Category: Uncategorized (Page 1 of 2)

I thought the name “Open Mic” meant that the stage was open to anyone who wants to perform or say a word. However, after this Open Mic, I realized it was more than that. The performers were opening up to the audience and the way they did it, opened up my heart and mind as well.  I had never been to one before this but it was so amazing to see all these different people from different backgrounds being so honest about their feelings and their thoughts to people they don’t know.I want to applaud everyone for having the courage to do so and I was extremely fascinated by the talents everyone had. The most memorable performance was the poem about Tarzan and Jane. When she went on stage, I sensed that what she was going to say wasn’t something she was very comfortable about. However, toward the end of her poem, I was so happy to see that she had more confidence in her voice and that she was proud of her relationship with her boyfriend regardless of what others say. I really hope their love continues on and I want to applaud them for breaking the barrier between races.

Elijah Blumofe

Museum Assignment: Look and Look Again

For this academic expedition, I traveled to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, wherein I decided to examine the works of Venetian Neo-Classical sculptor Antonio Canova. I made this decision for a myriad of reasons, foremost being that my middle name is Perseus, and perhaps Canova’s most famous work is his iconic “Perseus With the Head of Medusa”, a sculpture which has captured my imagination since childhood, and which my mother was fond of showing to me whenever she took me to the Met as a child. Furthermore, I find sculpture to be the most engaging visual artistic medium, and I am partial to Classical style, as well as Greek subjects.

I am delighted and inspired by idealistic depictions of the human body, and Canova, whose oeuvre consists almost entirely of Greek mythological characters, has these in spades. Looking at his work, it entrances me how he is able to capture the physical glory and emotional dynamism of a moment, even absent the dramatic poses and florid detail of his Baroque predecessors. This aura of intensity is especially present in “Perseus”, as well as another of his famous works, “Cupid and Psyche”. I was pleasantly surprised to see this latter piece, because although it was familiar to me, I hadn’t known previously that it was a Canova. This realization makes me suspect that my parents are enthusiasts of his, as my sister’s middle name is in fact, Psyche. Noting this, my relationship to Canova’s work quickly turned from mere piqued interest to embrace an element of the sentimental. After viewing other works, including the cocky “Paris”, the coy “Reclining Naiad” and the coquettish “Venus Italica”, it struck me not only the powerful sexual tension Canova was able to evoke with mere marble, but the emotional breadth of his work—Comparing the playfulness of any of these three aforementioned pieces with the forbidden love and dire infatuation exhibited in “Cupid and Psyche”, or the proud exhilaration of “Perseus”, it becomes clear that Canova cared deeply for storytelling, as well as presenting a variety of contexts to display a celebration of hot-blooded youthfulness. I left the Met with thoughts of gods and mortals, epic deeds, courageous bloodlust and slinking temptresses, both excited and informed by what I had seen. Such is, in my view, the proper and aspired to effect of Art.

In my research I was taken with the sheer prestige bestowed upon Canova—He is overwhelmingly seen as the finest artist of the Neoclassical school, and was often employed by the Vatican as well as the European high nobility (including Holy Roman Emperors and Napoleon) during his lifetime.  Reading about this, it strikes me how the profile of the visual artist has changed over the centuries. In our modern era, there are indeed artists of prestige, commissioned by the wealthy for great sums of money, but this prestige is confined to exclusive circles… cults of celebrity no longer seem to exist, at least on a massive scale.  There have been notable exceptions (Banksy, Warhol, Pollock, Basquiat), but where sculpture and traditional art is concerned, priority seems to have been all but extinguished.

Canova’s oeuvre contains a distinguishable number of tombs, cenotaphs and mausoleums, which I find to be of particular interest. To me, Death is perhaps the worthiest subject of art that exists. It’s apparent that Canova felt likewise, yet whether this was due to philosophical disposition or sacred duty I can only wonder. The culmination of this tendency was Canova’s magnum opus, the Tempio Canoviano church in Passagno, which was built dually to be a monument to the idea of Religion as well as his own museum/mausoleum. I have often fantasized about constructing my own mausoleum, and to see that someone actually has is fascinating to me. The presence of this prominent morbid track record gives me further respect and interest towards Canova and his work.

