I really enjoyed listening to the Mutter Virtuosi. Well I suppose it can’t just be limited to the listening, since the atmosphere and the sights contributed to whatever I was feeling as well. And that’s precisely the thing I wasn’t sure of before the performance—if I could close my eyes and experience the same thing with them open.

With my eyes closed, I could easily have been listening to a recording of the music. Not to say that listening to a recording isn’t “good,” but there’s something to a live performance that makes it all the more magical. Feeling the aura of Carnegie Hall—the lofty walls, plush red seats (albeit tight), the tons of music lovers all around—could only happen through the sense of vision. On top of that, watching the musicians as they played was fascinating. At times the harmony was so in sync that it seemed robotic, the way their arms moved back and forth at the exact same angle and speed. It really contributed to what I was listening to: those movements matched the music’s tenser and faster-paced moments, while the graceful swaying of Mutter and her students enhanced feelings of love and freedom that the blissful music expressed. At times they felt like more than musicians; they were dancers. And for me, that induced more than just an appreciation for classical music.

I’ve never really had any exposure to comics in the past, and so I found this whole unit that we did very fascinating and informative. The archives were really cool, although a little overwhelming with all the facts being thrown at us. The constant shock when it was discovered that we didn’t know which obscure writer created what obscure comic also didn’t help. But I found our tour guide to be interesting; she had a certain funk about her that brought the comics to life, and she certainly knew everything there is to know, which I always appreciate. In hindsight I suppose I am slightly disappointed that we didn’t discuss the more mainstream comics, but in truth it doesn’t make that much of a difference. I felt like I got a little glimpse into the comic world which was totally untouched before, so anything we learned about was a plus.

Thinking of comics as art definitely opened up a new thought process for me. I wouldn’t disagree that comics should be considered art; it does, however, elicit a different type of emotion than does traditional art (whatever that is), if it can be called an emotion at all. Comics can make the reader laugh, think about a current political situation in a new light, or become engrossed in a sci-fi story aided by illustrations and its unique story telling process. But does it make one feel? I think I can, but it hasn’t happened to me yet. I think we mentioned a few in class that were known to be specifically emotionally provocative, like Art Spiegelman’s “Maus.” I haven’t read that but I definitely should. But the fact that that one keeps coming up over and over again when we discuss the emotional aspect of comics makes me wonder: is Spiegalman the odd one out in this art form devoted to reader entertainment? Maybe the fact that we can’t seem to come up with more than a handful of “emotional” comics (and that’s being generous) is telling us something about the art form of comics as a whole. And I don’t mean to point this out in a derogatory sense, as if only visuals that stimulate profound thoughts or bring one to tears are significant. Quite the contrary; comics prove that art is more than an inexplicable language that only the sensitive-hearted can understand. If given the chance, I think comics would appeal to a variety of people, both artistically inclined and not. By this measure, comics may be reaching a wider audience than traditional artwork ever would and can spread messages very effectively, if it chooses to do so. And that in itself is something fantastic.

I had no idea what to expect going into this food talk. Would we taste food? What specifically about Jewish food was going to be discussed? Although those questions were answered once the panel discussion was over, I still left in a sort of confusion—and I actually understood most of what they were saying! I was just imagining what the others in our class thought; they must have suffered through an hour and a half of confusing jargon and seemingly humorous things that were not very funny at all.

The content itself was also slightly unsatisfying. Coming from a Sephardic Jewish upbringing, I felt slighted by the discussion. Everything was focused on Ashkenazi food—with the one exception of the passing Moroccan food as representative of all Middle Eastern foods. Middle Eastern food is highly expressive of an extremely rich and diverse culture that those exposed to any sort of Judaism seem to look over. That was one of my primary complaints that I had with the talk. Another significant one was the way they referred to everything in the past tense: it all had a nostalgic feel to it, as if everyone in the audience (who, by the way, were all secular Ashkenazi Jews over the age of 50) was remembering their grandmother’s attempt at keeping Judaism alive in the home. It was all so passé, a fond memory to look back on and smile. Hello! I wanted to yell. I’m a practicing Jew sitting right here! I still eat Jewish foods, none of which were mentioned, and they are still extremely important to my identity. And what happened to kosher being a significant attribute to Jewish food? Apparently that’s not a thing anymore.

Aside my qualms, there was a question that I should have mentally addressed but didn’t: is this a form of art? The food talk didn’t seem to point to yes; well, it didn’t seem to occupy itself with that question. But irrespective of the talk, I think food can be, but it’s less obvious. Does the culture attributed to it affect its ‘art’ status? I think our society looks at culture with an artistic eye, that it’s more a style of art than a style of life—which begs the question: can a lifestyle be a form of art? I think there would be differing opinions based on those living the lifestyle and those merely observing it. Truthfully I don’t really know, but I think the discussion highlights some important facets of art beyond the walls of a museum—in the street, in one’s home, in one’s life. Or in a food talk about the seemingly outdated culture that was apparently once known as the Jewish food of the world.

