It had taken me almost twenty-four hours to arrive in Brooklyn. Many hours later I awoke, with the sound of the aircraft engines still in my ears, out of the coma I landed in after coming home. The jet lag, or the echo after flying, would still take some time. Although I felt awake and ready for the day, it was hard to start moving. Everything I normally do quickly, now took hours.
I decided to go outside and spend part of this day seeing Brooklyn. As I cycled around on my bike, I tried to think of a plan to go somewhere. In itself, drinking coffee is always a good thing to do in New York, but I wanted to have done more than to cycle a couple of blocks just to get a shot of caffeine. I decided to go to BAM, one of Brooklyns cultural centers, where, among other things, they screen great films. Based on the time it would start, I found a movie that would get me home in time for dinner, The Artist. I didn't even read the tagline, when I sat down in the room. Before me sat a middle aged couple with their teenage son. I found it funny that these three people went to the cinema together at this time of the day.
The film began as an old classic silent film. I remember thinking: 'what a weird beginning', but soon I realised that this was the movie. A silent film, like the old days. The story itself wasn't the most catchy one, and it wasn't the surprising end that made it a special film. I found it a very special film because I suddenly realized that I almost never experience silence. There is always noise everywhere. And now, I was sitting in a large room with fifty other people, with nothing more than some silly music.
The absence of dialogue, combined with the fatigue I was still feeling, sometimes, my thoughts wandered of, only to get back and focus on the film and its cinematic techniques that were used to keep the audience attention. I thought about the theater week when we worked with masks and how I discovered how the facial expression is such a big part of interaction, and how you need to compensate for that if you can't use your face. A few months ago, I made a film without words, without dialogue, without sound, run on a 16 mm camera. Then also, the image had to speak for itself.
The Artist is a wonderful film, which makes you long for the old times. When we didn't have all those thousands of images and sounds a day we get now. A little more peace and quiet wouldn't be so bad. It's like traveling: although you can fly your body to New York in eight hours, it takes a few days before the mind gets there too. And while you wait for those two to come together, you need to take it easy, buy watching films and drinking coffee.
Showing posts with label New York. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New York. Show all posts
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Protest
I cycle through Berlin. It's warm, the sun shines brightly, and I've spend hours already, in search for the perfect place to sip some coffee and read. I cycle past large buildings that carry memories of times that I can't recall. The Reichstag, the Brandenburg Gate. All of East Berlin. I stop at the Topography of Terror, a corridor where once the headquarters of the SS and the secret State Police stood and where now the remains of the walls still bear witness to remind us of that time. A few blocks away I wander through the maze of pillars of the Holocaust Memorial, where silence comes and goes between the heavy concrete blocks. The diaries and letters that are displayed below recall familiar images that are still intriguing, sickening and disturbing.
Later, on a terrace in the sun, I loose myself into the harsh world of José Saramago, who describes in his book Blindness how, after an unexplained blindness epedimic first the government, and then the crowd reacts. The nasty, degrading and violent world he describes makes me forget about the sun. The fear that governs and that accepts inhuman behavior so easily, the power that is abused as quickly as possible by anyone who holds it, the indifference and brutal violence that people apply when they apparently feel forced to do so, it's all not really encouraging. The few attempts of compassion can not compete with the trouble that is accepted by the masses, but also implemented by them. It's every man for himself.
When I go online a little later I see the images of New York. Here, a big mass of people makes its voice heard, to challenge systems that are larger than they are. While the media is silent I see police officers with sticks strike bystanders, I see how people are dragged over the ground, how the crowd talks with one voice. I'm looking for coverage online, but time and again, I can only find videos and personal stories that seek their way to the rest of the world through modern media.
Afterwards, it's always easy to talk about such things like who is the villain and who is the hero. As is presented in films too. I wonder how the resistance during the Second World War was seen by the masses back then. As heroes? Or as crazy people, who did not know what they were doing? I think of the woman who stands up against the abuses in the city of the blind: the only one who can see when the rest has been blinded. The protests in the Middle East were seen as a new, fresh and hopeful movement, but no-one speaks about what is happening right now. First, thousands of people have to get arrested, beaten and humiliated. Only after more people move to the streets, and all around the world they raise their voices, the media start talking about it. I wish I could already look back on these times.
