Author: Maryam

Memoir

Maryam

https://www.artfromguantanamo.com/moath-alalwi/

Half a Decade

The sea brims waves with foam and the sky with clouds.

I rode in on the latter.

 

I was born in June, a summer baby. And naturally, I have an affinity for the sea. I can’t actually swim well enough for it to be called swimming.

Once when we went on an excursion in the waters surrounding the Dominican Republic, my father and I were strapped into life vests and instructed to swim toward the barriers where the sea life was (there we could take photos with sting rays and admire coral—the standard tropical tourist treatment). I timidly climbed down the ladder of the boat, knowing that this nine year old body couldn’t swim. I knew it was deep, the water was dark. So when I plopped down, despite all the reassuring from my father and the guide, I panicked. I went down before I went up. The life vest on, and I still was submerged before I was floating. I grasped the rungs and climbed back up to the safety of the deck.

This past May we went to Florida for a bit, school was basically over and everyone needed a break of some sorts. On one of the last days we drove out to Hollywood Beach. The water was clear and blue, and of course enchanting. Warm and so, so soothing. Facing away from the beach, and out into the horizon, the water was divided: clear blue, dark blue, and again clear blue. People were swimming past the dark patch and ending up in calf-deep water. So I swam into it. And I got there. (I also convinced my non-swimming-incredibly-afraid-of-deep-water Mom to come in, and later when the tides changed she was stranded… oops).

I am not afraid until I am out of my depth. So my love remains. My love remains because I remember the summers waking up and loading into Oksana’s car and heading out to Coney Island. My love remains because I remember the thermoses we filled and headed to Rockaway. And because I remember the brief visit home and the sand of the Caspian Sea, we rubbed it into our hair and all over our skin, it was just sand.

When we first moved here, it was a lot of plane riding. From Baku to Istanbul, a brief respite, and from Istanbul to New York. It was difficult for me. But not as difficult as it was for my parents. And not as difficult as I made it. Any time I had my hands on a paper and a pen, I drew. And every time the drawing was the same. A family on a plane headed home. I did not understand why I was isolated. Why was I removed from world I knew? Why was I suddenly imprisoned?

I had spent one hundred percent of my life watching the sea bubble around my toes as my mom called from the shore “Don’t get mazut in your hair.” I had sat on light wooden benches built into decks as we sailed, boasting about never getting seasick. I had found fascination at the airport. Everything measured, accounted for, systematic. I loved the flights.

I felt agonizing pain in my ears as we descended onto the runway. The lady in front of us looked back pityingly, as my mom pushed a candy in my mouth and instructed me to pace the aisle.

Being in the sky was different. Surrounded by clear blue. The clouds bubbled around the smooth metal. We were airborne.

The next summer, when my feet felt the Atlantic, I was unfazed by the cold, I’d forgotten the warmth of the Caspian. I’d forgotten that before the threat was oil, because now I was steering clear of plastic bags. I’ve forgotten about the airplanes.

I didn’t hit the shores, I hit the runway, in a vessel nonetheless. My luck brought peace with it, safety. I was not imprisoned, I was rescued.

Open Letter to the new york hall of science

Maryam

New York Hall of Science,

Hello. I first stepped foot inside your walls when I was a little seedling in elementary school, and I have to admit, you were pretty cool—very cool actually. I went back a few years later and I found new things to be fascinated about. I haven’t gone back since, but my friend and I got to talking, and we’d like to take her sisters there. We haven’t visited in eternities, and the girls would have fun. Then I got to thinking, why haven’t I gone back since middle school? I don’t think I outgrew you, but more like you outgrew me. You outgrew my reach.

If we were to go, we’d be a pack of four. My friend and I are college students, so we’ve got college ID, and her sisters are on that 2-17 range. That’s already $52. I don’t work, but my parents do give me a bit of money as an allowance, let’s assume that I go, and only pay for myself. My friend works. She’s usually working Tuesdays, Fridays, and weekends, so she’s making a part time pay check, and she’s working every opportunity for free admission. After she pays for her bills out of her biweekly paycheck, she has about $100 to play around with until her next check. That’s 14 days to live on $7, 6 days of which she can’t spend any money at all, just to cover a $39 admission. And with the way your prices and schedule is set up, that is an unavoidable cost.