I feel as if I have so much to say about Carmen and yet nothing to say at all. I hated her for her flippant attitude and her overt and unabashed sexuality, and yet quite liked her for those exact same reasons. She was manipulative, cold, and selfish. But she was strong. She knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to get it. Like love, she was eternally free and would never be bound to anything or anyone. Maybe I admire that, the sense of freedom that allows her to live in honesty with her emotions and identity. But even though she was unafraid to act on emotion, she does so with a coldness that isn’t the normal tenderness that emotions should bring: she understands—and maybe prescribes—that her emotions will constantly change, and therefore she always changes. She has an effect on people, specifically her love on Jose. But it makes no difference to her. And that is something I despise: her inability to recognize anyone but herself. That’s exactly who she is, a gypsy constantly on the move—in physical space and in her heart.

Besides for the actual storyline, going to the opera was a great experience. I’ll admit, I grew pretty tired as the opera went on (come on, 3 hours is along time), and the constant flickering of my eyes back and forth between the stage and the translation wasn’t super comfortable either. But I liked being there, in that atmosphere, listening to the music of the show and marveling and the grand scenery that added so much. It was definitely a worthy experience.

I spent all summer participating in a program that was housed on west 65th street, a short two minute walk from Lincoln Center, although I had never gone in. Lincoln Center has always been in my mind this otherworldly, magical place that contained fabulous people and things. Going to the ballet the other night gave me a little glimpse of that. Just attending any sort of show at night in Lincoln Center was fantastic–all the lights and people and fancy dresses.

The show itself was lovely. I loved the progression it took from classical and traditional to contemporary and then to downright theatrical and funny. And through it all, it was beautiful. After the first performance ended, I must admit I was a bit dubious of this whole ballet “thing.” The entire time I kept thinking about how restrained it looked, how formal it was. I felt like they were performing for me; I wanted to feel like I had just stepped into someone else’s world, into the world of a dancer without her knowing I was there. I was supposed to be an onlooker. But instead I felt like they were putting on a show specifically for the audience. And maybe it should be like that, but I didn’t want that. The other two certainly made up for it. They held the same grace and composure as they had in the first one, but they were also looser and more relaxed and, most of all, they told a story, which is what I wanted so desperately to see. The second one really pulled at my heartstrings; I felt sad, heartbroken for the mismatched lovers. And the last one exhibited a different emotion in me: humor and lightness, but still legitimately felt.

Dance has always been something I love (and something I wish I could do). I love observing the elegant motions of the body and the incredible way in which it moves across the stage. Dance is simply awe-inspiring. Clearly I’m jealous of all those who can dance. But as long as I can be engrossed in it by being a mere onlooker, I think I’ll be alright.

The two memorials we visited were structurally very different from one another and, I think, sought to accomplish different goals. The 9/11 Memorial is grand: two huge waterfall pools amongst rows and rows of trees, creating a scenic and pensive atmosphere. The design is in fact titled “Reflecting Absence.” Water is the quintessential symbol of reflection, as it mirrors whatever peers into it. Here, not only do the thousands of tourists try to look into the pools, but the pools also are facing the sky of Manhattan—the city’s towering buildings. I don’t know exactly what that could mean, but maybe it has something to do with the fact that where these two pools are now, the tallest buildings of Manhattan once stood. We see the skyline in the pools’ reflection, but a different skyline than what once was. The pools are serene, but also are quite frankly giant holes in the ground, and I think that there is something melancholy about that. Maybe it reminds us of the destruction that took place, the gaping hole that remains in New York City, in out hearts, in the world. The 9/11 Memorial is a place that induces contemplative thought, self-reflection.

The Vietnam memorial surely also provokes thought, but it does so differently. And, possibly more importantly, it provokes a different kind of thought. Where the 9/11 Memorial was grand and striking, the Vietnam memorial contained nothing more than a modest wall, its site inconspicuous to the average passerby. There was one small round fountain, which if I’m not mistaken was empty when we visited. And if it wasn’t, well clearly it didn’t impact me enough to remember it. The most noticeable part of this memorial was the use of words on the wall, the myriad of letters written by soldiers during the war. It was, to say the least, sad. Most of the letters were pessimistic, reflecting doubts in the country and in humanity. It was the complete opposite of the 9/11 Memorial. Where the 9/11 Memorial used words to remember the fallen, thousands of names encircling the pool in a meditative, symbol-of-life sort of way, the Vietnam memorial used words to exhibit death and hopelessness. They both reflect the respective public opinion of what happened: 9/11 was a unanimous tragedy; we are all essentially affected the same way. The Vietnam War doesn’t have that; there are no undisputed opinions about anything, even (especially) about the morality of our own soldiers. We try to honor the dead, though not without questions on humanity.

