Category — CFlores

Photo from: http://minnesota.publicradio.org/display/web/2008/03/11/price/

The excerpt from Richard Price’s Lush Life gave me a taste of his fast-paced storytelling. The narrative instantly gripped my attention when it took place right off the Williamsburg Bridge, where my home is in the Lower East Side of NYC. But I didn’t know what to expect from the reading; maybe he would just read a few passages monotonously and then be on his way. When I saw him at the reading, I was surprised by how much of a normal guy he was. Actually, he was so normal that he was wearing the same shirt I had seen him wearing in the LES tour video! His manner of speaking seemed very nonchalant, yet he never spoke nonsense. Even when going off on tangents, he made his words count.

I admire when a respected artist is comfortable poking fun at his/herself, and I knew Richard Price was this kind of person when he introduced his piece by saying the first couple of pages might have to be translated. He knew his heavy use of slang might leave the reader confused. He captured the essence of my neighborhood eerily accurately and it made total sense that he had to write about a murder to get these different groups in the same neighborhood to come out of their bubbles and interact with each other.

After the reading we were all dying for him to “tell us another one.” The second piece he read was written from the perspective of living in Harlem. Price seemed to me like an Anthropologist who wrote his etymologies in poetry. He lives with and studies different groups of people and how they interact, then he writes about it. The storyline needn’t be factual because the culture and the types of people he depicts are truth.

I think the photo speaks for itself. Some people find very creative ways to protect their bicycles from this harsh world.

Image from: http://www.theufochronicles.com/2009/03/return-to-foggy-bottom.html

Last weekend, I took a trip down to Washington D.C. to visit my best friend from High School, Olivia. She’s attending the George Washington University as a freshman, a school that I had an interest in but was turned off by the stereotype of the elite snobby students. I was curious about how true the stereotype was, and this weekend would be the opportunity for me to get a feel for the GW culture. After a long and uncomfortable bus ride and a sleepless night preceding my arrival, I immediately crashed and had to take a nap. When I woke up, Olivia rushed me to get ready for a tour that we were going to take. The Black Student Union had organized a tour of the black history of Foggy Bottom. We met somewhere along F street and as the group congregated, I couldn’t help but notice that I was the only white person among them. I was made very much aware of this by the strange looks I was receiving, a kind of “Why are you here?” being asked.

Interestingly enough, when the tour guide arrived to start our evening off, he was a middle aged white man. One of the first things he addressed was just that: “You may ask yourself why a white guy is giving this tour. I’m not an African-American but i’m an African-Americanist..” and then went on to describe his studies and his role in the Civil Rights movement. He spoke about how this predominantly white rich neighborhood used to be a black neighborhood, a part of history often completely ignored. On this tour we would uncover the hidden gems of black history that GW has, and be in the “presence of the absent.” He opened it up for questions before beginning the tour:

“As we go along, can we pick up black people to join on the tour?”

“Actually, wait, there’s a white person here too. Can we just acknowledge that for a second and give a round of applause!?”

The big elephant wandered out of the room when I was commended, not shunned, for participating in the tour of the spirit of black foggy bottom.

From: http://picsdigger.com/keyword/rigoletto%20the%20movie/

Last Thursday evening, Rigoletto gave me a taste of an art form different from all of the types our Arts in NYC class has exposed us to. The opera combines song, dance,   acting, scenery, costumes, etc. to provide a rich experience, foreshadowed by an air of excitement one felt upon entering the crowded and wonderfully decorated theatre. Looking around, I noticed that my age group was the minority. The older audience was noticeably well dressed, with middle-aged wives ready to “Shhh” noisy teens, and a proud opera singer behind me preparing to shout his “Bravo!” as soon as he got the chance.

This was my first experience at an Opera, and at first I had trouble keeping up with the performance while reading the translation on the chair in front of me, and appreciating the orchestra. It was helpful that I had read the Libretto and discussed the plot in class because otherwise I would’ve become too engrossed in one of those to get the whole picture. As the story unfolded though, the feeling of having to pick something to pay attention to dissolved and I began to absorb it all at once.

The story of Rigoletto is a timeless one. The passion of intertwining love affairs, several betrayals, and murder are all themes that are relatable to todays society. They make for a captivating plot when accented with moments of humor and solo pieces such as La donna è mobile. My favorite parts of the opera were when Rigoletto and his daughter had the stage alone, and the subtitles were suspended for just a few moments. Only when the words were taken away was my full attention on just them; I didn’t understand the words being exchanged but I could feel the raw emotion between them, the love between father and daughter.

I don’t know the norms for the Opera but I found it peculiar that an announcement would play during an intermission to inform the audience that Rigoletto was sick. I hadn’t noticed him delivering a sub-par performance, actually I thought he was doing an excellent job with the singing and projection. Even after being made aware of his illness, I didn’t notice the coughing that those around me said they did. It made me appreciate it more to know that the actor was putting in such an effort to put on a seemingly effortless performance; when he was being blindfolded and tricked, I felt personally hurt and sad that he was unknowingly helping in kidnapping his daughter.