Later, on a terrace in the sun, I loose myself into the harsh world of José Saramago, who describes in his book Blindness how, after an unexplained blindness epedimic first the government, and then the crowd reacts. The nasty, degrading and violent world he describes makes me forget about the sun. The fear that governs and that accepts inhuman behavior so easily, the power that is abused as quickly as possible by anyone who holds it, the indifference and brutal violence that people apply when they apparently feel forced to do so, it's all not really encouraging. The few attempts of compassion can not compete with the trouble that is accepted by the masses, but also implemented by them. It's every man for himself.
When I go online a little later I see the images of New York. Here, a big mass of people makes its voice heard, to challenge systems that are larger than they are. While the media is silent I see police officers with sticks strike bystanders, I see how people are dragged over the ground, how the crowd talks with one voice. I'm looking for coverage online, but time and again, I can only find videos and personal stories that seek their way to the rest of the world through modern media.
Afterwards, it's always easy to talk about such things like who is the villain and who is the hero. As is presented in films too. I wonder how the resistance during the Second World War was seen by the masses back then. As heroes? Or as crazy people, who did not know what they were doing? I think of the woman who stands up against the abuses in the city of the blind: the only one who can see when the rest has been blinded. The protests in the Middle East were seen as a new, fresh and hopeful movement, but no-one speaks about what is happening right now. First, thousands of people have to get arrested, beaten and humiliated. Only after more people move to the streets, and all around the world they raise their voices, the media start talking about it. I wish I could already look back on these times.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Subway Musicians
New York is music. The city has a rhytm, a sound, a swing. At your first arrival you want to dance, because you're in New York! After spending some time in the city, you slowly discover each neighbourhood has its own melody, its own genre.
Times Square and its surroundings feels like a piece of Philip Glass, a busy, constantly repeating built up of sound, that sometimes seems to disappear for a moment, but that will return even louder than before. Chelsea sounds like the old Standards of Sinatra and Garland, swinging, longing, sometimes exited. Williamsburg is bursting of modern pop and the Upper West Side has a somewhat stiff opera sound. Bed-Stuy is of course rap. Rap 'n Roll.
Not only above ground, but also underneath, there is music. Everywhere. It's almost impossible to find a train station that hasn't a musician in it, who fills the narrow hallways with his voice or his instrument. Musicians, wanna-be musicians and true geniuses are performing everywhere, in the hope to earn some money. Some have other jobs to attend, others live from the life underground.
The subway musicians made the soundtrack of my travels through the city. On my way to work, the toothless Cuban and the melancholic music of his home country, would start my day in a special way. On my way back home, the two hipster boys and their happy songs would make me forget about my hunger, the drummer on 6th Ave and 14th st, whose sounds were hearable from afar, would fill up the train tubes all the way to Union Square and Joe, who regularly could be found at Metropolitan Station, didn't only fill my heart with his music, but, unknowingly, created even more love during a spontaneous jam session.
I filmed them, the subway musicians who give more color to New York. Hours of clips, of people perfroming their passion with love, are waiting to be edited into a story. And of course, I'm not the only one who sees them. The number of film makers, wanna-be film makers and geniuses that have just as much and even more material is countless. Although I'd rather be the only one to make a film about this subject (apart from Hedy Honigman who made the beautiful film The Underground Orchestra years ago), I realised that all the stories that are being filmed, together tell the real story. Or, at least, come close to the real story, that exists of all those different stories of musicians, listeners and travelers.
Two of the first musicians I filmed.
And this is a film about my New York subway friends
Times Square and its surroundings feels like a piece of Philip Glass, a busy, constantly repeating built up of sound, that sometimes seems to disappear for a moment, but that will return even louder than before. Chelsea sounds like the old Standards of Sinatra and Garland, swinging, longing, sometimes exited. Williamsburg is bursting of modern pop and the Upper West Side has a somewhat stiff opera sound. Bed-Stuy is of course rap. Rap 'n Roll.
Not only above ground, but also underneath, there is music. Everywhere. It's almost impossible to find a train station that hasn't a musician in it, who fills the narrow hallways with his voice or his instrument. Musicians, wanna-be musicians and true geniuses are performing everywhere, in the hope to earn some money. Some have other jobs to attend, others live from the life underground.