The wall was, however, made of glass, which also contains a reflective quality. But the letters printed on that glass steer our contemplation in a certain direction. The 9/11 Memorial was completely full of people, while we were the only ones at the Vietnam Memorial. The juxtaposition of the two memorials in my mind clearly highlights the differences in physical appearance and in meaning. And I think that to some extent, we all will remember the event by how we remember the memorial.

I’m looking through the pictures on my phone that I took last Friday as I tried to recapture some of the photographs in the exhibit. Well I didn’t just try to recapture the photographs—for that I could easily search Google. I wanted to capture the spirit of each photograph on the wall, the feelings they evoked, the mesmerized murmur of the intrigued viewers. For that, my iPhone didn’t exactly do the trick.

Along with the multitude of other museumgoers, from the non-discreet art students to the British tourists, I was awe-struck. Those photographs were beautiful. I suppose not all, and maybe some were more beautiful than others, but as a whole that exhibit was nothing short of beauty. I know the feeling that I get from looking at beautiful artwork—my eyes widen, I become increasingly quieter, a sensation that I can’t exactly describe finds its way through my heart or my mind or whatever it is that experiences sensations, and I experience this feeling of longing. And I can’t say I’ve gotten that from photography all that much in my life, quite possibly never. Photography (or at least what I’ve seen) always bordered on the cliché. Photographing something that is already beautiful is hardly something to gawk at. I can admire the beautiful scenery in the frame but as a photograph itself it could never give me much to love. Gary Winogrand’s work is different. It is beautiful, not because what he captured was always beautiful, but because the capture itself was.

Now I realize that that doesn’t make much sense. As I was looking at the photographs, I couldn’t help but be attracted to the ones of women from the 50s and 60s. I just love it. In regards to his photographs of women, Winogrand said (as I read on the exhibit wall), “I don’t know if all the women in the photographs are beautiful, but I do know that the women are beautiful in the photographs.” I think that articulates much more eloquently what I’m trying to say. He captured reality. It was real, and that’s what I found so mesmerizing. I guess it makes sense then that I particularly loved the ones of the Bronx, Manhattan, and of course Brooklyn. It was refreshing but also nostalgic, despite my obvious not being there.

One of the quotes displayed on the exhibit wall very much resonated with me, and really spoke to the play between reality and fantasy evident in his photographs. “Sometimes I feel like . . . the world is a place I bought a ticket to. It’s a big show for me, as if it wouldn’t happen if I wasn’t there with a camera.” If that doesn’t sum it up, I don’t know what does.

[quicktime]http://eportfolios.macaulay.cuny.edu/ugoretz14/files/2014/09/Movie-on-9-10-14-at-9.52-AM.mov[/quicktime]

As I try to come up with a concise, eye-catching introductory statement, I’m forced to think about what I truly gained from the Night at the Museum in just a few words. But now that I took a copout route, I don’t have to do that anymore. I will, instead, begin by saying that I like art. I like observing things, anything, and thinking about them. Analyzing things has always been a fun mind game for me. The Night at the Museum was different though; I didn’t just have to think, I had to converse.

I was in a group of people I had never met before and I didn’t know how we’d get along, if things would flow easily. Conversation isn’t always easy. But I soon discovered that conversation about art is. One work of art contains so many conversation topics, from the technical details of the brush strokes and line placements to the greater messages those lines and strokes convey. There’s a history conversation latent in the clothes the subject wears and a psychological one in the expression on her face. Conversation flowed naturally, and that was exciting. Containing thoughts to my head isn’t as fun as letting them flow and bounce off of others’ ideas, each one building on top of another, creating stronger concepts and analyses. Maybe in real life I have very little in common with those five people. But in the museum, those differences aren’t noticed. And if they are, it only enhances our collective observation of the work. Each person looks at the same work of art with a different eye, and allows us to see a different aspect that we couldn’t have seen on our own. That’s why art is beautiful.

I’m trying to think of one work that really stood out to me, but I don’t have one specific one that comes to mind. The forced conversations made each work we discussed stand out in my mind when they hadn’t before. Talking about something really made me just like it better. And I think that’s awesome.

Art makes you think. Museums make you discuss the art that makes you think. By physically speaking out loud with others, a completely new world is open to the observer. And it serves as great bonding when small talk just doesn’t cut it.