Category — LBornkamp

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As I step out of my dorm every morning, I don’t really think of the history.  I just take in the immediate things that the streets of the Lower East Side have to offer me on my daily walk to class. I don’t think of who lived in these same buildings around me, who walked these same streets before me. But after I began hearing the stories that Richard Price told, I was opened to a world of rich history and wonder.

The Lower East Side is filled with what Richard Price called “Ghosts:” remnants of people’s lives in old tenements and buildings, memories of those who made their way through the dimly lit streets. But what separates the time they lived in from ours? Sure, these “ghosts” lived lives filled with hardships that aren’t often a present day problem, but what has changed the streets? Richard Price attributes the downfall of a neighborhood to the presence of “cappuccino”—but is that all that has brought our time to be so starkly contrasting with the past? It seems that although the pavement may have been re-done, and although the buildings may have been re-surfaced, the ubiquitous history isn’t out of sight—it is all around us. When Richard Price spoke of ghosts, my first thought was of specters and apparitions—but now, I imagine the past people of the Lower East Side, and what they did on these streets: bustling through their daily routines, chastising children, meeting new people at markets, greeting fellow neighbors in their travels…it’s amazing how easy it is to visualize the wonders of the city that have been covered by only a few layers of asphalt.

Sometimes bubbles can completely end a bad mood.

Random Bubbles on Broadway? Well, that’s a definite.

I wonder if Bubble Man got the memo.

Leanna Bornkamp, "E. Houston Store Front"

“With downcast eyes, there’s more to living than being alive…”–Stephen Christian, Anberlin

More often than not, I find myself looking at what people leave behind in the city—graffiti, posters, litter, signs. But it’s another thing entirely to truly look at the faces around us.

Most people make eye contact fleetingly in this city. Too long of a glance is awkward–women cross their arms, men look inquisitively—but why is it this way? Why is it that eye contact is so taboo? I was with a friend just yesterday who curiously asked me why I made eye contact with the man across the street, gauging if it was safe to cross. In my small hometown, if you don’t make eye contact with people on the street, it’s considered offensive—yet here, going about an average day involves a total disregard for the countless strangers in our lives.

I feel, like many, that a face can tells stories, that eyes often are the key to the soul. How many opportunities to connect with others, no matter how transiently, do I miss in my walk from the dorm to class? I must pass thousands of people in that half-hour—thousands of stories rendered meaningless through my indifference. If we are all meant to learn from each other, why is it so hard for us to even make eye contact?

Sadly, I know that tomorrow, as I walk to my first class, nothing will change: I will not go out of my way, no matter the potential benefit, to learn what I can from the people around me. Because it’s always Point A to Point B—it’s always the destination, not the journey, a concept so dissonant to the philosophical thoughts we hungrily consume.

But I know for sure, though, that tomorrow I will not react to the faces of New York City furtively—each glance I will end with a smile.

I wonder if others will appreciate that the way that I would.

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The music was only the beginning of the wonders of Rigoletto.

Stepping onto the sidewalk bordering the Metropolitan Opera House, I gazed in wonder as the scores of people strode excitedly through the pavilion, lit crisply despite the unrelenting rain. The suits and dresses exuded class in every which way–I could just imagine the wonder of the interior.

As I walked into the building, a wall of color and glittering lights hit me. I looked around at the bustle of eager feet over the lush red carpet, following the rush towards the intricately ornamented doors. A few shuffles to the right, the left, and suddenly there I was in one of the most elegant theatres I have ever witnessed. The show hadn’t even started yet, and already the atmosphere of the Met was having a powerful effect on me.

This first thing that caught my eye in the theatre was the stage curtain. It was simply stunning; the gold thread gleamed in the soft house lights that guided me gently to my seat. The next thing that amazed me was the theatre’s accommodations for those not fluent in Italian: each seat was specially fitted with a screen with the English (or Spanish, or even German if you prefer) translations to the stage’s eminent happenings.

