Author: Ayah Hammid

Watching The Jungle that night on December 5th was probably one of the rawest and emotionally charged things I’ve ever experienced.  I knew as soon as I walked into that set, sitting down at one of the tables, that things were about to become very real and very personal.  One of the actors was walking around and pouring tea for guests, and he was totally in character.  As he came before me, he greeted me and asked how I was in Arabic.  I’ve always been one to immediately leap at the chance to connect with another person who shares my heritage, so I shyly told him I was fine with what little Arabic I know.  I remember feeling so happy as he smiled and had a short conversation with me in English about where me and my parents were from.  From then on, I felt like I was a part of something much bigger than myself, and I was about to witness it in the form of a play.

There were many moments, scenes, or speeches in the play that took my breath away and left me reeling, but one of the most striking was the image of Alan Kurdi being shown on the televisions in the room.  It was dead silent as I and the rest of the audience solemnly studied the image of a little boy, unmoving, gently being caressed by the tide on the beaches of Turkey.  I remember seeing that image back in 2015 and crying my eyes out.  Even now, the blurriness in my eyes comes back as I think of Alan, who should still be alive.  Alan’s life was already jeopardized by the war in Syria; if anything, he should have made it to Europe.  I think of Alan and think of all the children all over the world who suffer things just like this.  We failed him.  Our governments failed him.

When Norullah fired that gunshot I jumped so badly I lost focused for a second.  The light, the smoke, the sound – it felt all too real.  I almost thought an actual bullet at been lodged in the ceiling.  And later, when the French police were ‘demolishing’ the restaurant and lifting the roof off, I felt as if I were experiencing so many different sensations and emotions and thoughts that I felt overwhelmed.  It gives me goosebumps to remember that people hear and go through things like that everyday, and that’s become a way of life.  That’s what Alan was trying to escape from.  And there, in the Jungle of Calais, that’s what they were all trying to escape from.  They were all united by their common traumas and their desperation for something better.  They were united by their desire to create a home away from the one they left.

I was devastated that the play ended on such a somber note.  It wasn’t a happy ending by any definition of the phrase.  I can only hope that productions like the play help bring the plight of refugees and migrants to the center of attention to people living in relative peace all over the world.  And if it makes people uncomfortable?That means it’s doing something right.

Playboy (On View)

Although art as a concept is something that is familiar to us on a primordial level – when we see ‘art’ in a museum, for example, we call it art because we somehow just know that it is – but it’s jarring to realize that if someone were to ask you out of the blue to define art, you would have a terribly difficult time trying to articulate your opinion.  In the case of Martha Rosler’s Playboy (On View), some people may not consider this work as art.  I disagree – in this series of works, Rosler produced remarkable innovation through the use of photomontages.  She juxtaposed images of the Vietnam War, an issue of foreign policy that was full of contention and controversy, with the image of a beautiful naked woman from the American Playboy Magazine, which was symbolic of the sexual revolution occurring at home in the 60s.  It’s a mimesis in the most disturbing sense; it imitates life abroad, in a world alien most Americans at the time and still to this day, in a way that brings attention to the horrific atrocities that went on there, much of them due to the actions of the Americans.  It’s also an imitation of life at home, too, providing commentary on the male gaze that so many women rebelled against in the time period.  In that way, it’s avant-garde – the viewer is made uncomfortable by what is displayed in the picture.

This work is political because it sought to either pose an uncomfortable truth to its viewers who were ignorant of the domestic and international state of affairs at the time, therefore raising awareness, or at least remind the viewers of their comfortable position as Americans while a brutal war was being fought in Vietnam.  Its intended message was that “American prosperity” came at the expense of other people as a result of imperialism for the sake of a free-market capitalist economy.  I don’t think it’s Rosler intended for it to have any other effect on the viewer except to make them become self-aware of their own position, both as an American and as a citizen of the world.  It wanted to point out how Americans had been essentially complicit in what its government and military were doing in another foreign country that many believed they had no business being in.

When we think of art, we tend to simply think of paintings and the like.  However, the experimental method of creating a photomontage helped to portray the situation in a whole new light – that while women were modeling nude for a magazine catered to men, journalists on the other side of the world were capturing the most dismal horrors known to humanity through their cameras.  The photomontages made things seem much more real and palpable to a viewer in the 60s.

