Awakenings

Rodolfo Morales

Throughout history, photographs have many times been the only unbiased source of media information when it comes to informing the public about wars and events around the globe.  Wars such as the Spanish Civil War and World War II are no exception to this rule.  A war photography exhibit at the International Center of Photography specifically exhibited photographs from these two wars taken in Spain and in Normandy.  Through these very graphic photographs, viewers get a sense of what the bloodshed was truly like during those time periods.
The first part of the exhibit displays photographs taken of civilians in Spain during the time of the Spanish Civil War.  Some of these photographs were actually the more horrific ones in the exhibit, crudely displaying the gruesome corpses of the dead in Spain.  For example, there was a series of four photographs displayed together on a wall titled “Air Raid Victims in the Morgue, Valencia, May 1937.”  The first picture depicted a man lying haphazardly on a table, dark red blood leaking from his head.  The second picture was that of three dead women laid next to each other with deathly smiles and their eyes half open, almost as if looking back at the viewer with cynical smiles.  The third picture was that of a man on a tiled floor with blood smears and a bloody cloth over him.  As if this was not horrific enough for the viewer, the man had an excruciating look on his face, as if his last moments of life were his most painful.  Finally, the fourth photograph depicted another man lying dead on a table, but instead of seeing his face the viewer is looking up at his half shoe less feet.
The horrible realization the viewer comes to as he/she is passing by these photos is that these were not Spanish soldiers that were killed in the photographs.  These people were civilians that were the unfortunate victims of an air raid, and as is made quite apparent by the positions and expressions of their bloody cadavers, they did not enjoy a peaceful death.  Some of these photos seemed like they could have even been extracted from Holocaust photo exhibits due to their extreme nature.
Another section of the war exhibit also focused on American soldiers in World War II.  One of the more powerful images of this exhibit was called “American Soldier killed by a German Sniper, Leipzig, Germany, April 18, 1945.”  The photograph depicted an American soldier sprawled out on the floor dead, with another soldier standing right next to him, on the lookout for the sniper that killed his partner.  Blood is seen sprawling out from the body of the dead soldier, and in the darkness of the room behind the dead man are seen two other soldiers sitting in the darkness.
The impact of this piece is also profound on the viewer, and brings him/her to another realization.  The soldier in this photo was not going to go back home victorious; he was not going to be in an army commercial trying to get more men to join the armed forces; his life was over.  Many soldiers just like this man lost their lives during World War II.  However, the photo demonstrates its timelessness as it reminds viewers that this country is once again losing young soldiers in a similar fashion in Iraq.
The war photography exhibit at the International Center of Photography was both disturbing and enlightening for viewers at the same time.  The graphic nature of the photographs only emphasized the all-too-real aspects of war, and only made viewers long even more for peace in this all-too-violent world.

William De Kooning proved to be a very different abstract painter. His earlier works were related to women. The strokes were wild and the canvasses were always full of color. De Kooning always used multiple layers for his works. A layer on top of a layer to make color. However as his works progressed, De Kooning’s art become “cleaner” in a sense. His final pieces were on clean canvasses. It was purely white.