Both times I visited, I was driven, either in a school bus or by my parents. I don’t drive now, I don’t go have access to a free bus, and I’m not going to ask my parents, so I’ve got to take public transportation—so we’ve got to take public transportation. That’s another $5.50 for each of us. And since we can only go on a weekday (due to my friend’s work schedule) we wouldn’t need to cover fare for the girls. Because their school metrocards work Monday to Friday, we’d be covered for the days we could go. But this is basically another day Liya (my friend… it’s about time she got a name) would have to live in New York City without spending a dollar (not to be obvious, but that’s pretty difficult for a college student).

In addition to admission into the actual museum, the activities have price tags too. The Science Playground, Rocket Park Mini Golf, and the 3D theater are between $4 and $6. The costs keep adding up. Sure, we could get the movie theater ticket, or the all-inclusive tickets, but those are incredibly pricey too! It seems like there is no winning.

And who could forget? Dinner. There is no doubt in my mind that after even a few hours running around room after room of things you just can’t not touch, I’m sure I’d be hungry… and the girls too. And neither me, nor Liya will take the girls on a 2 hour commute if they are hungry. So, whether we’re eating at the food court, or going to a local stop, that’s undoubtedly $5-$10 at least for each of us. So basically another $30 for Liya to cough up, that’s in addition to $39 and $5.50. Liya has to budget two weeks into $25 if she wants to take the girls to a museum where they can be for 2 hours sandwiched between a 4 hour commute, and a 30 minute meal that will cost her $75. And sure, we could save up, but events and exhibits are constantly changing. By the time we’ve got enough money for a day, we might not be seeing what might’ve been in tune with the girl’s interests two weeks ago.

I’m not saying down with admission, or more free days, or free food, or free buses. Although the last two would be particularly nice, I don’t expect them. I’m expecting though, that you rethink the first two. Everyone understands it costs money to maintain institutions such as the New York Hall of Science. But if you’re able to have some kind of college student discount, I’m sure you could make it even more generous, or at least have occasional promotions. Maybe even send vouchers to middle schools? Something. Also, why not add free hours to a weekday, instead of two free on weekends? Perhaps a Tuesday 2pm-5pm slot?

Regardless of what you decide, you’ll be a cool place. But there are bunches and bunches of kids across the city who haven’t experienced your coolness, and will inadvertently outgrow you. Give them a chance to experience science. Give Liya’s sisters a chance to experience science. The only reason we decided to take them, was a mutual epiphany. We had to work harder for girls to be in STEM, and we had the chance right there to do it. Obviously taking them to a museum one day, isn’t enough, but just planting the seeds can be enough. Help us water the garden.

 

Maryam Salmanova

The Exterminating Angel

Maryam

The Exterminating Angel surprised me. I’d never gone to an opera before, but I’d heard that they were just entirely song. Not musicals, but song nonetheless. I was excited to hear beautiful voices expressing beautiful things. I also had my preconceptions of the audience in an opera—predominantly middle-aged and older, and white. I was pretty disappointed when I got to heard beautiful voices performing choppy thoughts, and confusing plotlines. But even in my disappointment, I found nuggets of surprise.

My mother always drones about Italian operas and how at the performance, there were little translating screens. I would think, why even go. But after our trip, I realized without that little screen, I wouldn’t know what was said even if English was my first language. And if I were to guess, who had the time to indulge in the storylines of predominantly or entirely white casts, singing about God knows what, I would have assumed—like I did assume—that like the predominantly or entirely white cast, the audience would also be predominantly or entirely white. I went into the opera house expecting that, and I was correct. There were people of color here and there, but nothing compares to the amount of whiteness I saw. And specifically, 40 years old and older. While Singh urges readers to liberate themselves from their preconceived notions and possible expectations, I couldn’t seem to do so, since my assumptions were proven true.

Not all was bad, however. I never thought operas could bend the lines of artistry the way The Exterminating Angel did. But before that… It never registered to me that there would be an orchestra. I assumed the voices of the cast would carry the entire show. But The Exterminating Angel proved that any work can be redeemed at least somewhat if the music is good. And the orchestra was brilliant, probably my favorite part. Because I had not assumptions going in, I was able to experience raw and true art, the kind that Singh urges the audience to seek out, not the art that slides into the molds we have, but the kind that reminds us that life, real life, doesn’t have perfectly crisp edges and ends. Instead, it is unpredictable. And boy was The Exterminating Angel unpredictable. Never in my life would I have expected sheep on a stage. And here they were. Front and center for all of us to see. Boundaries that I didn’t even know I set up were broken with this opera. I placed the opera into a box it did not b elong. I tried to define it in a way we try to define photography. I tried to demand technicalities that didn’t need to exist. Instead of the thirds principle of photography, I expected archetypical tragic plot—boy that is not what I got.

