Awakenings

          We were in Barnes&Noble in Lincoln Center.  We had a few hours to kill so I told her to gather up some books that interested her and meet me back at a seemingly useless, unnecessarily large, conveniently enclosed, waist-level shelf protruding from the wall just around the corner from the escalator to the third floor.  She came back with a few entertainment magazines and a book or two on the legacy of Harry Potter.  We joke about how she has the attention span of a goldfish.  It’s a frighteningly accurate analogy, so after a short while she became thoroughly bored.  The exact details escape me, but somehow we found ourselves playing keep away with our cell phones.  After a few exchanges she had both our phones in either hand and looked very pleased with herself.  Her glory wouldn’t last, though.  Utilizing sleight of hand worthy of a magician, I gently slid her phone from its leather case.  She soon realized that the contents of her right hand were suddenly lighter than those of her left.  Looking down to find an empty case, despair washed over.  She blurted out an impossibly humorous yet tastefully reserved “shit” with the innocence and expression of a small child.  I stopped for a moment, registering nothing but what she had just uttered.  Uncertain as to how I was going to react, her face adopted a modest smile.  I was uncertain myself.  Stunned by what I had heard come out of her mouth, I just kept staring.  The silence lasted for only a few seconds, and then, hysterical laughter. 

We aren’t like most brothers and sisters.  We have fun, and mostly, it stems from her.  We like many of the same movies and I can stand a good amount of the TV shows she watches.  Often I find myself watching one or two or more with her.  They’re kid sitcoms mostly and surprisingly, a good number are actually funny.  So every now and again she’ll start to quote a scene from one of them.  And most of the time I will know exactly what she is talking about.  I’ll say the next line, maybe she’ll say the next, and if it’s possible we’ll go on.  She has a great sense of humor.  With her, no time is a bad time to make a joke.  We always end up laughing and it’s never forced—we genuinely enjoy each other’s company.  That is of course, except for the times when we don’t; the times when we can’t stand each other.  The times when she wants to push me off the roof and I want to pull her down with me (onto a trampoline, that is; a big, buoyant trampoline).

She is easy to love, but she is not easy to live with.  Everyone loves her.  Her teachers, the school aids, the school administrators, her relatives, her friends, even people who barely know her love her.  After talking to her on the phone for ten minutes one day, then another few minutes several days later, my girlfriend now loves her.  Not to say that they shouldn’t, but they don’t live with her.  They don’t know the whole story.  They don’t know what lurks in the shadows, around poorly lit corners.  As fun as she is, there exists a dark side.    She likes to call them musicals.

Yes, musicals.  Years ago I would have never thought such an ordinary word could bring so much pain.  It all started in the winter of 2004.  My parents had gone out one weekend to see the then new film adaptation of the hugely popular and long running Broadway production “Phantom of the Opera.”  They both enjoyed it tremendously; so much so that they convinced my sister and me to see it as well.    My sister was a faithful fan of pop music and whatever else they might have played on radio stations like Z100 at the time.  My own musical taste was geared towards rock and its subsidiaries.  Obviously, we were both slightly hesitant about watching an “opera.”  We both stepped into that theater, and eventually we both emerged.  For the most part I was unmoved; perhaps slightly more entertained than I had been immediately before.  It couldn’t have been more different for my sister. 

After seeing that movie, she would never be the same again.  The Alexandra I knew was, in a way, gone.  In her place was a fiend, a singing machine.  She emerged from that theater dramatically changed.  She was mesmerized, spellbound, enthralled, enchanted, awestruck, gripped, grabbed, and turned on her head.   “I had never seen anything like it before,” she said to me.  She saw the movie again, and again.  Before long she had every lyric of every song committed to memory, without even trying.  She always had a beautiful voice and she liked to sing before, but it was different now.  All day, every day she would sing her heart out to the tunes of Andrew Lloyd Weber.  He soon became the subject of many violent daydreams of mine.

The exact reason why Alex underwent this metamorphosis is for the most part still a mystery, even to those most intimately involved, including her.  All she had were her instincts.  “It felt right.  It felt like that was what I needed to do.”

Clearly, I was not thrilled with Alex’s new habit.  There is only so long an individual can hear the same songs over and over again without getting tired of them; unless that individual is Alexandra Gulyan.  It was ceaseless, it was endless, it was Phantom, and she loved every second of it. 