It was a brisk yet pleasant Thursday morning when I emerged from Port Authority.  After my usual hour and a half commute from Monroe to New York City, I usually make a beeline straight to the subway, wanting to leave as much time as possible for me to just sit down and enjoy time to myself before class.  That day, however, I decided to explore a bit more of the perpetually bustling city, despite the cool temperature.  I walked straight down West 41st Street to the Time Square 42nd Street transit, but hesitated as I realized I probably would never get another chance to take time off just to go for a walk.  My first class was at 2:55, after all, and it wasn’t even 12:00 yet.

I rely on Google Maps if the route I’m taking isn’t one I’ve memorized, and I don’t like to go too far out of my comfort zone.  But Times Square was close by, and I’ve always enjoyed walking through Times Square, despite my dislike of large crowds.  Even though it wasn’t so big, I knew that I could get easily distracted enough by anything for my walk to last for up to an hour.  So, I pressed play on Lana Del Rey’s Born To Die album on my phone, turned left, and took a stroll down 7th Avenue.  As I crossed the street, I had to suppress a laugh at a brooding entertainer dressed in an Elmo suit with the bobblehead of a mask perched on his head.

I walked by a huge crowd of people standing in front of a generic store that all looked alike and appeared to be wearing the same-colored shirt.  There was a man leading them, also wearing the same shirt, and he appeared to be lecturing them on something.  Once again, I was grateful to be able to take my time to absorb the sights alone.  Further down, I stole a look inside the Disney store.  Sure enough, it was packed.  A giant golden Mickey Mouse statue commemorating the character’s 90th birthday sparkled proudly beneath the lights.   It was strangely beautiful to look at.  I’ve always been fond of vintage cartoons, but the fact that a memento of a nearly-forgotten facet of art and animation history has managed to stick around for so long is really a testament to the perseverance of pop culture.  The more things change, the more they stay the same.

As I walked through a fairly open area free from crowding in Times Square, a man approached me and greeted me.  He was friendly enough, but I was so distracted I nearly jumped out of my skin.  I stood in place, a really dumb decision on my part, as he asked me where I was from – unsure of what he meant, I answered Lebanon.  Ah, the land of the sexy ladies, he said, grinning.  I laughed awkwardly.  I wasn’t uncomfortable, but talking to strangers was never my forte.  He showed me a CD and told me about his music video that he was filming.  I zoned out, as you do when strangers talk to you about stuff you’re not interested in.  Finally, he asked me to make a donation.  I stuttered as I told him that I didn’t have any change I could give him.  I cursed in my head as he persisted, but seeing that I wasn’t about to budge, he let me go.  He extended his hand to shake, and not wanting to be rude, I did the same.  He froze for a moment and asked the question I should have seen coming from a mile away.  Do you have a boyfriend? he inquired cheekily.  Without hesitation, I said yes, I do, sorry, haha, as liars do.  He looked disappointed as he let go of my hand, and I was all too happy to be on my way.  Not everyone can say the same.

At this point, I checked the time on my phone and saw that it was 1:00.  I decided that it was time for me to head on back to the transit station and be on my way to Baruch.  I’d seen a lot on my walk that day.

For this assignment, I went out to see what students would present at Baruch’s Poetry Revel on October 31 in room 14-270.  I’ve been to stuff like this before; in fact, I presented a poem that I was very proud of once at my high school’s own poetry-reading event, and although I had a lot of fun, it definitely wasn’t easy to stand up in front of a whole crowd of your fellow students, teachers, and adults.  I was pretty excited to see what the students would share.  I walked into a surprisingly packed room, took a slice of pizza and some candy, and sat down, ready to hear what other people would share.

The first reader to come up wasn’t a student; it was Professor Kelly, and she kicked it off with a few poems of her own.  Dressed up in a pretty dapper outfit and with a chipper personality, I was caught off guard but intrigued. She proceeded with a poem inspired by Mary Oliver, called “Ombre”, a love poem clearly taking influence from Mary Oliver’s usage of themes related to nature in her work.  The way she spoke was controlled and calm, and there was a certain softness to it that made the words she spoke all the more effective, like she wasn’t presenting to an audience but was talking to the lover addressed in the poem.  It wasn’t difficult to hear her, however, and I never got bored to listening to her speak.  There wasn’t much in way of gesturing, but I got the sense from this poem that there was no need for grandeur.  Her gestures were simple, her posture upright, like it was just a normal conversation.  The way she often looked up and met the eyes of the audience, you wouldn’t think she was nervous, but I think the slight shakiness of her hands betrayed that.  However, it didn’t detract from her performance at all – I think it just made her seem more honest, as if she were pouring out all her emotions for everyone to see.

