The Politics of Art & Authenticity

I’m going to go off on a little rant here first, so just deal with it. How many people were aware that there was a professional theatre company putting on a show at Baruch this semester? How about if there were more than one? No, probably not, because the only way you’d really know is if you read the “Weekly Baruch e-mail” nonsense that buries this stuff at the end. Come on! This is professional theatre, why isn’t it known campus-wide? (Long story short: PROMOTE THE ARTS.)

So. Last night. BPAC. 8 PM. A cold and rainy evening. The Acting Company. Of Mice And Men. Wow.

The Acting Company is this amazing theatre company that was first formed by the members of Julliard’s Drama Class, including members like… Patti LuPone. (I can’t escape her, but I can’t really say I’m trying.) This season, they’ve been traveling across the country performing the stage-adaptation of John Steinback’s novel Of Mice And Men. The play was housed in the Nagelberg Theatre, so it wasn’t your typical Proscenium Stage show. Instead, a wooden platform right in front of the seats housed several compartments that could be lifted up to create the illusions of a doorway, beds, and a hayloft. The actors would move props around onstage between scenes, which I felt only added to the imagery of the play being set on a busy farm.

It was performances like this that make me reaffirm one of the many reasons why I love the theatre: it brings stories to life in a way your imagination can only dream of. Of Mice And Men is known by practically everybody, but the way Lenny was just so innocent and childish throughout, or those glimpses where you’d see that George really does care about Lenny–despite his attitude towards him on occasion–and you have a piece of work that takes a book and turns it into a 3D-masterpiece.

I just really, really, really liked this show???

Lenny broke my heart, and I can only imagine the hours and energy that Christopher Michael McFarland put into the lovable oaf who’s entire character can be summed up with: “He ain’t bright, but he’s a hard worker.” George, embodied by Joseph Midyett, made me rethink my earlier notions of the character, because he’s more than a guy down on his luck and stuck with Lenny because that’s just life. The two of them have been together for so long, and Lenny’s right, they’ve got each other and that’s all that matters.

Casting wise, everything was perfect, and I was surprised to see how believable a younger actor could be in the role of Curly (Michael McDonald), considering I always believed him to be at least in his 30s.

Like I said before, the staging and set design was atypical to most performances, but it all just added to the intimacy of the play. If you were to look up at the right moments, you’d see a man in the catwalks above letting leaves fall down during the clearing scenes – it all worked wonderfully. The lighting–especially during that last scene–worked to show the dwindling sunlight out in the fields, and the small stars shining through the backdrop gave only the faintest glow to Lenny’s happy face moments before George, well, you know what happens. It was powerful stuff, and I loved every second of it.

Photo Credit

On September 8th, 2012, I was lucky enough to join EHS group on a tour to the 9/11 memorial.
I thought it would be a good opportunity to offer condolences to the victims who died of the attack and their families.

When I was studying for AP psychology, I came across a line that stated, many Americans remember exactly what they were doing on the day of the 9/11 incident. I tried to remember what I was doing at that moment but I couldn’t remember anything specifically besides the fact that I was staring at the television, not able to believe the video footages in front of my eyes. Maybe it was because 9/11 occurred a week after my family and I had came back to Korea. But all I could think of was that I was at that very place , the world trade center, a month before it was attacked. In one sense, I was glad at least I was able to experience the place before the collapse. On the other hand, I could not help the thought that if it had occurred a month earlier, I would have been one of the innocent victims buried on the cold ground.

After a few minutes of train ride, our group arrived at the memorial. The security was very strict. After a long wait in the line and some walking, I saw the whole view of ground zero.

Unlike the day of the accident, the place was so quiet and peaceful. Maybe too serene. The only thing that reminded me of the day were the names that were engraved round the fountains and the tree that survived.

Maybe it’s best to provide a peaceful place where the innocent victims would rest in peace. Maybe. But somehow I could not shake off the thought that unless our generation puts effort to preserve the meaning of this place and annually pay a visit; this may become no more than a pretty park, obscuring our future generations from seeing what truly happened and understanding the terrifying experience we will never be able to forget in our lives.

http://eportfolios.macaulay.cuny.edu/drabik10website/iconic-immigration-sites/museum-of-chinese-in-america/

In the middle of the hustle and bustle of Chinatown, amongst vendors wanting to bargain with you left and right and the Chinese take-out stores on every corner, an institution that represents real Chinese culture and history in America stands. Its name? The Museum of Chinese in America, MOCA for short.

I stumbled upon this place once looking for a bubble tea house. It was one of the most rewarding impulse plans I have ever experienced. I mean, I knew that the Chinese liked the color red and that they had dragons everywhere, were one of the first Asian immigrants, ate rice all the time… I knew basic things. But walking into MOCA explained a lot more than I could tell you.