 But “Phantom of the Opera” was just the beginning.  Eventually my sister found new musicals.  The first was “Chicago,” another Broadway to film adaptation.  After that it was “Moulin Rouge,” an overly romantic cinematic expression through song.  More recently, she has taken a liking to “Hairspray,” yet another Broadway stray.  The name of the beast may change, but its claws are still as sharp.

I tell myself that it could have been worse.  She might not have had such a great voice; she might have had a terrible voice even, and still decided to sing just as much.  But then I begin to wonder about whether she would have started singing at all if she didn’t have the amazing voice to begin with.  Alas, these ponderings are pointless ones.  I have decided that I must endure whatever discomfort my sister’s singing causes me: annoyance, frustration, whatever it may be.  Even if I could put a permanent end to her incessant singing if for no other reason than to preserve my sanity, I wouldn’t.  How could I?  How could I take from her that which gives her so much pleasure, so much joy?  For Alex, singing is more than a hobby.  It has grown into something far greater and far more powerful.  It is a true love of hers, perhaps even her greatest love.  She aspires to make her living singing, to be able to sustain herself for the rest of her life pouring out her soul through her highly tuned vocal chords.  She has taken steps on the right path.  Having graduated middle school as valedictorian, she was in the position to attend virtually any high school she wanted.  She chose LaGuardia Arts.  Alex is on her way to realizing her dream.  Singing is who she is now.  It is obvious that there is nothing I can do to stop her.  And I have no intention of trying.

Rodolfo Morales

Edward Steichen was a photographer who continued to evolve his styles throughout his life.  Early on in his career, Steichen was a painter, but he later moved on to photography, with photos that fell under the category of “pictorialism.”  These photographs usually seemed as if they were painted on a canvas, and they were usually either black-and-white or sepia-toned.  Some well-known wxamples of this style are his photographs “The Flatiron” (1905), depicted above, and “Pond-Moonlight,” the highest selling photograph of all time.

However, Steichen’s style changed after World War I.  His photographs moved from pictorialism to straight photography.  His photographs began to focus on bridges and buildings, depicting them in black and white and with sharper contrasts.  Steichen also began to delve into the world of fashion photography, photographing stars such as Shirley Temple and Fred Astaire.  One of his most famous fashion photographs was that of Greta Garbo taken for Life Magazine, shown below.  Overall, Steichen was an amazing photographer with a lot of talent that can still be appreciated today.

            I have been looking forward to this day for a few weeks now—a day of expression, a day of exposure and experience.  Today is the day I am leaving the house with one extra appendage.  Today is the day I am shooting my own street photography.  It is easy to see some of the anticipation on my face.  No matter, I will get better at hiding things like these.  Amongst all the good vibes today, I only have one negative thought that has been bugging me: I really wish I had a decent camera.

            Ancient, low mega-pixel Kodak or not, I just had to deal.  I used what I had to work with and probably dealt quite a bit of damage to me eyes squinting so much to determine whether or not the pictures I was taking were good ones, or at least good by my standards.  Insofar as my theme, I am sure I’ll get a few furled brows at first while presenting but believe me I do have a theme: its Chelsea Red.  I could have just kept it at “Red” but why should the professionals be the only ones who get to sound artsy.  Anyway, the name is pretty self-explanatory.  I was in Downtown Manhattan, specifically the Chelsea neighborhood, and I shot just about anything that caught my eye with only one criterion—the color red had to be present in some way.  I am afraid to admit that it really is that simple.  Anything that caught my eye in which red played a role is probably a shot in the slideshow.  The fact that I have thirty-two pictures in all is somewhat of a guarantee to that.  Since I cross the 59 St. Bridge when I get to the city by car there are one or two shots in midtown that I took on my way downtown, before I decided to stay in Chelsea.  Also, towards the end of the day I had to go further uptown to get home and I took some shots that I just couldn’t pass up.   Nonetheless, it is safe to claim that a majority of somewhere around 90% of the photos you will see were took in Chelsea, New York.