The second set of poems she presented were six parts, and in the spirit of Halloween, they were called “Zombie Love Poems”.  Personally, I enjoyed these the most, as I love horror and the tropes associated with the genre.  The poems were very gory, to say the least, and she even warned us about it beforehand, but I thought that the morbid tone was the best thing about it.  She went into detail about sinking her teeth into the throat of her lover, drinking their blood, and the sweetness of their flesh.  Listening to her read these poems was a little odd, in my opinion, because she read in the exact same tone of voice as she did for “Ombre”, also with very little gesturing, and while some might say it wasn’t fitting, I think the low volume of her voice contrasted with the obsessive nature of the poems in the best way possible.

There was another performer that went directly after Professor Kelly that truly grasped my attention, and left me hanging on to her every word.  It was a student named Kelani (I wish I knew the correct spelling of her name), and she shared a poem that was clearly very personal to her, called “Daddy’s Little Girl”.  This one had an emotional impact on me unlike anything else I felt about the other poems I heard.  Not to say it in a way of being critical or nitpicky, but it didn’t seem like Kelani presented or spoke in front of a crowd often.  Her voice was shaky, and she stuttered often.  She didn’t look up at the audience, as she appeared totally absorbed into trying to get the words out.  Her voice cracked, and she paused at many points to laugh awkwardly or breathe.  The poem consisted of her asking why her father was never proud of her no matter what she did.  The words just seem to pour from her, as if a dam was broken and the water was rushing out.  I felt for her deeply; I think the impact of the poem was greater because she seemed so nervous and emotional.  There were no elaborate gestures or anything like that – just a girl talking.

Listening and watching poetry differs from reading it silently to yourself in public in very important ways, to me.  For one thing, when you only read poetry, you’re only hearing the voice in your own head read it to you.  It’s a very private, intimate thing, where you’re only sharing the contents of the poem with one person and nobody else is allowed in.   For this reason, I feel as though you don’t feel as much when you read poetry.  There is no effort to present it at the best it can be.  It’s just reading words off a page, and while they can definitely strike you in certain ways, the poem doesn’t feel as real.  Listening and watching poetry, on the other hand, initiates a conversation.  While you can’t actually reply back normally, it garners a bigger reaction out of whomever is listening based on how the poem is read and on how the audience or a single listener interprets it.  The person who is telling the poem is also granted more control over how the poem is presented and the effect of it on the audience, allowing the author (presumably) to have a better chance of achieving their purpose.

What I’ve learned about the craft of writing is that there is honestly no point in holding back or ‘censoring’ – if you can even call it that – yourself.  One of the students read a poem in which she gave a VERY steamy, lewd description of sex with another person, and while it was jarring to hear, it was still amazingly well-written and fun to listen to.  You shouldn’t have to place any limits on yourself.   You shouldn’t have to conform to a specific idea of what poetry is or should be.  There are no requirements you have to fulfill in order to make a ‘good’ poem.

This photograph was taken by Shirley Baker, born on July 9, 1932 and passed on September 21, 2014.  Much of her photography was produced during the demolition of slums in the Manchester and Salford regions, and she liked to depict the everyday lives of working-class people living in those places at the time.  Unfortunately, I could not find the exact year of this particular picture, but based on the dates listed of other photos by her and the historical time frame provided, we can assume this was also taken in mid-1960s Manchester.

The studium of this photo is the 6 children idly standing around in a not very well-kept area.  Based on the appearances of (most of) the children alone one can assume that they are far from belonging to wealthy families.  You can see the dirt and grime mottling their skin and soiling their shoes, socks, and clothing.  Some of the boys don’t even have shorts, and are simply just standing around in tiny pairs of shorts.  They’re all lounging about in the slums, and they don’t look like they have anything of extreme importance on their minds.  They’re just kids, probably tuckered out after a long day of playing.  Looking at pictures like this, I always wonder what their parents are up to.  Maybe they were so busy they didn’t have time to scold their kids for getting dirty back then.  Or, maybe, they simply didn’t care.