I believe that Rigoletto was a great introduction to the opera because although i’m not running to Lincoln Center to see another one, I have an ignited sense of interest for the Opera and want to return. If this piece from 1851 is still appealing to the youth of today, i’m curious and interested about what more modern operas will be like.

A few days ago I was in my dorm, hungry but unwilling to dish out the money on a dinner from one of the fancy Lower East Side restaurants in my neighborhood. I decided to take a walk to Chinatown and dragged my friend Elisabeth who told me of a deal at a place on Elridge Street: 5 dumplings for a dollar. Its too good to pass up so we walk there and grab some take out menus on the way. Looking at the menu I just picked up, I feel proud to have found a better deal than Elisabeth. “Look, this place has 5 dumplings AND bok choy for $1.50.” I don’t know exactly what bok choy is but it sounds familiar and I imagine a large platter overflowing with noodles and 5 dumplings resting on top. Then she crushes my happiness, “Do you even know what that is? You’re paying 50 cents extra for CABBAGE.”
I’m feeling disillusioned but we continue our walk through Chinatown and I see in the window of a store, a large bag of “#1 Extra Fancy Kokuho Rice.” I find this humorous because what can possibly make rice fancy or unfancy? Isn’t one grain of rice just as fancy as any other grain? I chuckle at this and start to take out my camera to take a picture of it, but Elisabeth soon warns me that every passing Chinese person is giving me dirty looks. Did I offend their culture by making fun of fancy rice? I decide not to take the picture and walk (run) away as subtly as possible.
We make it to the dumpling place and I enjoy my dollar dumplings accompanied by a dollar can of Arizona green tea. I have to head uptown so I get on the train, intending to transfer to the E at West 4th. It’s the weekend and I remember reading something about service changes on the E line, I can’t remember what I read but maybe i’m mistaken. I get to West 4th and sure enough there are posters with the letter E, but as I approach one to read it I notice that they’re only in Chinese. “All of them are ONLY in Chinese. What’s going on? Do they only want Chinese people to know where to go?” Luckily, I only waited on the platform for a minute before the E came and safely brought me to my destination.
China, you certainly confused me today.

My vague memory of the Nutcracker Ballet was the only previous experience I had watching a dance performance. I entered Fall For Dance at the New York City Center, excited and open minded. Ready to be introduced to this thing called modern dance.
Merce Cunningham Dance Company opened their performance with their piece “Xover.” The first thing to catch my attention was that everything on stage was white except for a simple drawing on the top left hand corner of the background, that added a happy feeling to the stage. I was confused when dancers came out and started their routine with no background music, but I attributed this to being a style I wasn’t used to yet and tried to keep watching without judgment. I admired their toned bodies and exactness of their movements. There was in fact, some loose form of music in the background. I was made aware of this when I stretched over my neighbor’s seat to see a woman sitting in the front corner of the stage, making noises that seemed quite odd to me. As the performance went on, I let go of my initial bias and let this quirky music churn in my mind. The music she made was courageous; all alone she created laughs, gargles, howls, and noises they haven’t invented words for yet. Weather you liked it or not, she caught your attention. What had first seemed like a disjointed menagerie or portrait, dance, and music, evolved into a strange, but unified and interesting piece.
The second piece was Gallim Dance’s “I Can See Myself in Your Pupil.” The music promised that this would be more upbeat and lively than the first performance, but the dancing made it much more than even that. “An exhilarating suite of wildly quirky dances,” the description given by the playbill, just doesn’t cover it. The dancers in bright dresses with varying colors put on a show that was so captivating it felt like it only lasted a minute, but every second of that minute was appreciated and enjoyable. The most amazing part of the dance was that with the plain white background, the shadows of the dancers were projected on the screen in different sizes depending on their position in the stage, morphing and blending into one another. It created a second performance that was different but equally as appealing as the original; at times I didn’t know which to watch. This piece certainly added a new unexpected flavor to the tone that was set by Xover.
“Vistaar,” by Madhavi Mudgal was the most traditional of the dances, paired with the most traditional attire. The bells on their ankles added a distinct sound to the music that was sometimes repetitive, and more closely linked the two forms of art. The movements in their dance were neatly structured; every move of the four main women was following the lead of one older woman, who seemed like a mother figure to them. This piece was beautiful, but it was unclear to me why it fit in with the other three. I questioned where the originality and spunk was that I had seen in the previous two pieces.
Finally, Miami City Ballet put on a great performance to finish off the show called “The Golden Section”, which brought back the spirit the audience exuded during the second piece. This dance more than any other, showcased the dancers physical abilities. A golden lights and costumes prepared me for a top-notch dance, and they did not disappoint (although at times it seemed a little too similar to the second performance.) The dancers threw and swung each other around, and made their light, flexible bodies anything from stepping-stones to swings. Fall for Dance left me with an appreciation for dance I never thought I would grow.

The Bitter Sea is Charles N. Li’s touching coming of age story. At some points the book has a choppy feel, when it jumps back and forth in time without much of a flow, it is noticeable that English isn’t Li’s first language. However, the strengths of the story far outweigh the weaknesses and made this both an interesting novel to read and a very informative one, providing deep insight into the Chinese culture which I was curious about but never understood.

