Category — Site Authors

Going to the ICP by myself was an interesting experience. I walked through the doors and was instantly confused; I hadn’t known anything of the sort existed. I had seen photography exhibits in famous museums but nothing like the ICP.

I walked around by myself, and said virtually nothing to those around me. I was able to take my time and not have to worry about keeping pace or getting back in time for club hours.

And so I dilly-dallied and took my time looking at the pictures. The two exhibitions, “The Mexican Suitcase” and the “Cuba in Revolution” were not in my favorite genre of photography, but they were impressive just the same. I have seen tons of war photography, but some in particular were fascinating.

My favorite exhibit was the “Cuba in Revolution.” It showed a people in a time of rebellion in the most unorthodox way. It showed celebration, and misery, and victory. It was dirty and extraordinary. It did not show vicious wounds, but those who were fighting for something and a sense of camaraderie in some.

The pictures showed every day people and the excitement in their eyes at the idea of changing something. The shocking part of the exhibit was seeing the iconic “Heroic Guerrilla” picture of Che Guevara that has become a pop culture image. I was used to seeing the polarized, cultured version of the famous rebel’s portrait, but got a chance to see the vintage print.

After checking out the exhibits, I learned that ICP offers photography classes (at a large price). They offer dozens of them, for beginners and experts. It seemed like something worth looking into. Maybe when Santa Claus comes to town, he’ll have ICP in mind.

If anything, I was skeptical. Modern art had always been a concept that I wasn’t all that enthusiastic to know more about. Still, I knew it wasn’t worth it to complain—so there I was.

The entrance restored my faith in our adventure. Within steps of the ropes was an exhibit that attracted the attention of dozens: two seamless pieces of what seemed to be film reel, moving back and forth suspended between two fans, adorned the rise before the stairs.  The work literally seemed to defy gravity, and the lighting made it possible for the clear, taut ropes keeping the reel aloft to be made invisible. Feeling slightly less wary of what I was to be subjected to, I ventured onward—and began to see fascinating things all around. One of the first pieces to catch my attention was Richard Pousette-Dart’s “Fugue #2.” At a first glance, it made no sense to me; it just looked like incoherent swirls and shapes. However, upon looking at the title, I began to realize a pattern. Knowing nothing of art, I drew upon my knowledge of music: a fugue is a piece of music that is written using the same main theme repeated and layered over itself. With that in mind, the painting seemed to be using the same concept; the more I looked at it, the more I could see repetition of swirl patterns, of subtle layering. It seemed as though the artist picked such a title to shroud the piece in further mystery than it offered alone, yet still offering insight into the intent that would otherwise be overlooked. Not all of the art was quite so discernable, though. Works such as Hans Hofmann’s “Memorie in Aeternum” caused me endless consternation—despite the piece’s beautiful colors, defined shapes and soft background, I could not determine the true meaning behind the piece (and the title certainly didn’t help me).

It seems that, although much modern art is quite prestigious—and rightfully so—some slip through the cracks…and onto the walls. Despite the fact that the definition of art isn’t incredibly subjective, I just couldn’t bring myself to accept some of the things that were exhibited. One example was the construction paper area. Sure, some of the works were intricate and beautiful, but I must admit that I almost laughed a little when I saw “Untitled (Collage with Squares Arranged According to the Laws of Chance).” I just couldn’t shake the feeling that my mom had kept something that I had made in kindergarten that looked just like that…

Still, as I shook my head and walked away, I realized that I was never far from a piece of art that shocked me with its skill and conceptual insight. Like the loops of film that were floating on the newly visible cables in the midday’s natural light, even though I was sometimes able to see through the myth of the glory of the MOMA, my expectations (like gravity) were defied—and in one of the most beautiful ways possible.

Listen to my interview with Toya!

Her real name is Santas Victoria Coto, but we call her “Toya.” She lived in Honduras until she came to New York twenty-odd years ago. She came in her early 40s, to accompany her younger sister, who was working as a housekeeper in Brooklyn. She too acquired a job as a housekeeper.

Toya has no formal education of the English language. After twenty years in this country, she has a decent grasp of English, though she still speaks with a certain hesitance. She is much more comfortable with her native tongue and prefers to speak Spanish even to the English-speaking family she works for. When asked where she learned English, her answer is “no cahmin’ en my hair – no viene en mi cabessa.”