I was barely able to become accustomed to the theatre’s grand ambiance when the lights began to dim. Filled with anticipation, I watched as the conductor gracefully gestured to the crowd, and began to lead the orchestra in the gorgeous tones of Rigoletto’s overture, a melding of various emotional avenues through carefully delivered music. I closed my eyes in sheer enjoyment of the perfectly tuned, thoughtfully composed orchestra, taking in the consonant sounds gratefully. All too soon, though, a flash of light collided with my eyelids—and as I opened my eyes, I was met with a vibrant scene of frenzied laughter and extravagance.

The number of people on stage was difficult to ascertain—the opening scene’s fervent circulation made it hard to even attempt a head count. The true abundance of the actors was made clear though, when the piece demanded of them their voices.  A wall of sound rushed towards me, washing over my ears with its emotional grandeur and into my heart. More than once I found myself closing my eyes, appreciating the clarity and live purity of the piece’s classically trained voices. Before I had left my dorm that evening, I was certain that I would be closing my eyes out of boredom and exhaustion—but Rigoletto’s actors’ careful articulation and successfully portrayed (if not excessively portrayed) passion made it impossible to miss the show’s journey through various emotional events.

Never before had I seen such an aptly relayed expression of emotion—and what’s more, it was successful despite my inability to see the facial expressions of the performers.

The opera moved through joy, pain, love, fear, anger, and loss without so much as a hiccup. However, unlike a “feather in the wind,” I know that this night’s experience of the Metropolitan Opera House’s Rigoletto will remain with me for many years to come.

Everyone loves a spectacle. And the “Fall for Dance” festival at New York City Center last Thursday became no exception to that rule.

As I stepped into the already packed theatre, I was fully prepared to become more “cultured” as the night went on. However, when I first opened the night’s playbill, I quickly began to fear what was to come. And the night’s first performance, XOVER, performed by the Merce Cunningham Dance Company, did nothing to dissuade these fears. Although the dancing seemed as expected—incredibly intricate and expressive, of course—it was the piece’s accompaniment that worried me so: a wild conglomeration of coarse sound effects that seemed meant to grate against the “cultured” ear. At the very least, it made a large group of people around me quite uncomfortable (if that was a intentional, A+!), and at the very worst, I don’t believe that I’m the only one who feared the possibility of nightmares that night, or the only one that was often picturing a frantic escape down the side aisle. Still, despite the piece’s propensity for making the audience shake—be it from fear, or silent laughter—it successfully kept the crowd questioning the (wait for it) complete spectacle of experimentation in the arts.

The next piece in the line-up was, thankfully, just what was needed to maintain the audience’s faith in the night. Gallim Dance, with their performance of I Can See Myself in Your Pupil, kept the audience rapt from start to finish, but less out of awe than sheer curiosity. The piece’s ability to tell a story through huge, vibrant, freeing movements allowed each dancer to have a sort of individual character, that seemed to speak in isolation to the audience. This, along with the absolutely irresistible accompanying music—assorted songs by the group Balkan Beat Box—left me (and others) falling over from incredulous laughter, but in the best way: we all wanted more, and they didn’t hesitate to deliver. The performance was a perfect example of a dance piece successfully relating to the audience (which, in hindsight, seems odd, because it seems that the moves themselves, when taken out of the routine’s context, become nothing more than just movements; as a whole, the piece left many—including myself—very satisfied…and much more reassured of the direction the night was taking).  The piece’s fervor became a beacon for the rest of the night, giving the other groups—Madhavi Mudgal with her intricate dancers, and the glowing Miami City Ballet—a successful introduction that both reassured the audience, and made them want more.

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As I walked into the little Japanese restaurant, I felt a bit out of my element. Not often being one for trying new things, I had accepted that I would probably just sit this one out and eat at home. But my enthusiastic friend opened her menu and started telling me what items looked really good. As the waitress came up, I panicked: I had no idea what these foods were, much less how to pronounce their names. In a final act of hopelessness, I looked at my friend and asked, “Which one am I ordering again?” She gestured to the item on the menu that we had discussed. I seized the opportunity and pointed frantically. “This one, please!” I said quickly.