All in all, Canova’s dynamic interests in portraying both the vigorously alive and the somberly deceased, embracing serenity, lust, and violence, are synchronized mightily with my own artistic sensibilities. His cocktail assortment of religious fervor and mythological glory speaks to a man not only of prodigious talent, but also of noble and richly crafted vision.

Vigil

Sometimes, always in the dead of night, I leap out of bed and through my window.

As I land, I feel the cool grass beneath my bare feet, blooming with infant dew.

Refreshed, I begin to run.

Though there may be freezing rain, and nettles which pierce the sole, I am oblivious.

I run until I reach the gates.

I open them, cautiously, quietly as I can.

And run further still.

Until I reach my tomb.

There, a monolithic slab of marble serves as archway, and etched along its face, lunar silhouettes dance in dark recesses, where the letters of my epitaph are freshly writ, deep in the stone.

They read:

Here lies he who thought he was yours.

I shudder, enter, and descend.

Down down down into the catacombs of my life.

There are no torches, but I am accustomed to this particular darkness.

Darkness is not tangible—it is merely the absence of light.

Absence.

In my feverish trance, I pass many corpses along the way.

Some fresh and stinking, others, frail yellow bones, poised to be dust.

I walk, and every step reverberates mountainously within my skull, echoing like that ghost of the sea which haunts all marooned empty shells.

There are many doors down here, but they are locked.

You see, I lost those keys a long time ago.

Beyond these doors are more doors, I know.

And rooms I shall never see.

As I proceed, dust thickens the air, and I begin to wheeze.

My sleepless eyes water, until I am nearly blind.

Yet on I press, for I must see it.

I am possessed, I know, by that most powerful of necromancers.

Finally, at wit’s end, I reach the passage’s conclusion.

A rounded chamber, with a small wooden table.

On the table, a solitary candle.

This candle is for thee.

With trembling fingers, I light it, and for a brief moment, my world is illuminated.

I can feel your warmth.

I smile as I have not smiled in a lifetime.

I am alive.

I reach for the final door, and open it.

Instantly, I am flooded with inexplicable terror.

A draught wails through the tunnel.

The door bolts shut, and you are extinguished.

And here I am, imprisoned in true darkness, and I cannot see a thing.

I need you.

I sink to the ground, and this time, my tears are real.

Elijah Blumofe

I am the dust rising from a thousand burning hooves.

I am the thunder, rolling beneath a parched desert sky, howling for blood.

I am the catalyst, winds of change, sent from the edge of existence to alight the world in flames.

I am the savior, master of exodus, emerging from darkness triumphant.

I am the harbinger of glory.

I am the bringer of death.

I am a proud father, surveying my endless progeny, orphans once, now gods among men.  

I am a monolith, a thousand voices, burning with terrible rage.

I am a shepherd, turning my flock to the West.

I am the ocean tide, brimming on the precipice of destruction.

I am the one whose name shall be spoken in whispers unto eternity.

I am he who buckles the knees of nations.

I am he who baths in the tears of the world.

I am progress.

I am unity.

I am Khan.

Elijah Blumofe

Original Poem: “Death” by Kwame Dawes

Inspired Poem: “The Visitor” by Elijah Blumov

Upon reading “Death” by Kwame Dawes, I was immediately fascinated. It is a piece which is dualistically macabre and inspirational, full of dark brooding and bemused swagger. The premise of the piece is that, if we are able to trivialize death, vis a vis jading ourselves to it through action and understanding of the past, we may be able to relinquish our own fear of death, the act of which imbues one with a terrifying fearlessness and confidence which can leave others impressionable and allow for the facilitated acquisition of one’s objectives. Paradoxically, treating life as meaningless allows one the license to lead life as fulfilling as possible, the notion of which I find quite interesting.  In the extreme case of this poem, the author does not take his epiphany regarding the objective nature of death (spurred by the passing of his dog) kindly, and proceeds to not only become a nihilist, but a murderer himself, a process which is therapeutic in the sense that it allows him to construct the aforementioned attitude regarding ambivalence to death. The poem seems also to have some metaphorical racial overtones, but these I will choose to ignore, because I believe them to initiate a separate topic, one which, however valid, did not leave as hearty an impression on me.