Maybe that’s why many of her answers are simplistic. ‘Muy bueno’ seems to be one of her favorites. She says she walked to school as a child because it was “muy cerca.” Her family was “muy bueno.”  When asked about the dynamics of her neighborhood, she answered, “everybody in my neighborhood was from the same place.”

Toya has no recollection of any “crimen” nor of any “prejuicios” in Honduras. When asked about either, she says “nunca” – never. Maybe she lived in somewhat of a bubble?

I was curious to know what she thinks of American culture and how it is different from the Central American culture in which she was raised. Her answer? “El religión.” She says that in America, religion is “confudida”, whereas in Honduras it was strictly Catholic. She found it difficult to explain further the differences she sees between the two cultures, mostly because she lives with a Jewish family, so she cannot comment on the culture of America as a whole. What I found interesting is that she herself seems to have grown up with more than just the Catholic faith. Apparently, her father had a religion but “no se cual era”. I asked, was it a secret? She told me, “he had the Old Testiment.” Apparently, it was a secret; no one knew anything about it, but her father was secretly Jewish.

Toya is funny. She can’t point at any time in her life that is a turning point. Though an obvious one exists—her move to America. I asked her “what was your initial vision of America?” and she responds, “the airport was so big!”

Of course, her life is different now from what it used to be. She says she is “muy feliz” because she “no speekee anybody.” “Now my life is more quier.” She firmly believes she is living the American dream. She works but she earns money. “Es más fácil de ganar [dinero].”

Toya ended off by telling me a really exciting piece of information—“soon come mis papeles!” Her papers! She is working on citizenship and that is really exciting for her.

I love Toya.

Women who made waves in the field of equal rights tend to have interesting stories but often with a similar voice and message with major feminist undertones. For this reason I generally find these types of figures frustrating to listen to. Sara Krulwich however, was nothing like this. Her recent presentation was one of my favorites this semester because of the degree to which she presented herself as human.

Krulwich’s greatest asset seems to be her guts. She politely mentioned that she liked our street photography but explained that if we really wanted to take part in the art form, we have to learn to get in people’s faces. Getting in someone’s face certainly seems to be an accurate metaphor for Krulwich’s life. The procedure she went through to become a respected figure on her college newspaper sounded just like her advice on how to take photographs.

I very much appreciate what she said because truth be told, people avoid attracting awkward attention to themselves like the plague. Going all paparazzi on a person is a thoroughly unattractive idea. At the same time I understand that without individuals who are willing to do that, we would not have some of the best-known and most beautiful photography that we do. Krulwich is an inspiration not just to people who are interested in photography, but also to people who want to make a name for themselves anywhere. Walking on eggshells is boring, and certainly not how a person manages to rise within an organization, be that organization a school newspaper, or a major corporation.

Meeting the photographer whose photo would be on the front page of The Arts the following day can only be described as awesome. Her examples of photography were exemplary. Krulwich has an impressive ability to transform a familiar stage into a focused piece of art. I specifically like the way she plays around with lighting, capturing whispers of shadows when she feels necessary and at other times eliminating all light but one face, or shape.

One of the most interesting parts of her talk was her explanation of what it’s like to shoot a final dress rehearsal. She could end up with thousands of shots, which she then must sort through in order to find the best ones. I never realized how tedious the job of a photographer is, and although recent modernizations have made her job easier, they certainly have not eliminated the long process involved. I do wonder if her job came at the cost of a certain level of loss of appreciation for the arts. She obviously no longer attends shows or operas on her own (because she’s constantly viewing some theater related performance), which feels sad in a way. Going to the theater should be an experience, a fond memory, not a blur.

I suppose her career provides readers of The Times the photo that makes them want to see this opera or that musical and make a memory of their own. It is obvious that Krulwich enjoys her job to a degree that few people experience, and the passion is clearly evident in her photos.

Who He Is

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My name is Sami Khan and I’m currently an eighteen-year-old student at the Macaulay Honors College at Baruch. To tell the truth, I’m no different than many of you, except for this one physical blemish that I will continue to have for the rest of my life. This is my story; this is who I am.

The past. I’m six-years-old. “Mr. Khan,” says Dr. Grossman to my father. “I am sorry to inform you, but your son will continue to have arthritis in his left hand, and his left arm will continue to look deformed until he’s old enough to have plastic surgery. I wish we could give you a more detailed analysis, but this is an abnormal condition.”