Rodolfo Morales

For some strange reason, young people usually seem to take for granted the struggles and hardships that their parents have experienced throughout life.  Whether this is due to our own comfortable lifestyle in America or merely plain ignorance I have not been able to figure out.  What I do know is that I found myself included among this group of oblivious adolescents.  This was especially true with my father, whom I figured had probably experienced some turmoil throughout his life, but I didn’t think his troubles were extraordinary.  However, what I soon found out about my father through a rather lengthy conversation that I had with him was that his life, especially his youth, was anything but ordinary.  In fact, it was filled with hardships, violence, and death that no child should have to face.  The story my father told me changed my life and our relationship forever.
My father was born Rodolfo Morales on March 15, 1949 in Guatemala City, Guatemala.  He was born to Benjamin and Antonietta Morales in a rather poor neighborhood called Zona 6.  He was the third of four brothers and three sisters, and was rather close to them in his early years.  Throughout his early childhood, my dad has memories of being cared for tenderly by his mother, whom many lovingly called “Tonita.”  He remembers that on special occasions she would cook for him the most delicious tamales, stuffed with meat and vegetables, but this was not often, for the family was poor.  What made matters even worse was that Benjamin was almost worthless as a father and husband.  The money he did earn, if any, he would spend on himself, and he repeatedly cheated on Tonita with woman after woman.  However, despite his unfaithfulness, Tonita always stayed faithful to Benjamin.
Although throughout our conversation my dad did not mention Benjamin that much, he did mention one experience that had stuck in his mind as if it happened yesterday.  When he was 5 my dad went out to the woods one day with his father for reasons unknown.  As they entered deeper into the foliage, Benjamin told my dad, “Stay here.  I’ll be back to pick you up before nightfall.”  My father obediently stayed put and watched his father walk away.  However, his father never came back.  My dad spent that whole night alone in the woods, and he remembers vividly the sound of coyotes howling in the night.  My dad remembers crying most of the night scared of every sound around him, and he stayed awake until the next morning, probably traumatized at that point.  Something rather strange happened that morning as my dad stood amongst the trees.  An old man with a large dog came along and told him, “Your father is not coming back.  Come with me and I will take you to a road that will lead you back home.  Make sure you run home.”  To this very day my dad does not know who this man that saved him was, and he has even thought at times that it may have been an angel.  He actually did not see his father again until one year later, and after that, my dad never saw his father again.
School life was not a pleasant experience for my father either.  He was not a very good student, and fighting other students was a common practice for him.  He does bear several scars from these fights, but the most traumatic experiences in school were not due to other students, but due to the professors.  For example, as a punishment for bad behavior, teachers would take him to the schoolyard in the middle of the day and put an apple on his head.  He could not move so that the apple would not fall off his head.  Some days he would have to stand there for hours before being able to move from that spot with the sun beaming down on him relentlessly.  Not even bathroom breaks were permitted for the poor victim of these punishments.  These punishments were more like acts of torture than acts of discipline, and my dad related to me such practices with a hint of disgust in his voice.  Hearing these horror stories only made me appreciate my rather joyful high school experience even more than before.
Around the time that my dad was 14 years old, he was sent to go live with his aunt and uncle on his mother’s side.  My father’s uncle was a politician, and due to this, he lived a rather comfortable life.  My dad confessed to me that living with his aunt and uncle was actually one of the happier periods during his childhood.  His aunt especially treated him lovingly, as if my dad were her own son.  Unfortunately, my dad’s joy did not last long.   When my father was 17-years-old, his uncle was discovered dead, tied to two poles and shot to death by machine guns.  Many believe the corrupt government at the time killed him.  The loss of this uncle deeply affected my dad, possibly more than any other event that happened to him in Guatemala before that.  He told me with watery eyes, “He was more of a father to me than my own father… and then he was just gone.”
At this point in his life, my father realized he needed to escape the dangerous situation in Guatemala.  All that was left for him there was either more violence or poverty, and he had had enough of both already.  His aunt had the same realization, and at the age of 18, she sent him to the United States for the first time.  It was rather shocking to think that my father came to the United States by himself at the same age that I am today, leaving behind family and friends for a better life.  Fortunately, he was able to adapt quickly on his own in the United States, and after a few years, he was able to help his sister and mother move to the United States as well.
After this point, my dad’s life did seem to take a turn for the better.  He found a stable job in the United States after a few years in the Hospital for Special Surgery, where he met my mother, who happened to be his secretary.  After a few years, he went to work at NYU Hospital, and he is currently employed by St. Vincent’s Catholic Medical Center.
My father became an almost perfect example of an immigrant fulfilling the American dream; a man escaping poverty and death in his country and reaching success in America.
By the end of this conversation with my father, the look of shock on my face was priceless.  I had never known how much my dad had endured to get where he is.  The suffering he endured almost seemed too unreal to be true, as if all the experiences came out of a tragedy.  However, I realized for the first time what sacrifices he had made to get where he is today, and that my comfortable life was only made possible due to his decision to escape all the suffering he had endured in his own country.  After hearing my dad’s story, he gained a somewhat heroic quality now that I looked at him, for he had beat the odds that were all set against him.  This newfound respect for my father made me realize something else- I want to be like him in my life and persevere against all obstacles in my way.  More importantly, however, I want to become a loving father and husband like him one day, so that my children may look up to me with the same respect, admiration, and love with which I look up to my dad.