My own poem, “The Visitor”, deals with the same concept of mortal fear, albeit with a different pattern of reasoning and situational description.  In it, the protagonist realizes that, by eschewing any fear of death, he may better appreciate the life he has led up to this point, recognize his accomplishments and place in the world, and thus, may live the rest of his life in peace.

The Visitor

Death knocks at my door on January 10th, 2060 A.D., 8:37 pm.

I am 65 years old.

It is the eve of my birthday, and I have with me a multitude of guests, all in the throes of merriment.

Then, a knock.

Fighting back tears of drunken mirth, I stumble to the door cheerily.

Pray, who is it?

An old friend.

Any ominous tone lost on me, I fling aside the door, hungry for another long-lost spectre of my past whom I might reclaim in hearty embrace.

And there he stands.

He looks quite ordinary, to be honest. Indeed thin, but hardly skeletal.

His black robes look mundanely judicial.

His face does trouble me however, for it is a face I have seen countless time in my life…

Hurrying to work.

Ringing up my order.

Begging for change.

Driving a cab I had missed one time, four or so years ago.

Only at this moment however, is this registered.

Is this the Blumov residence?

Yes.

He glides in as only an angel can. A hush falls over my humble gathering.

Do you know who I am?

Yes.

I am paralyzed. My blood shivers glacially, and time stops. In these few seconds, staring at him in rapture, the sickening realization has come upon me like an unexpected wave, sending the eyes and throat awash with salt, choking, the salt of a hundred thousand of years of fresh grief.

Do you fear me?

I harken to my youth, those fearless times. Contempt for death was the highest order of manliness, or so I had read. Would I, at that time, have spat in this little man’s face?

Odin did not fear death. Leonidas did not fear death. Why should I?

Such would have been my thesis.

Then again, did anyone ever adore Odin the way my family adores me?

It is not for me that I would weep, that I would shiver with dread.

Yet the seasons have changed.

My mother and father lie beneath the earth, transformed beyond recognition.

They live in soil, and memory.

My siblings are getting on as well… my loss would hurt them to be sure, but not devastatingly so.

It seems, logically, we should get more fearless with age, as our bonds wither, and our bodies deteriorate.

For fear, it occurs to me now, is present only in those who have something of value to lose.

And the more I think about it, the more I realize how I would have cowered before this man, all those years ago, inundated as I was with blessing, with possibility.

For even an iron resolve may break under the sheer weight of love, love being synonymous with the fear of loss.

Now however? Now I am truly a king, for my lands are parched, my spoils pillaged. I am at no mercy known to the world.

I do not fear you.

The man in black knows this is truth, for he is impossible to lie to.

Death places a crown upon my head.

Relief floods my body.

I am ready, I say.

Death stares at me oddly, and chuckles.

Walk henceforth with this crown, and see yourself bloom with life once more. Tend to the seeds you have sown, for you have not reaped all just yet.

I am bewildered.

If not to take me, why have you come then?

To give you the gift of life.

Death laughs once more, and swirls through the open door, back into the night.

Elijah Blumofe

Her voice beckons me from the depths of the kitchen,

her words are urgent, a heated invite.

Her lips taste like chocolate.

Time slows on that treacherous clock…

Her body is my temple.

I take her into my arms, and the room fades to black.