            I had a lot of fun taking these pictures.  I was enjoying myself tremendously that day.  I have always liked taking pictures and known that it would make a great hobby for me but I could never quite find the time or the motivation to keep taking pictures.  Maybe this time will be different; maybe this time I will be able to stick with it.  I do feel like I am on the right path because as luck would have it, just the other day my father excavated his old Minolta from within the darkness of one of our many cluttered closets.  He has passed it on to me and I am anxious to become more familiar with its functionality.  Digital photography is great, but I have always held a special place in my heart for all things vintage.  Just as I would take an old vinyl over a compact disc any day, I know I would prefer to hold a traditionally developed photograph in my hands as well. 

Though I was lucky enough to avoid any personal confrontations, I would not say I was not completely without struggle that day.  I learned firsthand that if you find a shot you like just take it.  Waste as little time as possible because if you wait too long you just might lose it to our old friend time.  There are two slides with which I will use delve into further details of the account that taught me so.  Also, I am proud to say I jumped a particularly nasty looking fence in order to get the vantage point required to take some of the photos I wanted.  Once again, I will discuss details when the relative sides come up.  

As I alluded to before, my aim was not originally to capture this “neighborhood portrait” in the manner that I would like to think I did.  I had intended to start in Chelsea with whatever few good shots I thought I could find and then move further south, ultimately finding myself somewhere in SoHo perhaps.  Well that plan went out that proverbial window once I realized that I was getting shots that I really like right there within that five or six block radius of the pier.  For better or for worse, I stayed.  The photos captured on that day are organized here for your viewing pleasure.  No shots have been technologically altered or edited in any way. I hope you might find some value in these photos, and perhaps, in viewing them, get a small taste of the pleasure I felt in taking them.

          It is easy to look at but difficult to explain, it’s rarely ever possible to understand, and it isn’t always pretty, but abstract expressionism is a valid and varied form.  Like many of the works it consists of, its history isn’t the smoothest.  Some loved it; some hated it.  Some love it; some hate it.  The Met’s view is harder to definitively discern, but it does seem to be want to be fair.  Either way, abstract expressionism has found a home, or at least very comfortable rental space, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. 

The gallery is just beyond the chamber that houses classical nude sculptures with their members removed.  The shift in physical environment from those statues to abstract expressionist paintings and sculptures is a welcome one.  Once inside, it becomes necessary to resist the urge to jump from painting to painting, if for no other reason than to see if there is one in the entire gallery that you can immediately comprehend.  There probably isn’t, but that is not a bad thing.  It is an uncommon joy to look upon a work hanging from a wall and feel lost, yet at the same time found.

Even within the rank of abstract expressionism, there are varying degrees of abstraction as well as styles of conveying that abstraction.  Comparing artists like Jackson Pollack and Claes Oldenburg makes one doubtful that these two can be even be categorized under the same division of art…but they are.  Pollack’s famous drip paintings are essentially as abstract as they come.  They are abstract because of their composition, because the paintings resemble nothing in existence in any way.  Oldenburg on the other hand, took objects from everyday life and made them abstract.  His sculptures resemble many things in existence down to a tee.  His art is abstract because of the way it is presented: some is morphed, some is vibrant, some seems diseased, some seems all too healthy, and nearly all are disproportionate to reality.  Take his “Soft Calendar for the Month of August” for example.  Oldenburg created a blow up of the actual month of August as it appears on a calendar using canvas filled with shredded foam rubber.  Maybe Oldenburg meant it to represent the overloaded, overexerted, cramped, busy and monotonous nature of so many people’s lives.  Or maybe he intended for the viewer to gather his own meaning.  Or maybe he didn’t intend for any meaning at all.  It was definitely one of the quirkier, fun pieces on display at the gallery. 

 Despite the perception held by some, art does not have to be comprehendible, sensible, logical, or even necessarily complex.  Art is subjective, meant to be shaped by the audiences’ individual interpretations.  Nowhere is this spirit more alive than in abstract expressionism.             

            Andre Friedmann was born in 1918 under the Hungarian regime of the time.  With a still undiscovered talent for taking pictures, he left the country for Berlin to study at 18 and found work as a darkroom assistant.  Only just beginning to fully realize and hone his skills, Friedmann was driven out of the country by the imminent threat of Nazism.  He moved to Paris and met his future love interest and fellow photographer Gerda Taro.  They decided to form a three way working relationship with a popular, wealthy, and skilled American photographer by the name of Robert Capa.  Gerda would sell the pictures, Andre would be in the darkroom developing them, and Capa would be behind the camera.  Since Capa was so famous his photos, of course, had to be sold to the magazines for at least three times the usual rate.  There was only one problem: there was no Capa…or at least not yet.  An acute editor soon discovered that the band of three was actually only two.  But the pictures were too good to let go of.  They still sold, and Friedmann continued to be able to take photos.  Once their clever plan had been revealed, Friedmann himself took on the mantle of Robert Capa.  The truly groundbreaking war photography that followed for years after is currently being showcased at the International Center of Photography. 