The most intriguing aspect of the book for me was Li’s description of Eastern culture. I’ve tended to generalize and sort of put all Chinese people into one “category,” but Li’s experience brought to light the sectionalism similar to racism that exists in different parts of China. I was shocked by how much of a difficult time Li had every time he had to move, I questioned how he could feel like an outsider in his own country.

Li also makes excellent comparisons between Eastern and Western cultures. He states that Westerners are all about the self whereas the Chinese focus on the group. Maybe I don’t quite understand how this is true because of my Eastern upbringing, I find the idea that Chinese people are all about the group when juxtaposed with Li’s description of his family whom he never showed affection with until he was an adult somewhat ironic. Li’s father says that family should never lend each other money because then their relationship becomes a business exchange, but I find Li’s relationship with his father when he was in school much closer to a business exchange: he delivered good grades in exchange for a place to sleep.

Eating was always a chore to me. At the dinner table I’d never fail to find something to complain about, some component of my meal that I didn’t like, but had never actually tasted. Chicken and Broccoli, no broccoli. Cereal, no milk. Salad with only lettuce tomato and onions, no dressing. Spinach, peppers, carrots, zucchini, squash, peas, cauliflower, pickles, cucumbers, strawberries, cherries, pancakes, waffles, and cheeseburgers were just a few of the “hated” foods. I was a difficult child so my mother stopped pushing me to try them, she complied with my taste buds and started cooking according to my tastes.

As time went on, I grew and changed as a person, going through some good years, some awkward years, puberty, heartbreak, laughter, and love. As new experiences began to mold me into an adult, one thing remained the same: I was still difficult with food. How would I grow up if I was clinging so tightly to this one aspect of my childhood, with no defendable reason why? I then decided to take control my own life and not let my icky feelings about food hold me back.

I ordered Chicken and Broccoli from Feng’s Garden, but this time I didn’t pick out all the broccoli. Before I had the time to change my mind, I stabbed a piece of broccoli with my plastic fork and put it in my mouth; quickly followed with as much rice and chicken as I could fit into a mouthful. I then started chewing and could barely taste a difference. Pleasantly surprised, I snuck pieces of broccoli into all of my mouthfuls and finished my meal with a sense of accomplishment for trying the forbidden food.

I slowly weened myself into liking all of the “hated” foods. After trying a cheeseburger for the first time, I ate one every day for a week. I discovered new interesting tastes feeling a slight sense of sadness that came with the realization that I had been missing out. The only way I could compensate was to enjoy. This experience showed me that great experiences will follow if you’re not afraid to try new things, I now try as much as possible to be open minded and push myself out of my comfort zone, not only with food, but in all aspects of my life.

One of the first things I noticed when I moved into my Lower East Side dorm was the graffiti openly displayed on walls, buildings, roofs, etc. From my window, one piece in particular stands out to me. JIM JOE written in plain black print. ‘Does this even qualify as graffiti?’ I thought to myself. A sense of curiosity grew in me every time I saw his paint had touched another location. Sometimes its just his name, sometimes a message attached. His sometimes inspirational but most of the time disturbing writings have left an indelible mark on New York City. I had to google….

What am I doin – JIM JOE

I need some help – JIM JOE

Don’t fall in love don’t smoke weed – JIM JOE

Did you even realize? -JIM JOE

This is kind of a nice table – JIM JOE

Justin Beiber and JIM JOE

JIM JOE has his own website, blog, and twitter which is updated from his iPhone. Could the guy I pegged as an absolute lunatic actually be a fully functioning human? Reading about him has not only left my questions unanswered but has sparked even more questions and heightened my interest in JIM JOE. Who the hell is this guy and what is he telling us? Its all around me in simple writing but I just don’t know.

After a quick Blackberry Google search, I was on the train ride toward Macaulay Honors College, excited to hear the story of Howard Greenberg the photographer. I sat there hoping to be interested and engaged, but he ended up relating to me on a much more personal level. When he spoke about being a Psychology major who opted out of Grad school to pursue his passion for Photography, I reflected on my own life and where i’m going. I chose a Psychology major because I saw it as the “lesser of the evils,” but I haven’t yet found my “thing,” my passion, something I would be happy to do for the rest of my life. I was astounded by how easy it seemed for him to find what he loved and drop everything else to make a living out of that.

A few things about the discussion specifically stuck out in my mind. I admire that Mr. Greenberg mainly sticks to mid-century photographs, being well aware that there is a lot more money in modern style photography. The unique technique he uses of combining photographs in the dark room to make pictures that are impossible in nature shows me that there is a lot more to photography than pointing and shooting with your fancy camera. Mr. Greenberg even mentioned that it’s not about the equipment at all, an iPhone can take a high quality picture but it’s all about the vision behind it. The Meet the Artist discussion gave me a new perspective of Photography as an art. I don’t think that this is my passion but I’ve learned that whenever that epiphany comes to me and I find what I love, I have an obligation to follow it.