              No matter how much we are told that it is a mistake to judge a book by its cover, it is very easy to do just that.  Juvenile as it may be; to assume that just because a work does not outwardly seem all that compelling or relevant, before reading it that is, that it actually is not.  So, as a reader (and yes, even a slightly juvenile one) it is quite a treat to come across a book that far surpasses one’s expectations.  What makes this particular treat even sweeter (as well as the guilt of misjudging it even greater) is to get the story behind the story directly out of the mouth of the man who concocted it.

            “Who She Was” by Samuel G. Freedman is a biography of the author’s mother: a oversimplified and very inadequate description.  While the book does follow the standard biographical form of elaborating upon an individual’s life, “Who She Was” is far deeper than any kind of simple summary.  From but the first few pages, that much becomes very clear.  Freedman focused this book on the period of his mother’s life that he knew the least about.  He begins where most stories are already at an end: death. 

Not only skilled and successful but munificent as well, Freedman came to Baruch College to give a seminar with a select and very fortunate few students.  He shed a great deal of light on elements of the book that slipped into the background and on some very intimate aspects of an already extremely personal story.

             Eleanor Freedman died at the age of fifty.  At her grave one day, without even the intention of being there to begin with, and for the first time since her death over two and a half decades previously, Freedman had an epiphany.  He was struck by the realization that he had no idea who his mother really was.  Their relationship was always shaky, at best.  But only then had Freedman begun to feel that perhaps he had erred.  The book alone tells the reader this.  But Hearing Freedman himself added an entirely different dimension to the story.  Freedman spoke about his mother, but he also shared his thoughts, feelings, and experience on research, writing, and on life. 

            Why did she die feeling unfulfilled?  Of what importance is the “Periodic Table of Human Life?”  How can ordinary lives be just as extraordinary as those of the famous?  What effect does the popular culture of the time have on its youth?   Information, by nature, is revealing, but what can the absence of information reveal?  Despite some relatively meticulous note taking, jeopardizing the integrity of the answers to these questions by attempting to recreate them here is not a risk worth taking.  However, one answer that can confidently be explored accompanies a question in regard to the division of heart and mind in the course of writing.  Freedman believes that the divide between emotion and craft in the process is a false one.  When asked by a student if it was difficult to keep his emotions detached, to remain objective while writing this biography of his mother, he responded with ever-so-slight surprise.  His reply was that he found it beneficial, essential even to incorporate one’s emotions into their writing, especially when the nature of the work is something that emotion lends itself to so easily.

Freedman said that he enjoyed writing “Who She Was” because of all that he discovered about his mother’s life.  His goal was to write about it in great detail and make her come alive through his words.  It is clear he succeeded, but there is something deeper here.  Freedman spurned his mother during her life, just as she had spurned hers before him.  That guilt never quite subsided within Freedman’s heart.  He said it himself actually.  Penance: that was the word he used.  He said that writing this book was his penance to his memory of the mother he never really got, or rather took, the chance to know.  Academy Award-winning director Martin Scorsese’s first film “Mean Streets” began with the protagonist, Charlie, narrating his belief that “You don’t make up for your sins in the Church.  You make up for them on the street.”  The difference is that in the end, Charlie’s penance destroyed him.  Freedman’s penance has made him stronger.  “The Street” has always meant different things to different people; maybe Freedman’s path to discovering all that hid in the shadows of his mother’s life was, indeed, his own personal street to redemption.   

Walking down 23rd and Lexington, I realized that after all these years, the man I call my father is only a mere parental figure. I address him as father and yet I know nothing about his past and childhood; the 25 years before my birth are veiled in mystery. It has been 18 years since my birth, I am ready to find out more about my father, a person named Mei Lung Lam.