            As is made abundantly clear by the photos at ICP’s gallery, Capa was a master of his craft.  He captured the ugly (and true) side of war like no one else.  His photographic portrayal of the monstrously destructive effects of war on the average people occupying those spaces is as powerful as his shots depicting the actual soldiers.  Bravery, determination, fear, frustration, tension, despair, and danger: all can be seen or sensed through Capa’s lens.

            The title of Capa’s most famous photograph is “Loyalist Militiaman at the Moment of Death.”  It is more commonly referred to simply as, “The Falling Soldier.”  As its formal name implies, it depicts a Spanish Republican loyalist at the exact moment immediately after he was struck by an unseen enemy’s bullet. Upon its original publication it was extremely well received and circulated by the press.  It is considered to have had a large impact on shaping the masses’ opinions on the Spanish Civil War.  It was reprinted significantly larger than the original for display at the International Center of Photography.  Capa’s definitive shot was easily the single largest photo hanging on the museum’s walls.

            Capa’s photos at ICP are all of his best and the gallery is extremely well put together.  The pairing of his work with that of Gerda Taro’s is an appropriate and natural one.  It adds a sense of wholeness to the exhibit as well as some perspective.  Capa and Taro were, after all, intimately involved in several respects and they had a degree of influence over one another’s work.  Displaying both collections simultaneously was an excellent decision on ICP’s part.  The galleries are spacious, intuitively curated, and never boring, even if solely on the merit of the brilliance of Capa’s photos.

            It has been said regarding his death that he left a legacy, “for which there is no other description than…Capa.”  To see his photos is to understand that Capa is legend. He pioneered the field that we all now from such a comfortable distance call photojournalism.  He died for the cause as well, meeting his premature end by stepping on a landmine in Indochina.  His war photographs are considered to be “among the greatest recorded moments of modern history.”

            Before long, Capa achieved a great deal of recognition and was proclaimed by the magazines to be the best war photographer in the world.  The photos on display at ICP are a testament to the validity of that bold statement. 

          Champagne glasses rattle and thousands of feet shuffle and scuffle, vying for position, silently fighting to move forward on their own terms.  The hum of countless separate conversations is loud, even in a place like this.  It is a reminder that people will always be people.  The mass of pressed shirts, suit jackets, ties, dresses, and shiny shoes eventually navigate the mass of red.  Before too long the human element causing chaos and cacophony is gone.  What remains is the peaceful and proud anterior chamber of the Metropolitan Opera House.  Already it seems impossible for substance to outweigh style in the Met’s production of “Aida.”   

             Well, it does.  A massive curtain ascends to reveal an elaborate set.  Those versed in the art of opera make their appearance and make their voices herd, skillfully.  As is common practice in operas, no amplification is used.  No amplification is needed.  They can be heard loud and clear and if curiosity gets the best of an attendee, with the touch of a button enlightening subscript appears on one of the screens located behind every seat.

             In any production, story is important; perhaps even the most important.  But with “Aida,” things are different.  They have no choice but to be because it is hard to imagine that most of the people in the audience do not already know of the terrible fait that awaits the eponymous lead before even the first act is over.  Storyline is forced aside as spectacle takes over.  In an opera of this grand scale, one must put their expectations and assumptions beside and simply allow themselves to be amazed by the sheer splendor of what is taking place on the stage before them.  Amazing voices aside, fifty-foot columns disappearing in a matter of seconds, horses riding across the stage, artificial sunlight that makes one fearful of developing skin cancer from nonexistent ultraviolet rays: all examples of the grandeur of “Aida” all afforded by the legendary house it calls its home.

           “Aida” was very long and there’s little use denying it.  However, no one ever said art is painless.  If a little opera goes a long way, a lot of opera is earth (or at the very least glass) shattering.  “Aida” is quite an experience; there is no doubt about it.       