However, the detail – the punctum – that caught my attention the most was the little girl standing in the center of the group.  She caught my eye for several reasons; for one thing, she is the only girl standing in that group.  I have to wonder how she ended up with such a rowdy-looking group of boys.  Maybe one of them is her brother, and she simply tagged along – or maybe she was a more independent child, and she is simply among friends.  The differences go even further when you notice what she’s wearing – another punctum, perhaps.  She’s dressed in a charming little patterned dress, complete with white socks and what appears to be Mary Janes.  She’s well-dressed, and as far as I can tell, there isn’t a speck of dirt on her.  It makes me wonder if even while being outside with her friends she keeps in mind she must not act too wild, else she might hear it at home.  It reminds me of when I was little, playing outside with my neighbors in the small woods behind our houses or running wild in the playground in elementary school; my excitement would never get too out of hand because I never wanted to risk getting grass stains on my pants.

There are other little details here that caught my attention – the fact that the boy next to the little girl is stepping on the little girl’s foot, the second boy from the left seems to be eating something that can’t be discerned.  Overall, this picture just brings back memories of my own childhood, although the time periods and areas are as different as can be.

When I first ventured to the High Line, I was pretty excited.  Although I had walked for 15 minutes from Madison Square Park, it was about to start raining soon, and it took me awhile to make sure the metal staircase was in fact the entrance, I had a wonderful time experiencing all the galleries and public artwork it had to offer.

My first excursion with the group was to the Sato Sakura Gallery, located on 501 West 20th Street.  It was a breathtaking place.  I felt so peaceful as I walked through the gallery.  All the art was beautiful, but one specifically caught my eye:

A painting by artist Junichi Hayashi, A weeping cherry tree.  The painting greatly contrasted with the environment surrounding it.  The gallery wall was monochrome – solid black.  Black gives off a very solemn, serious aura, and I certainly felt that way while studying the space.  It was like a total void that absorbed all the light, except the art – especially this one in my opinion – seemed to break from that vacuum of nothingness.  I think the reason that the wall was black was to make sure that the person’s vision was focused on nothing but that single piece of art, as if it were the only thing that existed.

This painting caught my attention because it seemed reminiscent of ancient Japanese ink wash paintings, except it utilized more color beyond the usual black on parchment.  The pastel pink and white blossoms of the cherry tree remind me of clouds in their softness of shape and their calming appeal; on the other hand, the trunk and pale brown branches of the tree are gnarled, decrepit, but they appear both powerful and fragile.  This is the image of a tree simply being within nature, bowing and bending with the wind.

When I walked south on the High Line, I had a debate with myself as to what constituted public art.  There were so many things that I could have chose, but I wanted to choose something that really spoke to me, something that I felt a connection with.  I found it in this:

I can’t read it, but I instantly recognized that the language written on the pure white background was Arabic.  Below, it reads in bold black English lettering: “This book belongs to its owner Fathallah Saad.  He bought it with his own money at the beginning of March 1892”.  I had no idea who Fathallah Saad was, and I didn’t understand the significance of the art at first.  I thought maybe it had a political message.  The environment surrounding it convinced me of that.  I don’t really know why.  It was painted on a giant blank wall of a building next to a bustling street in Chelsea, located next to another public art space depicting Mother Theresa and Gandhi.  In a space like that, it seemed like the artist wanted it to reach a large amount of people.

It turns out that I was right.  The work is “AP 3851” by Emily Jacir; Jacir is a Palestinian artist.  It came from an installation called ‘ex libris’ (2010-2012), and it was described by the Alexander and Bonin Gallery as being a project commemorating the 30,000 books from Palestinian homes, libraries, and institutions that were looted by Israeli authorities in 1948.  Six thousand of these books are kept at the Jewish National and University Library in Jerusalem under the designation “A.P.” – Abandoned Property.  Jacir took multiple trips there to photograph these books.  When I found this out, I knew why I connected with the art so deeply; it reminded me of the pictures of street art from Palestine that I always saw on social media.

I think that this trip has taught me that the environment surrounding your art can in fact make or break it.  If A weeping cherry tree had been squished next to other artworks, leaving the wall barely visible, I wouldn’t be able to study it as deeply, notice the small details, or develop an appreciation for the uniqueness of the art.  Likewise, I think the fact that there was so much going on in the environment surrounding the public art space is what made it better.  The blankness of it caught my eye in such a chaotic, constantly-moving and ever-changing area, and I was able to develop my own impression of it because its location reminded me of something else.  Art really doesn’t just exist within a frame; it’s part of the world around it, too.