I thought that this visit was important and shows the genuine diversty in existence in New York City. Even United States in general. We are a country made up of immigrants and so I found it neat to have a place that shows not only about a certain culture, but its immigrant aspect and how the original culture evolved into the Chinese-American culture present today.

The exhibits feature Chinese comic artists, the evolution of Chinese restaurants, the origins of Chinese ghettos, the history of Chinese businesses in America such as laundromats and nail salons, the way America is seen through Chinese eyes, films and photographs by Chinese and of Chinese people and many more. Visiting the MOCA was educational but interesting at the same time. Even though I only have a very slight fraction of Chinese blood in me, I was able to engage in the exhibits and really get into it. I recommend that everyone visit MOCA in the near future.

Early in the semester, I tagged along to 5 Pointz in Queens with a group of Macaulay kids and a couple of enthusiastic adults. I was pretty excited since we were about to see informal type of art. An art in which many attach a dirty and negative stigma yet here was a place in which that unwanted art is appreciated. I did not know what to expect. I was just pumped for any graffitti.

As soon as we got off the 7 train at Court Square, I couldn’t stop looking at the covered buildings. There was just so many to inspect, analyze, and admire. I couldn’t wait to keep walking around. There were scenes depicting darkness, some had more positive messages, some were brightly colored, others were lighter. There were patterns and  spray painted figures of every kind in every shade imaginable. All around me was excitement depicted in vibrant and colorful spray paint. And then… I walked past the woman. The grey woman.

She was on one of the side buildings, away from the “main attractions” of 5 Pointz, a.k.a. Biggie Smalls. You had to walk around a building, past the headquarters of the New York City Halal food carts and around another corner. There were lively pictures on either side of her but she, with only a few shades of grey, was the most striking. She looked solemn, enlarged, but very realistic. Her seemingly blank look actually communicated a sense of isolation and indifference. It was the one piece that spoke to me.

I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that this was spray painted. On top of that, it was only using black and white! It seemed like an authentic charcoal sketch. Just large and on a brick building. Seeing 5 Pointz has truly opened my eyes to the wonders of New York City and its talented urban culture. I wish to someday contribute to that. (Except not using a spray paint can).

http://photobento.blogspot.com/2011/03/5-pointz.html

Feeling like I should take advantage of a certain Pell Grant, and a huge discount on behalf of a partnership between TDF and CUNY, I set out to make at least a holy pilgrimage to Broadway at least once a month. Now, the wonder of TDF is that if you check the listings at the right time, you could end up with under $50 tickets to the newest shows out there… like The Anarchist. That’s huge. I’m talking a brand new David Mamet play, and self-directed too. And it was Patti LuPone and Debra Winger. I was going to do it just for the chance to see Patti, but the whole show just seemed so perfect, so of course I had to go. (I should probably mention something else about TDF: Yes the tickets are cheap, but you’re not getting front-row seats. Try rear mezzanine. Or, in my case, the last row of the rear mezzanine all the way to the left. Whatever, that doesn’t bother me. It’s still Broadway!)

Don’t let her appearance fool you, if Patti catches you with your phone out she will snap your neck.

The show was an unusual Broadway experience for me to say the least, after all, I had gone in thinking this would be a fast-paced, explicative-ridden battle between Cathy, the prison inmate up for parole 35 years later (Patti LuPone), and an untitled superior who could set her free, (Debra Winger). It’s Mamet right? The same Mamet who wrote Glengarry Glen Ross – which was ironically starting previews just halfway down the block? Apparently not.

The Anarchist was more a discussion than a show. The action is confined to one room, and one conversation, but except for a few choice moments, I felt like I was watching two opposing philosophies argue with one another. Mamet wrote about everything from religion to politics to murder to family relationships to… it was too much for one show. Honestly, I was surprised when it ended, because it was just such a linear show that I felt it could go on indefinitely – there was nothing to make the show “a show”, which I think hurt it more than anything. Yes, the concepts brought up are interesting, and yes, the premise of the play is something I do feel would work on Broadway, but I don’t think this was it.

Luckily, I don’t have to say the fault lies on the actors’ behalf – partly because it really wasn’t, and mostly because I’d rather become an accountant than speak ill of the Lord LuPone – but instead I’d have to see fault with Mamet. In the end, he wrote (and directed) not a show, but a mind. It was intellectual, philosophical, conversational, but not a play.

I don’t regret going to see it in the slightest, but I don’t think my claims are unvalidated. The producers have already announced a closing date, and while I honestly don’t agree that the business behind closing the show so soon is the right way to run Broadway, I can kind of see why this is happening.