Rodolfo Morales

“One Man’s Trash- Another Man’s Treasure”

         Garbage- every day it surrounds us, no matter where we go.  This is especially true here in New York, a city with so many inhabitants, and it is even a problem for the government to figure out where to put all the trash that is produced and accumulated daily.  It is not uncommon for people to find public trashcans on the corner of every street, usually overflowing or filled to the brim with the trash of every passer-by. Even if individuals walking the streets of New York City do not see the garbage, many times they can surely smell it from a mile away.  Many times, people tend to avoid walking by garbage or even looking at it.  However, I felt that garbage is an essential part of New York City, whether it is a pleasant aspect or not, and for this reason I set out to photograph trash at its best.  In a sense, for this project New York’s trash was going to be my treasure.
I decided to primarily photograph garbage, which included trashcans, litter on the street and garbage bags.  My main goal was not necessarily to portray trash in a negative light, but rather to personify garbage and make it seem alive.  This was not too difficult to accomplish since in New York, garbage cans, litter, and garbage bags appear anywhere and everywhere and seem to be an almost organic part of the city.  Garbage cans especially lent themselves to this task, standing in position almost as if ready to pose.  Three pictures in my presentation that clearly demonstrates this are “Tin Soldiers,” “The Ideal World- Diversity,” and the picture of the garbage can “crossing” Queens Boulevard.  In “Tin Soldiers,” the four metal trashcans seem to be standing at attention, guarding the entrance to the building behind them.  The photograph of the “formidable trashcan about to cross Queens Boulevard” was actually rather humorous to me, for when I photographed it, the man standing next to it had been crouching a second before, so the trashcan looked huge.  Unfortunately, when I actually took the picture, the man had stood back up again.  Finally, “The Ideal World- Diversity” is simply a photograph for three different types of trashcans in front of the library building at Baruch.  However, I felt they also represent the diversity that can be found at Baruch, with people of so many different cultures and backgrounds studying together in one place.
Although for the most part photographing garbage in New York was enjoyable, at times the task was also rather difficult.  The first and foremost problem that arose was the fact that the weekend I decided to photograph the garbage in the streets, there seemed to be barely any garbage in the streets to photograph.  Maybe I started taking photographs on a day that the Department of Sanitation picked up the trash, or maybe I was just unlucky.  All I know is that when I began taking pictures, the usual piles and piles of garbage that I was so used to seeing, the litter and smoked cigarettes lying casually on the floor as if they belonged there all the time, and the random dirty papers floating around the streets of New York were not there at all.  Instead, the streets were clean, immaculate even, a phenomenon that I had never seen before in my life.  Even the usual black splotches of gum that I was so accustomed to staring at on the sidewalk as I walked seemed to have disappeared overnight, almost in defiance of me.  Thankfully, these clean conditions were not so common around Queens Center Mall, so I was able to complete assignment rather successfully.
Another obstacle that I faced was the reaction most people gave me as I walked around taking pictures of garbage in the street.  The most common reaction from people  was a strange look and then a mocking smile at the sight of an individual (me) intently taking photographs of what they considered filth and trash.  Other teenagers especially had such a reaction towards my photography, and to be honest, it was rather difficult to take decent pictures at times with the anxiety of knowing that I was being laughed at.  Other pedestrians tended to get in the way of my photographs.  Unfortunately for me, this was usually when I had the camera set up at a perfect angle to take a shot.  Thankfully, I was able to get past these obstacles and take good, clear photographs of New York’s trash.
Overall, I greatly enjoyed completing this photography project.  Every time I came away from a street corner with a good, clean shot of a piece of trash floating by or a particularly intriguing trashcan, I felt a certain sense of satisfaction that many times is not felt when completing other assignments.  I had a lot of fun doing an assignment that at first I believed would be rather difficult to accomplish successfully.  However, after this experience, I would be glad to take more pictures and expand my photography horizons to photographing babies and animals.

The News always holds a place for trash…

Then again, many times the News IS Trash.

         She said that she had to catch up with her vision.  It is safe to say she succeeded.  Any artistic, vocally inclined vision that can not be realized with a lead role at the Metropolitan Opera House is probably closer to pure fantasy anyway.  When Angela Brown came to Baruch College, she brought her vision with her.             

