overlapping shadows on the wall. One-by-one a balloon would bob languidly down the room and eventually soar up until the color of the it overtook the full screen of projector light before being released and floating to the ceiling.

Each of the performances had an element of experimentation, a "What would happen if...?" feeling, imparted to the audience as they watched. Here it became, "What will happen when the last balloon rises up?"

the name of someone you lost

Wed, 18 Nov 2009 19:30:48 -0500

Heading home from work, sick, the wait on the downtown platform was nearing fifteen minutes. A guy with two, filled tears permanently weeping from his right eye and a flourished, scripted word partially visible on his neck stood directly on the yellow-bumped edge, eyes closed, swaying like he was about to fall asleep. But it was also believable that he was preparing to stare down the train that was still approaching from beyond the bend of the tunnel, and I couldn't stop watching him, wondering if he was purposefully toying with the danger or truly dozing upright. An uptown train seemed to shake him awake and away from the tracks, but it was still a couple more minutes before a downtown train rumbled into the station.

During those last minutes I seem to have caught his interest, as when I finally installed myself in a seat facing the starboard side --- to get the Brooklyn Bridge and harbor view on the way over the Manhattan bridge --- I looked up to find him again standing directly at the platform's edge, this time staring at me through the train window. The doors closed and the train rumbled again on its way to the bridge. He kept his eyes locked on me and at the last moment, I attempted my best "What the hell is your problem?" look in response before the sight line broke.

It seemed affectedly ominous.

the things that scare you

Sun, 01 Nov 2009 21:41:10 -0500

There are few things better than riding the subway on Halloween, early before people have had enough time to get drunk and rowdy. Sitting on a local train as an express passes, windows flickering by like old television screens, the costumed riders sit quietly, in repose: a matador, various superheroes and monsters, and some tough roller derby players sprinkled among the more high concept disguises, perhaps last-minute inventions in a friend's kitchen. The holiday could pass as deeply introspective in such a moment.

At least until the next stop when a woman boards your car and shrieks to a person in a large furry mask, "Oh, you're so scary! I can't tell if you're a man or a woman!"

the final event

Wed, 05 Aug 2009 19:10:18 -0500

the kids on my block --- and presumably some beyond as well --- have spent the summer evenings developing a complicated territorial game. what started out as a few hours of noisy tag after dinner has at this point ballooned into an entire evening of strategy where the street will be quiet except for a small group of kids chattering innocently until suddenly another "team" arrives on the block and then the shouting and rhythmic clapping (♩ ♪ ♩ ♩ ♩ ♪ ♩ ♩ ♩ ♪ ♩ ♩ … &c.) commences.

I can't for the life of me figure out what rules they're playing by since trees block me from seeing what the heck is going on and there's just too much shrieking to follow what exactly is transpiring. but as of tonight, even some parents are involved spectators; one mother was yelling out, "CHEEEEA-TER! CHEEEEEA-TER!" I guess she knows the rules.

since I've been reading Infinite Jest, I can't help but think of Eschaton, even though this game doesn't involve tennis balls or complicated math --- or old computers with monitors pushed around on carts for calculating the status of the game --- at least from what I can tell. but I get the same sense of urgent tension that a greater fate lies in peril every night between dinner and game end, usually around 11:15, even though it's likely just a very exaggerated game of tag.

a few nights the game has inexplicably ended early, so right now (as the screaming intervals have been coming every five minutes for over an hour with occasional honks from cars unable to get down the block) I'm hoping for a call down the block and around the other side of, "GAME OVER!"

starting something

Sun, 28 Jun 2009 08:50:28 -0500

summer has come later than usual to the city, after a rather gloomy June. we're finally getting nights when you can get away without bringing a jacket or a sweater (and maybe even a scarf, just in case).

it seems somehow fitting that everywhere you go there's a radio blaring "Billie Jean" or "Beat It." on the boardwalk at Brighton Beach kids see the lights of Coney Island in the distance and exclaim, "A carnival! We haven't been to a carnival in a year!---a month!" before settling back on a year.

there are a lot of reasons to hope summer lasts forever.

glowing review

Sun, 17 May 2009 17:28:47 -0500

I wanted badly to steal a photo of Jenny Holzer's "For Chicago" from the elevator at the Whitney, but I was too slow. Earlier the guard noted that "the poem never finishes" and suggested that Holzer should visit Dr. Phil.

I found myself barely reading the words in most of the LED pieces in Protect Protect. In some ways I agreed with the poetry designation, if only because on the rare occasions that I read poetry, I go quickly and don't analyze much. Here, the words themselves go quickly, not giving you much time for analysis. Sometimes the lines overlap or reverse out in a way that makes it seem purposefully difficult to read very much.

The overall spareness of the show helped make this feeling manageable. And I love how the walls glow where the letters flow in and out.

stick out your chin

Wed, 22 Apr 2009 18:14:12 -0500

There was a man panhandling on the uptown R platform at Canal who got on the train and began singing the wimpiest falsetto "Ave Maria" (Back/Gounod) you've ever heard: barely audible, not always in tune, kind of sounding like a haphazard mix of a few songs at once, though the intent was clear.

At the next stop a bunch of kids, likely on the cusp of teens and twenties, got on. Upon noticing the singer, one of the dudes hurriedly pulled out an acoustic guitar, instructed his friends to clap along, and busted into "Tomorrow," kind of in the same vein as this Me First and the Gimme Gimmes version.