Café La MaMa

➢ Opened by Ellen Stewart in 1961 in the basement of 321 E 9th St.
➢ A theater “for the playwright”, free space for playwrights to feel free to go wild with their ideas, not worry about pleasing a specific clientele
➢ A health inspector advised Stewart to register the place as a café (coffeehouse) because it was easier to get licenses for cafes than theaters
➢ Kept the theater open with “pass the hat” donations and Stewart’s own freelance fashion designs and seamstress work
➢ Opened and closed a lot at first, because of violations of a number of laws (fire code, zoning ordinance)
➢ Moved to a loft on 2nd Ave in 1963- larger space (74 people), had to stop selling coffee and start charging admission because of the Buildings Department, and renamed La Mama Experimental Theater Club – now a private club with membership
➢ Even then, the authorities would try to find any law Stewart & her theater could possibly be violating- Stewart would sit on the steps to ward off any authorities during performances
➢ Stewart created a rule that only new plays could be acted out on her stage, once a week
➢ Relocated in 1964 in the middle of a performance to another location on 2nd Avenue with the audience each carrying the theater’s possessions (chairs, tables, paintings)
➢ Thank you, civic authorities for sealing La Mama’s fame- publicity went up after news of all the violations Stewart and her theater had made
➢ Even though the new location had no sign, La Mama Theater gained about 3,000 members by 1967
➢ La Mama moved to a very temporary space (on St. Marks Place) for three months (Jan. – Mar. 1969) until moving to their final and existing location on East Fourth Street in April of 1969
➢ This location has two theaters, one on each floor (the third floor was used as Stewart’s apartment)
➢ Annex (later “Ellen Stewart Theater”) opened two doors down in 1974
➢ Patti Smith first began to perform at La Mama Theater in 1970, so she would’ve started in the final home of the theater
➢ She was asked by Jackie Curtis (after cutting her hair to look like Keith Richards’s) to perform in her play Femme Fatale
➢ This symbolized the beginning of Patti’s reputation and name in the current pop culture
➢ The show combined familiar religious and movie scenes with “bizarre contemporary situations,” according to the rave review published in the newspaper Show Business by Frank Lee Wilde.
➢ Pretty much Patti Smith’s first performance gig, which probably contributed to her breaking out of her strong wish to not become a performing artist (singer)

Siona Benjamin

On our recent visit to the Flomenhaft Gallery, I was delighted to see some interesting paintings and works of art from different cultures around the world but the exhibit that really struck me was that of Siona Benjamin.

Benjamin is a woman who grew up in India and was brought up to be Jewish in a predominantly Muslim and Hindu country. She also attended Catholic and Zoroastrian schools all the while maintaining her Jewish heritage. Her artwork really reflects this diverse cultural background.

What attracted me to her paintings were the Hebrew letters written on them. Being raised in a Jewish community and attending Yeshivah for 12 years, I was able to read what she had written and felt an instant connection. Most of her paintings show women with their names written underneath and I realized that they are mostly heroines from the Torah/Old Testament and I have learned the stories behind a lot of them. What was also interesting was the way Benjamin incorporated her Indian culture into the paintings. The figures are the blue color that is shown in most depictions of Indian deities. Some figures also have multiple arms or legs, as is portrayed of most Indian deities.

The painting that I analyzed was of a woman floating inside a fire with her arms held over her head. On the bottom of the painting there are Hebrew letters spelling out the name Sarah. On the top Hebrew letters (תמיד נר) that, translated to English, say “perpetual candle.” The story behind Sarah is that she is the mother of all Jews, one of the matriarchs that built up the Jewish nation. It is written that she was beautiful, free of sin, and extremely modest. A holy cloud always hovered above her tent and the candles that she lit every Friday evening miraculously lasted until the next Friday evening.

Millions of Jewish women today partake in the tradition of lighting Shabbat candles every Friday evening, as Sarah had done. To me, this painting is saying that although Sarah is no longer living, her legacy and flame of her existence lives on in Jewish women as they ritually light the Shabbat candles.

Upon closer examination, I saw that Sarah is wearing a kippah (the head-covering) and tefillin (the band worn around her head), customarily worn by Jewish men when they pray. The background is covered with intricate designs and Jewish symbols. There are also white lines radiating from her waist, the outline of a long, flowing skirt. In accordance with her Indian culture, Sarah is also painted blue and is wearing jewelry usually worn by Indian women.

The way Benjamin incorporates so many aspects of her life and culture into her paintings is astonishing. All in all, a lovely exhibit!