The subway musicians made the soundtrack of my travels through the city. On my way to work, the toothless Cuban and the melancholic music of his home country, would start my day in a special way. On my way back home, the two hipster boys and their happy songs would make me forget about my hunger, the drummer on 6th Ave and 14th st, whose sounds were hearable from afar, would fill up the train tubes all the way to Union Square and Joe, who regularly could be found at Metropolitan Station, didn't only fill my heart with his music, but, unknowingly, created even more love during a spontaneous jam session.
I filmed them, the subway musicians who give more color to New York. Hours of clips, of people perfroming their passion with love, are waiting to be edited into a story. And of course, I'm not the only one who sees them. The number of film makers, wanna-be film makers and geniuses that have just as much and even more material is countless. Although I'd rather be the only one to make a film about this subject (apart from Hedy Honigman who made the beautiful film The Underground Orchestra years ago), I realised that all the stories that are being filmed, together tell the real story. Or, at least, come close to the real story, that exists of all those different stories of musicians, listeners and travelers.
Two of the first musicians I filmed.
And this is a film about my New York subway friends
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Routine
The alarm goes at eight, for half an hour of snoozing. Too warm. Too cosy.
Too late. Douche, tea, down the stairs with wet hair.
Two blocks to Lafayette, take a left to Bedford. Hi men at the bodega. Hi men at the bus stop.
Down the stairs. To the fright down stairs. Walk to the end because the train only stops there. Waiting.
Getting in. Standing at the door on the other side.
Myrtle-Willoughby. Flushing. Broadway. Metropolitan.
Watch other people.
Walk up the stairs, against the line of people trying to get down. Running along with the rest.
Down and up the stairs. Listening if the train is coming already.
Walk to the second posters on the platform.
Getting in. Trying to find a seat.
Bedford. 1st Ave. 3rd Ave. Union Square. 6th Ave.
Getting out and take the stairs to the left. Hoping the F is about to arrive.
Walk up to the wooden bench. Maybe see a subway performer to film.
Getting in. Standing in the isle.
23rd.
Get out and walk up the stairs on the left.
Fresh air. Rain or sun? Right turn to 6th Ave.
Cross the street halfway down the block if the traffic allows it.
A large earl grey tea with milk please.
$2.45
Cross 24st
Walk towards the green canopy. Paws in Chelsea.
Leave the barking dogs down stairs and take the elevator to the second floor.
Let the day begin.
Too late. Douche, tea, down the stairs with wet hair.
Two blocks to Lafayette, take a left to Bedford. Hi men at the bodega. Hi men at the bus stop.
Down the stairs. To the fright down stairs. Walk to the end because the train only stops there. Waiting.
Getting in. Standing at the door on the other side.
Myrtle-Willoughby. Flushing. Broadway. Metropolitan.
Watch other people.
Walk up the stairs, against the line of people trying to get down. Running along with the rest.
Down and up the stairs. Listening if the train is coming already.
Walk to the second posters on the platform.
Getting in. Trying to find a seat.
Bedford. 1st Ave. 3rd Ave. Union Square. 6th Ave.
Getting out and take the stairs to the left. Hoping the F is about to arrive.
Walk up to the wooden bench. Maybe see a subway performer to film.
Getting in. Standing in the isle.
23rd.
Get out and walk up the stairs on the left.
Fresh air. Rain or sun? Right turn to 6th Ave.
Cross the street halfway down the block if the traffic allows it.
A large earl grey tea with milk please.
$2.45
Cross 24st
Walk towards the green canopy. Paws in Chelsea.
Leave the barking dogs down stairs and take the elevator to the second floor.
Let the day begin.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Bill
Bill
New York is like all other metropoles. The real New Yorkers have moved out of the city. Just like all real Amsterdammers mostly live somewhere in Almere, most New Yorkers have moved from Manhattan to Brooklyn, Queens or the Bronx. So to who does New York belong to? The tourists, that wander the island with forty-seven million every year? Or the eight point two million INWONERS, who moved here from all over the world to this place to try their luck in the city where everything is possible?