I might have felt embarrassed, but at this point I had moved on to worrying about eating the food. When it arrived, I clutched my chopsticks and fearfully poked the unknown ingredients of the soup. “It’ seaweed,” my friend told me “reassuringly,” as I continued to move around the dark green bits out of the way. As I took my first bite, though, I realized that my fears were irrational. It was delicious!

As I walked out of the restaurant, my friend cheerfully saying goodbye to the staff in Japanese, I realized that not only had I faced a “fear” I’d been avoiding for years, I now know a place with a great ramen dish (its name starts with a “T,” I think).

2007 just wasn’t my year. It was my quintessential “I don’t fit in” year. And when 2008 rolled around and things weren’t getting much better, I wasn’t very surprised. My two best friends, on the other hand, were–and decided to do something about it. They had been on mission trips with their youth group, but I wasn’t that big on church (and that this one was filled with strangers). But one phone call led to another, and the end of July ’08 found me scrunched in the backseat of a minivan to Pennsylvania with no way out. When I got there, though, I met a truly inspirational woman–and my life changed.

I first met her on my service assignment in Albemarle Park, a little place in the outskirts of York. Here in this park, there were dozens of children–but no parents. Worried, I asked the nearest youth leader where all of the adults were, and she told me that this place was a “day-care” center for underprivileged children in this dangerous part of the city. Aghast, I looked around, and noticed that not only were there dozens upon dozens of children running rampant, there were also no fences, hardly any toys, a broken swing set–and only two adults trying to fend off chaos. It was then that Miss Cynthia saved the day for the first time.

As she got out of her car, I immediately knew that she was the authority in this place. She was tall, in her mid-70s, with bright gray hair, and an air of confidence about her that intimidated me at first. But what caught my attention the most was that nearly all of the children ran up to her upon her arrival yelling, “Grandma, Grandma! Look what I made! Hi Grandma!” A leader noticed my surprise and told me, “Leanna, she isn’t grandmother to all of them through blood. She is their foster-grandmother.” Still slightly confused, I decided to introduce myself to this wonder-woman. As I walked over to her car, I saw her chastising children for fighting, fixing outfits, and above all, giving lots of hugs all around. It was when I got to the other side of the car, though, that I realized what a true heroine this woman was.

“Grandma” Cynthia Coates had a stroke 15 years ago, and has never regained function in the left side of her body. She walks very slowly but assuredly with a cane, but to move she must essentially carry half of her body. I was completely amazed by her capability to do so, and to do so much with these children–and as we began to talk, my amazement only deepened.

You can find Grandma Cynthia at Albemarle Park, Monday-Friday of every week (“except holidays, of course”) taking care of these young children. When I asked her why she did it, she told me, “Honey, I’ve had a great deal of hardship in my life. But if I lived like I could never do anything that I wanted, or that I wasn’t good enough to do it, then I wouldn’t be the only one who suffered. See these children? They need me. And I need them. The world is full of purpose, of beauty waiting for you–you just need to keep your eyes open, honey.” I remained at her side all week, listening to her stories. And never before had I so powerfully felt that I belonged, that there was a future for me filled with joy that I would soon embrace, no matter what I thought stood in my way.

It’s been a few years now, and I wonder if Grandma Cynthia can still be found on her bench in Albemarle Park on a weekday. Maybe I’ll never know. But I think of her all the time, and how just a few of her words opened my eyes to the beauty all around me.

Although most novels I read for school seem to be more necessity-based than willing choice, the novel The Bitter Sea became a surprisingly engrossing adventure into the life of another. The title itself brought to mind so much imagery: harsh surf, rough waters, and a deep feeling of the unknown—and the worry of being pulled underwater. As I continued my journey through the pages, I found myself becoming more and more rapt in each moment—which I found fascinating, considering that much of the novel consisted of concepts I was previously unfamiliar with, often even unaware of.