Fast forward. I’m thirteen-years-old. It’s eighty degrees outside, a warm, sunny September morning. It’s my first day of high school. I walk into my homeroom, being sure to keep my long-sleeved shirt pulled over both my arms. I notice that I’m the only freshman wearing a long-sleeved shirt. I can already see the students starting to mingle. It looks like a pair of magnets coming together, some groups repel, while others attract. The jocks are pulled into one corner, the artists into another, the aspiring scholars into another, and in the final corner? Me. Lonesome, me. The paranoid thirteen-year-old who is willing to be socially awkward before being honest about what my left sleeve concealed. I’d rather be socially awkward than a freak.

Fast forward. I’m fourteen-years-old. It’s my third week of sophomore year. “Ringggg!” goes the school bell. I race out of the school and take the F train all the way to the Forest Hills Rehabilitation Center: my sanctuary. I walk into the center, greeting my peers. I hear an unfamiliar laughter coming from my therapist’s room. I peak my head in to see my therapist treating a new patient. He immediately struck me as one of those people everyone loved: funny, intelligent, caring. As I take a seat next to him, he introduces himself to me as John Kim. He tells me about how he lost his leg during the war in Iraq, and tells me about all the things he can no longer do in life. But why is he telling me this? I’m a complete stranger! Despite the fact that we are both quite similar due to our physical irregularities, he was a completely different person. He was an open and confident person. John’s courage gave me a feeling like no other. I felt inspired beyond words. The next Monday, I turned my life around. I wore a t-shirt.

Fast forward. I’m sixteen-years-old. It’s the first day of senior year. I walk to the front of the classroom, greeting our newly recruited debaters. I stand confidently and tell them about Brooklyn Technical High School’s debate program. They eagerly listen to me, occasionally nodding their heads. At the end of my speech, I ask them if they have any questions. A curious freshman raises his hand and asks me what happened to my arm. I tell him it’s a birth defect, and he asks me whether I’m bothered by it. I tell him that I’m not. I tell him that my arm makes me who I am. I tell him that it was uncomfortable at first to know that every new person I met would be looking at my arm and not at my face. I tell him about how I heard all the different rumors people came up with explaining how my arm became the way it is. And then I tell him something that I was only able to realize because I met John Kim: my arm is nothing more than well, an arm.

We often hear the clichéd phrase “art is in the eye of the beholder.”  It is based on this phrase, that I make the claim that the Abstract Expressionist Exhibit at the MoMA was completely bizarre. However in this context, bizarre doesn’t necessarily have a negative connotation.  I found some of these bizarre paintings aesthetically pleasing, while others not so much.

Jackson Pollock’s idiosyncratic style was perhaps the most eye-catching in the exhibit.  On his canvases we see a mesh of vibrant colors, and unique shapes and figures that do not fail to attract viewers.  My favorite painting by Jackson Pollock has to be “The Flame”.  In this painting, Jackson blends an array of colors to portray a formidable flame.  Another one of his paintings that really caught my attention was the “Stenographic Figure.” In this painting, there appears to be two alien like figures, but they are hard to distinguish because they are blended into the colorful background, and this adds to the strangeness of the painting.  This painting has a sense of insanity to it that makes it alluring.  Jackson’s “Number 1A”, which was one of the largest paintings in the exhibit, was also another painting that had this sense of insanity. It looked as if he just threw paint on the canvas.  This paint spill look, and the seemingly rough texture of this painting help in creating this effect.  Overall, Jackson Pollock’s work was extremely lively.

Some of the abstract art on display left me really confused.  The supposed artwork done by those such as Barnett Newman and Mark Rothko fit into this category of being confusing.  Due to the simplicity in their paintings, I could never consider their works as art.  Each one of Barnett Newman’s paintings on display was dominated by a solid color, with either one or a few vertical stripes.  One of his works, called “The Voice”, was just a blank white canvas, with a vertical stripe.  In my mind “The Voice” is an inappropriate title, as the work fails to generate even a whisper.  It is so lifeless, that from a distance, one might not be able to distinguish the painting from the wall it is lodged upon. Also, like Barnett Newman’s paintings, I can’t credit Mark Rothko’s work as being art, because his paintings were also overly simplistic. In his paintings, instead of using thin, vertical stripes, he uses thick horizontal stripes and places them on a solid background.  One such painting of his, “No. 14”, has four horizontal stripes placed on a brown background; it was a very bland painting.  As a viewer, I found it puzzling to see such simple works on display at the world famous Museum of Modern Art.