Do the bankers own the city, in their little southern tip of the island, an area that involves just a few square miles, where they make decisions that influence the rest of the world? Or is the city owned by the companies, that are all trying to earn something on the energy that is a part of the city? Or is it owned by the artists, the Andy Warhols and Woody Allens, who create the cultural values of all these different genres?
If it would be possible to say that someone owns New York, I think it's the city of Bill Cunningham. He moved to New York in 1948, and since then has not only photographed special events in the city, but also the fashion that he sees on the streets. His first spread in the New York Times was the beginning of an ongoing collection of pictures that show fashionable New York in a wonderful way. Bill brings the catwalk to the streets and shows how 'normal' women invent their own creations after the fashion of the big designers.
The film Bill Cunningham New York shows a portrait of a very amiable and moving man of eighty. A man with a big smile that opens his face and his eyes. A man who, despite his age, still crosses the city on his bike, from one society event to the other, where he chats with the guests - who all know him of course - but where he won't ever eat or drink. "I'm working there," he says. A man who lived over forty years in one of the artist lofts of Carnegie Hall, until new regulations drove him and his fellow artist to other places, who filled his small room with archives of his pictures and who slept on a single bed between his files, with just a sheet and a blanket. In his new apartment with a view over Central Park, he asked the movers to tear down the kitchen, to make place for his cabinets. A man who will always wear his blue coat, because this is the only one that can stand the movement of the camera without breaking. A man who has a million friends, but who keeps everyone at a distance. No one knows his history, no one knows wether he's been in love or who his 'real' friends are. A man who doesn't want to be at the centre of the attention, who doesn't think about the impact he has on others, but has one without a doubt. A man who knows exactly what to say in images, but who stops talking when he's the subject of the conversation. A man that belongs to New York, who lives from the city and gave his life to the city. By being there and by capturing what he saw.
"He who seeks art will find it," he says in the end. Indeed.
Bill still works for the Times.
New York is like all other metropoles. The real New Yorkers have moved out of the city. Just like all real Amsterdammers mostly live somewhere in Almere, most New Yorkers have moved from Manhattan to Brooklyn, Queens or the Bronx. So to who does New York belong to? The tourists, that wander the island with forty-seven million every year? Or the eight point two million INWONERS, who moved here from all over the world to this place to try their luck in the city where everything is possible?
Do the bankers own the city, in their little southern tip of the island, an area that involves just a few square miles, where they make decisions that influence the rest of the world? Or is the city owned by the companies, that are all trying to earn something on the energy that is a part of the city? Or is it owned by the artists, the Andy Warhols and Woody Allens, who create the cultural values of all these different genres?
If it would be possible to say that someone owns New York, I think it's the city of Bill Cunningham. He moved to New York in 1948, and since then has not only photographed special events in the city, but also the fashion that he sees on the streets. His first spread in the New York Times was the beginning of an ongoing collection of pictures that show fashionable New York in a wonderful way. Bill brings the catwalk to the streets and shows how 'normal' women invent their own creations after the fashion of the big designers.
The film Bill Cunningham New York shows a portrait of a very amiable and moving man of eighty. A man with a big smile that opens his face and his eyes. A man who, despite his age, still crosses the city on his bike, from one society event to the other, where he chats with the guests - who all know him of course - but where he won't ever eat or drink. "I'm working there," he says. A man who lived over forty years in one of the artist lofts of Carnegie Hall, until new regulations drove him and his fellow artist to other places, who filled his small room with archives of his pictures and who slept on a single bed between his files, with just a sheet and a blanket. In his new apartment with a view over Central Park, he asked the movers to tear down the kitchen, to make place for his cabinets. A man who will always wear his blue coat, because this is the only one that can stand the movement of the camera without breaking. A man who has a million friends, but who keeps everyone at a distance. No one knows his history, no one knows wether he's been in love or who his 'real' friends are. A man who doesn't want to be at the centre of the attention, who doesn't think about the impact he has on others, but has one without a doubt. A man who knows exactly what to say in images, but who stops talking when he's the subject of the conversation. A man that belongs to New York, who lives from the city and gave his life to the city. By being there and by capturing what he saw.
"He who seeks art will find it," he says in the end. Indeed.