            Angela Brown inhabits the role of Aida in the Met’s production of the classic opera of the same name.  She said right from the start that she is not the standard diva.  She told us we could ask her anything and she even invited us to interrupt her as she was speaking to interject with questions.  Clearly, she was absolutely right in her self-description.  Though unassuming as she may be, Angela Brown is larger than life.  Exuberant in mannerism, delighted to be with all of us, and anxious to answer our questions, besides from having the grace to come see us in the first place, Angela Brown had quite a presence.  We were in awe as she ever so humbly fed us details of the grandness of her post at the Met.  At the same time she told the story of her youth and of the path her life had taken in a way that felt immediately relatable.  Closer to a friend in a high place than any kind of lecturer, the warmth of Ms. Brown’s personality was felt by all in the room.             In true opera fashion, a bouquet of flowers was presented to Ms. Brown at the end of the event.  Genuine delight and appreciation was as present in her eyes upon receiving it as it was in the faces of those in the modest crowd.  It seemed that she was just as fascinated by us as wee were with her.  Reciprocal and unadulterated interest is a delight to behold and to be a part of.  Just like her voice, Angela Brown’s story was unique, exciting, but most of all, powerful.

If Frank Wedekind were alive today to see Spring’s Awakening on Broadway he would proclaim himself the happiest man alive (well to make such assumptions is rather ridiculous but Mr. Wedekind is not alive so there will be no worry of a lawsuit.) The Broadway version of the controversial German play delivers a spectacular showing, with the only flaw being a rather large amount of saliva. (more…)

Rodolfo Morales

Many individuals believe that abstract art is not really art.  It is not uncommon to hear phrases such as, “I’ve seen five-year-olds that can do better!”  However, if there is one art exhibit that could ever prove these individuals wrong it is the Abstract Expressionism exhibit currently found at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  The exhibit has on display the works of artists such as Theodore J. Roszak, Matta, and Jackson Pollock.
One of the first works of art on display in the rather small exhibit is an untitled piece by Chilean artist Matta in 1941.  At first, the piece seems to merely depict numerous strange looking creatures that look similar to the Japanese Pokemon characters.  However, at closer investigation, the viewer is shocked to find that this is a surrealist horror scene.  There appear to be several blue creatures attacking humans, depicted in more neutral yellow colors.  The yellow human-like figures seem to be fleeing, but the blue creatures are in hot pursuit; one bird-like creature swooped down to pick up a human, and another dog-like creature tore a human limb from limb, leaving the shredded remains under its claws.  The viewer can possibly relate this scene of violence to an actual scene of violence that the artist experienced during his lifetime, the blue creatures representing an oppressive government chasing the poor who flee from them desperately.  The most amazing aspect of this piece is its duality; at first, the picture seem almost cute, but as the viewers stares at each individual shape in the picture, they realize that the scene is actually very gruesome.
Another intriguing work depicted in the exhibit is American artist Jackson Pollock’s “Number 28” (1950).  This masterpiece is an excellent example of the drip-and-pour technique that Pollock was such a master of.  The image is truly awe-inspiring due to its massive size, and portrays a large array of blacks, whites, and grays meshed together and splattered around the canvas at will.  After observing the painting for a while, the viewer gets the sense that Pollock was trying to make a statement about life itself through this work.  Many times decisions and choices in life are not merely black and white, but gray as well.  However, the whole beauty of life is being able to embrace this “gray” aspect of life and continue living, until finally an individual has created a huge canvas with all of his/her vast experiences as the paint that makes it a work of art.
Theodore J. Roszak’s “Firebird” is another piece of art that is appealing to the eyes.  This representational sculpture was one of Roszak’s most successful works.   The work is based on Igor Stravinsky’s music, based on his ballet “The Firebird.”  He also said of this sculpture “It is Chinese… a Chinese allusion.”  The Firebird itself seems to have an exposed ribcage, and the rest of its body consists of wings that curve and have very sharp tips.  For many individuals it may even seem to resemble the artwork of Tim Burton in his holiday classic “The Nightmare Before Christmas.”  The work is meant to demonstrate the constant, primitive struggle of the forces that created life and, at the same time, threatened to destroy it.
The exhibit also displays many other fantastic pieces of abstract artwork that really leave the viewer thinking.  That is probably the most amazing aspect of abstract expressionism: a person can look at an abstract piece of art and it can take their imagination to many different places and adapt so many different meanings, while still leaving the viewer inspired.  Everybody should take time out to receive some inspiration from this exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.