Every individual has a distinct taste for art, and with its large collection of artwork, the Museum of Modern Art, will satisfy all visitors.  In my mind, the Abstract Expressionist Exhibit has its highs and lows. I found the work of Jackson Pollock to be very energetic, while that of Mr. Newman and Mr. Rothko to be lackluster.  Overall, seeing this exhibit at the MoMA was a great experience, which allowed me to explore my views on abstract art.

links for images

http://lh3.ggpht.com/_KzfpIs7qjJ4/SsVW4vwPs2I/AAAAAAAAAmI/5i3cnvDiuDw/CRI_151099.jpg

http://www.danploy.com/Assets/Art_History_photos/Panofsky_Stenographic%20Figure.jpg

Valeri Shames on Coney Island Violence

Valeri Shames is the father of one of my close friends. He engineers architecture and lives with his wife and two children in Boca Raton, Florida, where he works as a freelancer. When I sat down for a ride with Valeri he told me what it was like to come to New York City in 1981, at the age of 19.
A young Ukrainian and his mother moved into a housing project at 124^th street and Park Avenue, where his walls crumbled to the point where he could greet his neighbors through the walls.
“That’s how I met my friend girlfriend. She was Hispanic and I was the only white guy in the building.” Shortly after, he moved to Brighton Beach, Coney Island, which was attracting many Ukrainians and Russians with its familiar ocean view. It reminded many of Odessa, a city in Ukraine by the Black Sea. Back in Harlem he didn’t stick out as a sore thumb because of his dark composure, it was safeguard of sorts that helped him assimilate and avoid the violence that would unfold.
He spoke of Slavic people who were leaving the capitulating Soviet Union in search of “a better life.” He described them as ethnocentric, street-wise, go-getters of the American dream.  They looked for success in odd jobs off the books and were embarrassed about taking on welfare. They associated welfare with laziness and poverty, which subsequently the associated with blacks in the city housing units.
Eventually, there was a problem. Black gangs and Soviet Russians engaged in a conflict. He didn’t recall who initiated it, but that blacks were driven by territory and Soviets were driven by racism.

Valeri recalled scenes where six black boys attacked two Soviet kids only to have a few Russians join them off the boardwalk for the fight.  It wasn’t unusual for teenagers to get into fights. In fact, it was quite common. Kids around Lincoln High School at Coney Island would get into fights after school. Mobs got involved and half a dozen bodies would pave the asphalt, some even comatose.

Valeri was inducted into American culture as an innocent bystander of gang violence. When I asked him if any specific groups were involved, he dismissed the idea of Bloods or Crypts. He reduced it to “the Russians attacked the Blacks and the Blacks attacked the Russians.

These short bursts of reactionary violence lead to better organization and the formation of the Russian mafia. Valeri’s cousin thought he saw an opportunity in their work and joined the trafficking of gasoline across state lines to circumvent taxation. When the operation went belly up the mafia began to pick of their own people with hires who came in from Eastern Europe on temporary visas. His cousin was targeted and survives a gunshot wound to the head, but was blinded in one eye.

His family was a victim of this conflict. Although an unstable and dangerous environment challenged him he took his love for physics to heart. At nineteen he pursued a career in engineering and continued his studies, gaining admission to Stevens Institute of Technology where he got his degree.
We rode on the i95 in his Mercedes E350 out of Boca Raton, Florida to Miami.

“On my left side you’ll see all the rich houses and people who are well off.” On the right you’ll see Little Havana, where bullets come like rain drops and Bed Stuy looks like Beverly Hills.” There was a snicker in his voice that may have been tuned to his success and to the naïveté of the gangs.

Every summer for as long as I can remember I have visited my uncle in Cape Cod. My family and I always go towards the end of August, right before school starts, and it is the perfect ending to summer. I get to escape the cloying humidity of the city and replace it with the cool salty breeze of Cape Cod. Time seems to stop in North Truro, the area where my uncle lives. I spend lazy days reading a book on the beach, occasionally getting up to cool myself in the icy water. I often just sit and stare out over the waves, sometimes being rewarded with the sight of a sleek seal popping its head out of the water. We visit the nearby Provincetown in the evening, a place full of happy and boisterous people. It is the only town I have ever experienced where people are so open about their sexuality and this contributes to the relaxed and carefree atmosphere you encounter there. Whether it be two men, two women, or a husband and wife, no one hides their affection and romance is everywhere. It is a town where everything and everyone is accepted.

Our last day in Cape Cod, I always make sure to run out to the cliff and take in one last view of the beach and endless ocean, as shown in the photo above. This will have to be enough to last me through the year until next summer.