Bill still works for the Times.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Earthalujah!
New York is the city of consumption. Food, clothes, stuff, ideas, experiences. Everything is for sale. Thousands of restaurants, diners and bars try to lure get you inside to eat your next meal. Stores seduce you with cheaper, more expensive, better or more special clothes than others. In Manhattan, every street with beautiful and desirable stuff follows another, leaving you in a world of greed.
A while ago, before leaving for New York, I decided to consume as little as possible. Why would I need so much things in my house? Why should I buy new clothes that often? With these questions in mind, I try to be aware of my choices. Why do I want that, do I really want it? Does it make me happier?
Partly it's easy: it's impossible to buy everything, to own everything. My shrinking bank account, helps me to pass those beautiful and tempting stores without a lot of trouble. But on the other hand, I sometimes wish I would have a pot of gold, so I could buy beautiful notebooks, that desirable bag and wonderful shoes and all the great food that stares back at me from the counters.
I have been searching for soul mates for a long time, people that share my beliefs. Then, I found Reverend Billy and the Church of Earthalujah, who not only share my beliefs, but also act on them. Much better than I do. During the sunday service, the Stop Life After Shopping Choir sings songs like 'Stop Shopping, Shop no more, We won't shop again, forever and amen' , 'Earth is speaking, do you speak earth? Got to listen harder, put your ear to the dirt'.
But apart from their weekly services in the theatre, they also act out outside, in parks, squares and preferably in shops, where they try to awaken consumers and DUIVEL KASSA. They have organized events against Starbucks, Victoria Secret and shopping in general, but also have different campaigns that are all part of their bigger goals:
* stimulating and pleading for sustainable consumption
* stimulating strong local economies
* defending the First Amendment and public space.
This all lead to campaigns for the conservation of Union Square park, Coney Island and more recently Mountaintop Removal,which means that mountain tops are destroyed for cole mining.
Reverend Billy and his choir have inspired me. Apart from their high entertainment level, they have a strong message that I support. Their way of viewing the world is one that I'm likely to adapt, and that I want to share with others. In other words: I am a believer.
Earthalujah!
A while ago, before leaving for New York, I decided to consume as little as possible. Why would I need so much things in my house? Why should I buy new clothes that often? With these questions in mind, I try to be aware of my choices. Why do I want that, do I really want it? Does it make me happier?
Partly it's easy: it's impossible to buy everything, to own everything. My shrinking bank account, helps me to pass those beautiful and tempting stores without a lot of trouble. But on the other hand, I sometimes wish I would have a pot of gold, so I could buy beautiful notebooks, that desirable bag and wonderful shoes and all the great food that stares back at me from the counters.
I have been searching for soul mates for a long time, people that share my beliefs. Then, I found Reverend Billy and the Church of Earthalujah, who not only share my beliefs, but also act on them. Much better than I do. During the sunday service, the Stop Life After Shopping Choir sings songs like 'Stop Shopping, Shop no more, We won't shop again, forever and amen' , 'Earth is speaking, do you speak earth? Got to listen harder, put your ear to the dirt'.
But apart from their weekly services in the theatre, they also act out outside, in parks, squares and preferably in shops, where they try to awaken consumers and DUIVEL KASSA. They have organized events against Starbucks, Victoria Secret and shopping in general, but also have different campaigns that are all part of their bigger goals:
* stimulating and pleading for sustainable consumption
* stimulating strong local economies
* defending the First Amendment and public space.
This all lead to campaigns for the conservation of Union Square park, Coney Island and more recently Mountaintop Removal,which means that mountain tops are destroyed for cole mining.
Reverend Billy and his choir have inspired me. Apart from their high entertainment level, they have a strong message that I support. Their way of viewing the world is one that I'm likely to adapt, and that I want to share with others. In other words: I am a believer.
Earthalujah!
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Bike Lane War
Buying a bike, a couple of weeks ago, was accompanied by a lot of good advice of fellow bikers about cycling without a helmet and the urgency of good locks - which I answered with cynical looks. Don't tell a girl from Amsterdam about locks (although I must admit, my laziness has led to the use of a single lock without any problems so far), and especially don't tell them to wear a helmet. I'd rather be found dead. Over and over again, people told me I couldn't compare New York with that lovely little town called Amsterdam. No, here in the city of crime and lunatics, cycling is a life threatening experience that has to be taken seriously, just as one should do with safety and theft.