I guess there is a bright side in all of this: The chances of Patti landing a role in a huge musical just went up significantly now that she has the time.

Photo Credit

http://www.nytimes.com/imagepages/2012/11/17/arts/17BARNARD.html

The Barnard Fall Project…

How can I describe it? I don’t think there are any words that can actually describe it.

If I called it weird, it would directly imply that I am normal, which I’m not. If I called it radical, it would invoke feeling of either disgust or praise.

Let’s keep it neutral.

I guess we could call it different in the fashion that maybe it’s not the Nutcracker or some other famous ballet, but we have to give them credit. They tried.

In a sense the name- The Barnard Project, invokes this sense of being different. Barnard is, after all, an all girls’ college.  Even though it may seem like I am being judgmental, it seems like only two types of people attend these secular single sex school: socially inept, and those who are pretty damn sure of what they want.

The dancers didn’t fit the norm. They all had different body types. I guess it was the only thing I found to be positive. But other than that, there was no meaning whatsoever. The dancers weren’t in sync. The dance made no sense.  Towards the end, it started making sense. I even woke up to see it.

The last act was entertaining and it made me think about time. Time itself continues even when we stop.  The connection may not be very apparent but its there. The ‘Oh Oh’ reminded me of a ticking clock.  Time goes on.

The first student’s names are announced over the PA system.  Whenever a student’s name was called that meant they were to go down to the main office because they were going home.  As a child, one could only think “they’re so lucky!” Five minutes later two more names are announced.  Ten minutes later over ten names have been announced.  Almost an hour later over 20 names have been announced.  Before noon we’re packing up to go home, the teacher says we’ve been granted a half day.  But why?

Were parents called?  There were over a hundred students in the school, it seemed almost impossible for all parents to have been contacted.  Yet, as our teachers lead us outside, it amazes us to see parents lining the sidewalk waiting to bring their children home.  Even the children whose parents make them take the bus because they can’t normally pick them are there.

My dad calls my name to leave with him.  On our walk home he won’t tell me anything and seems to be anxious to return.  As we walk back the only thing he says is “they fell.”  What was happening?  What were ‘they’?  What fell?  To my questions his only response is, “You’ll see.  It’s all over the news.”

When I arrive home the TV is still on and it is tuned into the news.  There are two buildings on the screen and one is falling.  “The second tower was just hit!” the man on TV announces from somewhere off screen.  It sounds as if he’s not reading the teleprompter, as if he blurted this out on his own.  His voice comes off as a yell softened by the noise of the first plane in the background, slamming nose first into the first tower.  What did it all mean?  My dad finally tells me that these two unrecognizable structures were the Twin Towers, the two buildings that I loved to point out every time we passed the Manhattan skyline, my two favorite buildings in Manhattan because of how unique they are…were.

I then remember my mom works somewhere in Manhattan.  Did she have a half-day too?  Would she come home early?  My dad’s on the phone so I quietly wait, thinking he’s busy.  He pulls it away and dials a number again but nothing.  Not a word is spoken and he seems even more anxious than before.  Where’s mom?  I question him but dad remains silent before answering he couldn’t get in touch with her.

We were not able to get in touch with her until much later.  Her call had finally gotten through.  She had walked to Queens via the 59^th Street Bridge and walked along Queens Boulevard until she reached Woodhaven.  She arrived home unscathed.  She was safe.  No one explained anything to me until years later when my mom finally felt comfortable speaking about it and when she thought I could finally understand.  “We heard them all…from the squawk box…until the very end.”  It’s a horrible memory, which continues to haunt her even today. Whenever she is forced to recall this, the life seems to drain from her, the air about her changes, she becomes serious and her voice becomes grim.

Years later she told me more.  “I knew quite a few people in those towers.  Do you remember my last boss, Marianne?  Her sister was in the second tower. It was right after the first plane hit that she thought something was going on.  She thought there was another plane coming and thought it would be safer to leave.  They threatened to fire her if she left.  She didn’t care and with a group of people ran down all those flights of stairs…”

Even now after a decade my mom still hasn’t visited the site.  She claims she’s busy and doesn’t have time but it is more than that.  She probably does not want to remember any of it.  Without a doubt she wants to maintain her strong appearance, knowing that even the strong fall apart here.

The entire time I was there, before I even set foot in the memorial, I was recalling.  Everything pieced together in my mind, everything my mom said, everything I saw that day on the news, everything I heard, and everything I learned in school.  It continued to replay over and over.

It was twice as meaningful because this past weekend a man named Albert Lutzkow passed.  It was only after his death that I found out he was not only a veteran but helped to build that wonderful hall which leads to the large auditorium in Baruch’s 23^rd Street building.  Among his many accomplishments one stood out.  He was one of the men who helped build the Twin Towers.  I’m sure he had taken a lot of pride in helping to build the two tallest buildings Manhattan has ever seen.