The element of surprise if very powerful in artistic form. We all have expectations of the forms of art we consume, and when those expectations are ignored and we are given something entirely different, regardless of the quality, the newness of the experience sears it into memory. And that memory is the most powerful of all, for it is art in its truest form, and Singh believes.

To make you love me forever Belkis Ayón

Maryam

                At first glance, this looks like Leonardo Da Vinci’s Vitruvian man to me. Obviously it is a very distant association, but the position of the white arms against the stark background immediately draw the eyes to them. Upon closer inspection, there is more going on that just the positioning of the arms. This almost ethereal being, has branches sticking out of them, floating above a field, footless. Taking another step back, it looks like this being has a worshipper. This worshipper’s anatomy is far less developed, but there is a depth to their character, nonetheless. Belkis Ayón dressed them in a top crossed on the back, a supportive fashion. Their arms are outstretched, welcoming.

I’ve since done some research on Ayón and her background. She was a member of the Abakuá society of Cuba, a secret community formed after it traveled from Nigeria. The only female figure in the belief system of the Abakuá is Sikán, who was sacrificed as a result of her knowledge. In her interviews Ayón has suggested that in her works, she often plays both roles: the God and the Believer.

In her piece “To Make You Love Me Forever” Ayón’s two figures are polar opposites from each other. While the floating figure has a white body and a black head, the worshipper has a grey body with a white head. While the hands of the floater are pitch black, those of the believer remain alike to the complexion of the body. I find it peculiar that she chose to blacken the hands and head of the possible Sikán. White is often associated with enlightenment, and enlightenment finds itself in one’s brain. I’d consider a God more enlightened than her believer. Having said all this, I also appreciate the constant contrast in the figure; the black head allows for sharp enough contrast to truly make the eyes piercing.

Belkis Ayón produced this piece in a society swayed patriarchal, being a member of a secret community where the only female presence was killed after sharing her prophetic experience. This piece may not communicate much about racism in a North American context, simply because the Americanized version of racism is so vastly different from how racism has manifested on islands and in South America. Yet is still speaks volumes about sex. Ayón practices the non-didactic approach which Coco Fusco urges can be more fruitful than standard, academic discussion.

Art allows the viewer to move in time, space, and interpretation. It also allows the viewer to place the artist within the medium they have produced. Sure Ayón produced her works on card board layered with paper, but she also created a medium much deeper than the two dimensional figures portrayed. Her imagery of fish, Gods, and wheat encapsulate life. All the motifs integral to life on an island, they are what survival in its most basic form is: nourishment and hope. Her work is almost forceful, I can place her above and below, I can place myself in well, and with either of our bodies in this piece, I am prepared to accept the notion of Ayón above, a feminized God, unheard of in the Abrahamic religions that dominate post-colonial American lands. And like the standard canon of God, Ayón has the agency to do right by those looking to her.

Belkis Ayón corners her audience with her art, her unobscured rambling of didactic approaches, but without her history and her context, it can slip between the cracks.

An Open Letter to BRIC House

Maryam

Hey BRIC,

I really appreciate you. You were a two block walk from my high school–a rather grueling one during the icy winters when the wind pushed against our under-dressed bodies walking down Fulton. But we all knew that Bric was waiting, warm, safe, and comfortable.

I remember months ago there was an exhibition of an Iranian and black young woman, her art was beautiful, it was just down the steps in the gallery. Her biography was on the ground floor. And sure it was fascinating, learning about the platform Bric gave her, I don’t know how much I would care if I wasn’t an able-bodied individual. It’s cool to read, but the art is down stairs.

I remember the displays near Christmas time, with a tree made out of denim. I remember the stations you set out with little screens and TVs, where to get the whole experience, we had to sit in the booths and put on the headphones.

And that’s the thing, the experience is downstairs. And not everybody could get down stairs. You guys provide a wonderful platform for people who commonly don’t receive it. Now it’s time to let people access it who normally may not, either.

I really appreciate you; now it’s time for you to change so others could too.

Maryam Salmanova