What is art? That was the only question I still could not answer, even when I was standing in front of several well-known and celebrated paintings by several significant artists of the 20^th century. Before I arrived at the Modern Museum of Art, I knew that the day would be a challenging one. As an art student, it seemed like I had to know what the exact criteria was for the perfect painting, or any piece of art really. To tell you the truth not a single person can give an accurate definition of what art is, and I had to discover this all on my own as I stood puzzled in front of Louis Nevelson’s Sky Cathedral. When I first observed it close up, I realized that each single section of the humongous sculpture was “art” in itself. Upon further reflection, Nevelson’s goal was to create a collage of sculptures, thus create a piece that was art within art. Standing alone in front of this majestic collage-like structure, I feel time halter just for a moment. Eureka!

The definition of art from any dictionary is the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power. After observing all the different pieces of Sky Cathedral, I can say I finally understand art, if only for my own understanding. Works of art are beautiful or emotionally moving because they appeal to the natural law of order and chaos. For the American born sculptor Louis Nevelson, chaos was one of his most creative and useful tools as an artist. The old saying, “From chaos comes order” contributes to the beauty of art, especially for collage-like sculptures. The difficulty of making unique miniature sculptures, and then conjoining them to make one beautiful sculpture displays the exact meaning of the saying. To all celebrated artists, they understand that art is not only a reflection of themselves, but also a technique in which they are able to establish order in a world overwhelmed by chaos.

The Trafalgar Square of the Dutch painter Piet Mondrian further exemplifies the truth in the saying. In the painting, Mondrian simply paints a few black lines and several yellow, red, and blue rectangular shapes. But this piece is considered beauty by its very definition because of the way random lines and shapes are put into a specific order to create such a painting. Every time we look at a painting such as this, we are specifically reminded of Mondrian’s work, simply because his style of painting lines in one place, and rectangular places in another remind everyone of this idea of order from chaos.

The trip to the MoMA was educational and entertaining because I was able to understand the full meaning of what art is. Although art may be subjective, there are several universal characteristics that make something a masterpiece. Personally, art is the transformation of a chaotic being or substance into that which is ordered and systematic. In retrospect, I feel that this personal definition holds true when reviewing the pieces of art I have seen at MoMA.

www.eurweb.com

The Scottsboro Boys presents a horrifying account of racial struggle through a combination of comical entertainment and troubling revelation. The play follows one of the most racist forms of theatre, the minstrel show, and begins the story, in past tense, of apparent injustice and racism found a long time ago in the South. Most of the actors on stage were African-American, purposefully chosen to play an important role in this historical tragedy. The constant shifting of ethnic and gender roles by these African-American actors generate a different outlook, and point to the fact that the production represents the boys’ perspective throughout the events leading to their ultimate tragedy.

The musical begins by providing the audience with circus spectacles, immediately referring to the minstrelsy of the entire operation. The only Caucasian actor is the conductor of the show who often acts as a medium between past and present. This “Southern Gentlemen” consistently interrupts the overall emotional connection to the story, and often reveals just how far removed the audience is with the injustice that the story depicts. Aside from the provocative dance routines and humorous but cliché catchphrases, the boys continue to narrative a story that is serious, although there are joyous moments filled with laughter and uplifting chords. The “Electric Chair” displays the terrified boy prancing and dancing and eventually dragged around the chair, where the tempo is steadily increasing and the mood is ever changing. There are several instances where fear and joy are displayed, especially the White guards, played by African American actors, strutting around demonstrating their power over the helpless inmates who are destined to be guilty in the Southern courts of law.

The audience is often reminded that the emotions of fear and excitement are constantly pushed to its extremes, revealing that the trials and tribulations these boys experienced are more than a story, that the events the boys powerlessly witnessed actually happened in the South not very long ago. This spectacular musical portrays the unjustified and racist events of the past, a revelation that the audience continues to undergo until the very end. This idea of a show-within-a-show is further exemplified by the use of blackface makeup used by the African American members of the minstrel group. Now, this appalling sort of representation presents the constant oppression even the actors could not escape.

The greatest surprise of the show was the ingenious use of chairs to form the set. During each scene, the chairs are assembled in a different balance, which allows the audience to understand the shift in any one particular scene or moment. The actor’s use of imagination brings life onto stage, and truly adds credibility not only to the scene at hand, but also to the entire show.

To The Scottsboro Boys, bravo, bravo!