Overall the memorial site was beautiful.  The waterfalls that cascaded into oblivion could never be done justice by photograph.  One would have to see it for themselves.  What’s more, the trees were beginning to hibernate and had barely any leaves on them.  Though I know that was due to the zephyr winds of autumn it felt like they too were paying tribute to those lost.

Photo creds to Yamel!!!

I feel like sometimes we forget the bad stuff that has happened.

Yesterday, after some great Japanese food, Jen and I wondered off in search or what to do.  We ended up taking the E train to the World Trade Center.  I wasn’t sure what to expect or even what we were going to do once we got there. I guess it came down to getting tickets to go to the 9/11 Memorial. Getting the tickets was fairly easy. I think we left a three-dollar donation… now, getting to the actual memorial entrance was another story. But we made it… and we only got lost about three times on the way there.   Security was really tight. Almost like airport security, sans taking off the shoes. But once we were inside, I had mixed feelings about it.  The first things you see are trees. Lots of them. Then there is a structure in the shadows of where the twin towers stood. They are pools that drop the water into what seems the oblivion. Around these pools the names of those who perished during the attacks are engraved.

I was feeling very inspired by Mexicanism: The Documentary. So at the directory of the names engraved, I looked up people that had been born in Mexico. Only one name came up—a window cleaner. I guess it made me wonder if it had only been that one man in the WTC or if others hadn’t been accounted for.

On the way back to the train, Jen told me about how 9/11 had affected her family. I never expected the kind of consequences it had on people that hadn’t been directly affected by it.

When I think of a ‘bad’ mother, I usually think ghetto fabulous, nails, five kids, and five-baby daddy. English culture never comes to mind. Yet in WASP directed by Andrea Arnold, the stereotype of a bad mother is encompassed by something that we usually don’t relate to a bad mother. Instead of seeing a woman with whom we would usually consider ghetto, we see a blonde woman with an English accent who is a single mother.  The fact that she is completely the opposite of what one would expect, makes her entertaining.

Just from watching this film, the only one I’ve seen by this director, it is safe to say that Arnold relies more on the visuals to tell the story. The dialogue in this film is very short, very limited.

In the opening scene, Arnold shows a woman carrying a baby walking angrily towards a house with three little girls in tow.  She approaches the house quickly and angrily knocks on it. A woman opens the door and she asks her why she was hitting her daughters. Both women start arguing and the argument ends with the first woman along with her children turning around and flipping the other woman off.

The film continues with the woman meeting an ex-boyfriend and setting up a meeting later at the pub. When he asks about the children, she tells him that she is watching them.  The film continues with the woman talking on her mobile and giving her oldest daughter a pack of sugar to ration with the other kids.

Towards the end the film becomes more in your face, in the sense that some of the details are easier to understand but piecing them together is harder. The woman ends up at the pub. She takes her kids, leaves them outside, and brings them crisps and some cola.

I guess the amount of irresponsibility that the woman lacks is made up when the ex-boyfriends takes the girls out for a decent meal. But it doesn’t become very clear what happens afterwards.

Not many times do I go outside of Manhattan. Taking the 7 to the New York Hall of Science in Queens, was a refreshing experience. I always enjoyed science museums as a kid. It was the place where you can extend your imaginations and have a chance to verify the mere theories you learn in schools right in front of your eyes. Having visited Smithsonian Museum during my short visit to American during high school. I somehow imagined it to be as grand. When I got to the entrance, however, I could not help the disappointment.

Maybe it’s the difference between going to a science museum as a kid and as an adult. Still, to make my time worthwhile, I carefully tried out each experiments with childlike curiosity. Funny thing is, visiting a children’s science museum can be a great encouragement for a person who thinks s/he has come too far away from the natural sciences. Having attended a school right next to science school for the incredibly gifted,(these kids would place first and second in most of the world class international science olympiads) I’ve thought I was not apt for sciences for there was almost no way I could compete with them in sciences. Turns out I knew and understood almost all the experiments in the science museum.Maybe the curriculum was not so different from nations to nations after all. What really amazed me was the high correlation between the exhibits in the museum to the school curricula.

However memory evoking experience this was, I could not help but recognize the several broken tools and devices just staying around. In fact, a lot of them were outdated and needed repairing. In addition, the place seemed to lack staffs. There was only one person who went around explaining experiments to children. In conclusion, I think the place needs immediate staffing and repairing. Accuracy is imperative in science. The museum should not leave those inaccurate, broken tools for they will negatively impact the children’s museum experience. It needs innovation, to attract more people. I hope next time I visit, it will have fixed its problems.