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Art itself is a meaning. Abstract expressionists try to decipher meaning into their works. An abstract art is usually a spontaneous yet meaningful creation. It delves into the consciousness of the artist and transfers their views of life and a topic onto canvases.
Number 28 by Jackson Pollock especially captured me. From afar it looks like just a bunch of lines adjacent to each other. However the detail and carefulness of each brush stroke are truly amazing. Although it is careful, the brushstrokes are also free. There is no set pattern by the artist and the art isn’t confined by a single agenda. The artists work is characteristic of his ambition. Jackson Pollock always wanted a non-smooth life and welcomed rough terrain as a means and sign of freedom. This ambition is reminiscent in Number 38: there is no consistency. The brush strokes are both bold and thin. The coloring of the canvas is even altered. At first thought, this painting seemed to resemble a feeling of confusion and wildness but wildness in this case is symbolic of freedom.
William De Kooning’s works are also characteristic of his ambition. Women II takes an inner look at De Kooning’s mood about women. The woman is deformed and the breasts and hips are enlarged. De Kooning liked to mutilate women and depict women as vicious beasts. He uses many colors in his paintings. The face of the women is very scary and intimidating looking. Although it isn’t as famous as its predecessor Women I, Women II follows along the same lines. The latter painting isn’t as vicious towards the women however but there are still many disfigured body parts. The arm has many gashes and many blemishes. Although the womanly parts are enlarged, the figure isn’t very appealing. The figure on the alternatively is trying to capitalize on women by showing that the womanly features are the only appealing quality of the female. The marred personality is symbolized by the female’s imperfections.
A picture is symbolic of the artists’ mindset. Women II and Number 28 both represent art that delve into the ambitions and qualities of the artists.

The Spanish War was a time of many casualties and much bloodshed. The exhibit at ICP (International Center of Photography) captures many of the striking and gory scenes iconic of the war. Pictures ranged from orphaned children playing to soldiers and civilians with dismembered body parts.
Of all, the Falling Soldier is one of the more renown of the photographs. The Falling Soldier by Robert Capa is an action photo showing the death of a soldier. No violence, blood, or gore is exposed; only the falling of a soldier. The beauty and power of the photo is expressed from the frozen man. Although the man is frozen in time and space, it seems to be moving. Although it isn’t the goriest of the photos, it has one of the stronger meanings. The focus of the piece seems to be the mid section of the man; the chest area is the most clearly defined area of the photo.

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Growing up in Indianapolis, Angela Brown had more obstacles than opportunities to become a leading opera star. She was raised in an impoverished neighborhood and although she was exposed to music, she was never professionally prepared. Her only experience and tutoring were from her family, especially her mother. Her mother used to sing but her career in the arts was ephemeral; she married eleven days after her high school graduation. Her real experience came from the church. She joined the church choir and started singing gospel music. Since then, Angela Brown committed herself to make it in the world through her talented voice.

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Imtiaz clenched the money in his hand as he made his way out of the house and into the narrow streets of Rawalpindi, Pakistan. Repeating the grocery list in his head he walked briskly; the guests, whoever they may be, were going to be at his house any second and he better have brought all the grocery items before or else he would be reprimanded. There is no way, he thought, that he was going to make it back on time. Being the second youngest in a family with ten children, he was the one who was sent to run many of the errands for the elders, exclusively his parents, uncle, and older siblings. He was rushing not so much to get the items but rather to avoid the punishment he would face for not doing so .

Finally making it to the food-stand, Imtiaz greeted the owner and quickly collected the items from the list he had carefully memorized. After paying, he carried the vegetables in a bag. He knew he was never going to make it back home no matter how rapidly he scrolled down the streets. In a short panic he spotted a wooden sign written in sloppy urdu hanging limply by a stall surrounded by nearly a dozen bikes. “Rent a Bike for only 10 rupees,” he read. Putting the bag of groceries on the floor, Imtiaz quickly stuffed his hand in his pockets to see how much change he had left. He only had 8 rupees, but he was lucky to have even that much, usually his mother would give him exact change. Picking up his belongings he rushed to the shady-man standing by the stall. “Look Sir, I only have 8 rupees, and I really need a bike, fast.” “Can’t you read the sign, it says 10,” the man replied. “But fine, since you really need one, take this one.” The bike was a bit scratched up, but happy that he was able to get the bike at a bargain, Imtiaz slapped the 8 rupees in the man’s hand and jumped on the bike, stuffing all the grocery in the bike’s basket.

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All the praise and accolades for Aida are merited. The performance was fitting for such a grandiose setting at the Metropolitan Opera House. Not only was the performance of Aida impressive, the casting and sets of Aida were magnificent.
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