But did the "Ave Maria" singer give up? He put his hands over his ears and attempted to keep singing. In a stunning display of NYC-style apathy, a few people on the train managed to gaze blankly at the floor, pretending none of this was happening (everyone else was appropriately amused and bemused). Yet by the time the train pulled into 8th Street, the "Ave Maria" was starting to sound like Annie.

Coincidentally, the sun will come out tomorrow.

week without pictures

Wed, 18 Mar 2009 07:00:00 -0500

it suddenly became all photos all the time --- up until I let my camera battery lay nearly drained for all of last week. it's such a rare occasion that digging out the charger took me several days and then the week was over with no pictures to show for it.

the current reality is that it takes some effort to delineate the days. not massive, but sufficient that the even the weeks start to blur together. at least the increasing evening daylight will counteract the feeling that the best hours of the day are swallowed up indoors under a fluorescent glare.

I hoped to cobble together a text equivalent of the week in pictures, but the days have already run together.

out in public

Mon, 02 Feb 2009 18:48:35 -0500

in line for pupusas at the brooklyn flea: the kid strapped in a stroller directly front of us keeps shrieking to be let out. the mom, surprisingly, never reaches the exasperation point. instead she hams it up, "let me think about it... ummm... NO."

the kid's words begin to slur together in one, high-pitched "lemmeout-lemmeout-lemmeout-lemme(etc.)" whine.

"oh! I didn't realize you wanted to get out! you can't get out!" she replies with a chuckle.

this goes on endlessly. he kicks his boots off into the lady in front of them in line --- she had previously tried to reason with the kid that it really was much nicer and less tiring to be pushed around in a chair instead of having to walk. he bucks like he can burst through the mesh stroller straps to freedom. he attempts to make his shrieks shriekier, but he's already at top volume yet not quite wearing himself out.

finally the dad and other son come back to retrieve the stroller child and go home, where, yes, he can get out. dad elaborates, "you can't get out in public. you've already run away too many times today."

apparent temperatures

Sun, 25 Jan 2009 14:59:47 -0500

people keep saying that this is the first real winter in the city for several years. it has definitely been the sort of cold that requires a full-sleeved sweater, a good coat, and knitwear for the extremities on a regular basis. it's cold enough that I can tell my double-pane windows should be replaced soon; I can feel it when the heat cycles off for that long stretch around bedtime.

there has been a decent amount of snow, including the sort that accumulates as well as the type that drifts prettily on top of whatever was still there from yesterday. there has yet to be any in which you might see your entire shoe disappear though.

mostly it's still novel enough to be entertaining. except when on an outer-borough food mission on a night that feels like single digits (thank goodness it only felt like) and there's a green light about to change on queens boulevard. I was all too willing to dash the rest of the way across as the light turned yellow, despite the sign declaring "a pedestrian was killed here" --- as having to wait on an island for the light to change again felt like certain death.

pictures I didn't take

Sun, 14 Dec 2008 15:03:46 -0500

We beat the sun into Heathrow, and I wandered what to me seemed like barren Soho streets --- a gent in front of me noted, There are so many people out this morning --- until my coffee spot opened. I filled a roll of film, terribly sleep-deprived.

I'd been hoping for some milder winter weather, but it hovered around freezing the whole week. I missed most of the sunlight while in Cambridge, so I didn't take any more photos. Even in the last morning hours before leaving, it was too chilly to expose fingers for focusing and shutter-releasing.

But there was a steaming bowl of soup at an empty restaurant table, lots of golden windows one twilight along Trumpington Rd, and sparkling lights for the season, including arcs of stars bursting off the sides of buildings.

i have nothing to say and i'm saying it

Fri, 14 Nov 2008 19:25:40 -0500

Looking at my Tate Modern pictures, I suddenly remembered writing in the parts of the museum I couldn't take photos.

Thirty Pieces of Silver by Cornelia Parker --- thousands of silver objects, from silverware to teapots to flutes, steamrolled flat. They hang from the ceiling, arranged to make thirty "pieces," like silver coins, hovering about a foot off the wooden floor. The strings holding each object in place create a sort of curtain or scrim. The subtle tones of silver create a texture in each piece, as well as the shapes of the objects themselves or rather the space between the objects. It's an interesting study in parts of wholes --- together a piece of silver, individually pieces of silver. The overlapping shadows can often be identified as their objects, and sometimes these shadows on the worn wood floor seem like the best part of this piece of pieces.

Gerhard Richter's Cage 1–6 paintings also have a flattened quality to them, but here instead it's paint scraped across canvases. They are large squares maybe eight feet across, bases primarily of white and gray with areas of mottled, yet vibrant, color. I get the sense that you could decode or reveal the image, as if lines were just shifted out of alignment when the paint was scraped into abstraction. The title of the series refers to John Cage, and the title here is a quote of his.

And then Dan Graham's Two Correlated Rotations: One-minute films looped on two projectors situated at a right angle. It's a small room filled with the nagging the sound of the projectors. The images are warmly grainy, though it seems like it was cold out that day. The cameras' gazes jolt, fixed on each other as they follow a spiral pattern around each other, clockwise vs. counterclockwise.