As I turned the pages (much more quickly than I had expected, to my surprise), I found myself becoming emotionally invested in what was happening to Li Na—something I had hardly expected from mandatory reading. It was a pleasant change to be able to relate to extremes that I normally wouldn’t find parallels of in my own life (as mansions or hovels have yet to become a part of my life, but we’ll see). And it was in this successful portrayal of struggle, inner conflict, and eventual triumph over both inner and outer obstacles that I found a truly wonderful read, and the inspiration to pursue the life I dream of as Li Na did–and to never take no for an answer.

Matthew Weinstein

At first, my ventures across the Williamsburg Bridge were meant solely for exercise. It’s close to my dorm, but long enough that it actually counts as a good workout—but that was it, nothing more. Now, I look forward to my daily jogs as so much more than a way to burn calories: they are an endless opportunity to set my eyes upon imagination—and determination—in a myriad of places that are different with each passing day.

My first few times really taking in the sights of the bridge consisted of minor revelations: the “Williamsburg Bridge” sign used to be a solid color, and the paving has been redone so many times that you can actually see the raised shapes of previous path guidelines. It wasn’t until a bit later, though, when I began to realize that it’s the little elements of the Bridge that make it so beautiful.

One such example of stunning detail is the writing on the bridge. Every once in a while, a phrase catches my eye, and remains at the forefront of my thoughts all the way home. Often I run across pavement quietly stating “Love is always the appropriate reaction,” and it never ceases to amaze me that such few words beneath my feet become such wings to make the journey home feel so brief. And just a few days ago, as I looked up in desperation for the top of a seemingly infinite hill, my eyes crossed upon the word “love” gently tied into the chain link fence that suddenly seemed to be a much closer finish line.

But words alone are not what make this bridge such an exciting place—it is the other people on it that make each new trip a beautiful journey. Seeing others (young and old, big and small) working under those massive beams as I do towards a goal—be it the simple one of just reaching the other side without stopping, or getting home from work as fast as possible to see the faces of loved ones, or just loving the way the breeze feels on the downhill—opened my eyes to one simple, yet beautiful thought:

Bridges, held up by crossbeams and cables, or love and hope, are where we all may meet in the pursuit of attainable dreams.

And I can’t wait to see where they lead us next.

This post is, obviously, about Howard Greenberg, and his successes in his chosen field of photography. Instead of writing a summary about his achievements and résumé, though, I would like to focus on what stood out to me the most during his talk: his utter enthusiasm.

Sure, Howard Greenberg has over 20,000 photos in his collection—and sure, he is largely responsible for the beginning of marketing in the world of photography—but it seems that to him, what means the most is to be around what he loves. He said it himself: “Follow the dream; do what you love, not what you think you’re supposed to do.” But what makes that statement so important, to students like us just beginning to find our way? The answer is this: many hear this kind of “inspirational saying” from friends, family, teachers—but in this case, it was a complete stranger whose reality is a true embodiment of that dream. To see someone as successful as Howard Greenberg being able to attribute his accomplishments largely to enthusiasm gives hope that the advice we so often hear can be an attainable reality. Take, for example, his story behind the photo “Smoke and Veil.” This photo brought him considerable success, even though it was not his own work—because the person who actually took the shot saw that Greenberg was “hungry” to be a part of the art that brought him so much joy.  Through his own experiences, Howard Greenberg was able to reach a realization that changed his life forever: no matter the confines that one feels placed around them (by friends, family, personal expectations, and society as a whole) it may be one moment that will change your life forever–and that you should grab hold of that moment with everything you have and never let go.

As Howard Greenberg gave us a quick snapshot of his life, I was able to glimpse the sheer joy and love within the frame—and I now have even further desire to pursue my dream as wholeheartedly as he pursued his.