Saturday, June 26, 2010

better than the Delphic oracle

Last night, a group of us did a performance art piece at the International Center of Photography in New York city, for artist and fellow Wonderlander Alexandra Breznay:
We acted out a string of vignettes that corresponded to a series of photographs, mapping out an arch of running time, in terms of partnership and loneliness.
the team:

dyed brooklyn souls

bellhouse and the new pornographers.
I liked the rusting chandeliers hanging from the wooden beams.
dan deacon in red hook. a skeleton is singing.
gravity almost lost tonight. everything was flying upward.
beachballs and legs and hands stretching higher and higher.
dust in our lungs, but how pretty it looks when it
catches the light.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

castles in the sky

Weather Prediction: Without warning, the spectator will enter into an arena of reality versus representation, where the question of temporality reigns as the battle for the resistance of entrapment begins. Today will deftly become a study in tension – a continuous questioning of the delicate balance that is struck between thoughts of whom, from enemy sides, holds the power of the gaze. This tension will regulate the transition that occurs between control to permanence, a corresponding relationship that discusses the potential of transcendence or invasion. We have two parties - those depicted (participating) in the piece and the spectators drawn in, willingness or readiness aside. The world of appearances (of representation - the participants) has politely and pointedly been put in its place. It is perhaps this precise preparedness that will render spectators incapable of shielding themselves. Theirs will be the gift of relation, their placement of themselves amongst the characters, connections logically made in reality, creating an intimacy that results in the palpable vision that the characters are breathing the same air. Each spectator will make an individual connection, while the connections among the characters have already been begotten on a single, other-worldly plane. On the outside, onlookers, essentially strangers, will hardly attempt to compete with such a united front. Ultimately, a spectator will not be beckoned. He will be lured.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

bathing in roses/dancing in rain

an afternoon on governor's island (transformed)

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

night wanderings

dissection and the anatomy of june

One day, it rained. It poured on panes and the footpath and all the spaces composed from the accumulation of cracks could not handle the volume from the accumulation of water and any creature hiding underneath emerged and bathed rather than be drowned. Some soft things would squirm their way back into the fertile-fragranced dirt, and others still would be salted, for that was what science was this year. She had snuck the shaker from the table. She watched it snow in another boy's hand, wondering if she could be held morally accountable for the dabs of shiny puddle, patterning something abstract. She was without decision and she continued the walk to the fountain, for a sip, under the covering that kept her from today's leaking sky. She had her turn and walked back the exact way she came, for she was too bored for even the walk all the way around. A group had stopped several meters ahead gathered around water runoff. Flow through the gutters was interrupted by a crack, still unattended since there had been no rain since a spell in September. Each hand stretched forward. And her hand wanted to stretch itself forward. And her hand wanted to touch. And her hand was the hand caught. Everyone's hands that were not her hand shot to their sides and dried uniformly on uniformed pants and tights. Her hand, once seized, was turned around quickly, guilty with droplets still wet. Marched back to the room, she was salted.

Sunday, December 27, 2009

one week home, and I miss you

We would talk of the real world (home) versus the fantasy world (life in Italy). We found it fascinating that as the weeks dwindled and dwindled they started to clash against one another more and more, competing for space and priority. Everything became about this strange tug-of-war between the faded connection with back home versus the known time-limit connection with Italy.

Life abroad isn't perfect all of the time. But it's just life. And life happens no matter where you are. There are good days and there are bad days, regardless of surroundings. And whatever its transgressions, we could not help but fall in love with life in Italy.

There's this beautifully tragic quote by John Irving that says, "What is hardest to accept about the passage of time is that the people who once mattered the most to us are wrapped up in parentheses."

December. We danced through the streets, strung with lights, not daring to sleep the last days, just in case we miss anything. Left before the sun came up. You sang the beginning lines of "leaving on a jet plane" into my ear as we hugged goodbye, my cab waiting impatiently. And we all left. And in fits of sleep and tears and air turbulence we were back in our own respective time zones in the real world too soon.

We're finding out if the real and the fantastic can be harmonized. No parentheses needed just yet, Irving.

Monday, November 30, 2009



Pilgrims 2.0: International Adoption

The 1st Thanksgiving (slightly paraphrased)
The prudes, fearing what would become Europe's freedom in intellectual and sexual expression, fled to America on a boat. Turns out New England is cold and difficult to farm. The Native Americans save their asses by showing them what they are doing wrong. A successful harvest is accomplished in 1621 and food is consumed by all. This act of kindness is later rewarded by the American government taking their land. Ignoring that, we decide to celebrate the Pilgrims not freezing and dying out by copious amounts of deliciousness each November.

The Classic Thanksgiving
The Norman Rockwell painting materializes as the turkey is carved at the head of the table while mashed potatoes, stuffing, and cranberry sauce are put into circulation. Pumpkin pie is, of course, requisite. Everyone of elementary school age and many past make headdresses or stiff black hats out of construction paper. Grace is a formality as most have cheated. Heads are bowed and everyone tries to pretend not to be already chewing. If it's been planned appropriately, there are leftovers for two to three weeks.

The International College Student's Thanksgiving
Around sixty kids pile into the art studios building in Central Florence. Each table is covered in fall leaves and liters of red wine. Loud music blasts on the speakers and everyone enters the glass doors with theme music, creating our own personal red carpet for the evening. In addition to the standard thanksgiving foods there are things like tacos and eggrolls. After dinner, we head up to the rooftops of Florence for a spectacular view of the Duomo. Sitting on the ledge, Chianti in hand, we delve into wine-induced existentialism, whether or not some of us have art history presentations at nine the next morning.

Happy Thanksgiving.