So far, I enjoy my helmet-less bike rides a lot. The craziness is far less crazy then I suspected, although I do pay a little more attention while paddle from Ave to Ave. But a wilderness? No. On the contrary: nothing beats feeling the wind in your hair while crossing the Brooklyn Bridge from Brooklyn to Manhattan (be aware of the tourists!), or getting a coffee in Williamsburg without taking the train to get there.
While doing the last thing, I recently discovered a hidden history that was totally new to me.
To get to the hipster part of Williamsburg, where the nice cafe and restaurants are, I have to cycle from Bed-Stuy through the neighbourhood of the Hassidic Jews. Men with high black hats and ringlets, women with wigs, head scarfs, long skirts and similar jackets and children with the same ringlets and clothes from the eighteenth century. They're everywhere. On one of my walks, I felt out of place. I realized that my short skirt was ruining the streetscape, so I could imagine - with a little effort - that this not only made them ignore me completely while passing me, but that it also made them cross the street before encountering me at all. Cycling through that neighbourhood made me realize that their behavior was a hazard for my own safety, because their urgency of ignoring me led to dangerous situations in which they quickly tried to cross the street or run over me and my bike. I literally was their blind spot, as an outsider of their community.
I got very frustrated about religion, tolerance, superiority and more of the like. While rambling about this to a friend, she told me about the bike lane war that happened in 2009.
New York creates more and more bike lanes and bike routes, among which the Bedford bike lane, that crosses through Brooklyn and that safely brought me to the Williamsburg Bridge, cafes and yoga. The Hassidic community took it upon themselves to complain about this bike lane because of the dangers for safety and religion. The first because of their children that had to cross the lanes after departing the school busses, the latter because the dress code of the hipsters was conflicting their religious rules of not looking at uncovered skin. The Department of Transportation decided to remove the bike lane, but forgot about the hipsters, who repainted the lane in the night themselves and organized a Freedom Ride to enforce their dissatisfaction. A heavy snow storm prevented a topless bike ride through the neighbourhood, but could't stop the hipsters from cycling around with plastic breasts over their winter coats.
The result? A better and safe bike lane a few blocks away and a busy, often used and visible bike lane on Bedford. You would suspect that in a city like New York, the city of immigrants, different people choose to live together. If it's not possible here, then how can we have hope for all those other places of intolerance in this world?
So far, I enjoy my helmet-less bike rides a lot. The craziness is far less crazy then I suspected, although I do pay a little more attention while paddle from Ave to Ave. But a wilderness? No. On the contrary: nothing beats feeling the wind in your hair while crossing the Brooklyn Bridge from Brooklyn to Manhattan (be aware of the tourists!), or getting a coffee in Williamsburg without taking the train to get there.
While doing the last thing, I recently discovered a hidden history that was totally new to me.
To get to the hipster part of Williamsburg, where the nice cafe and restaurants are, I have to cycle from Bed-Stuy through the neighbourhood of the Hassidic Jews. Men with high black hats and ringlets, women with wigs, head scarfs, long skirts and similar jackets and children with the same ringlets and clothes from the eighteenth century. They're everywhere. On one of my walks, I felt out of place. I realized that my short skirt was ruining the streetscape, so I could imagine - with a little effort - that this not only made them ignore me completely while passing me, but that it also made them cross the street before encountering me at all. Cycling through that neighbourhood made me realize that their behavior was a hazard for my own safety, because their urgency of ignoring me led to dangerous situations in which they quickly tried to cross the street or run over me and my bike. I literally was their blind spot, as an outsider of their community.
I got very frustrated about religion, tolerance, superiority and more of the like. While rambling about this to a friend, she told me about the bike lane war that happened in 2009.
New York creates more and more bike lanes and bike routes, among which the Bedford bike lane, that crosses through Brooklyn and that safely brought me to the Williamsburg Bridge, cafes and yoga. The Hassidic community took it upon themselves to complain about this bike lane because of the dangers for safety and religion. The first because of their children that had to cross the lanes after departing the school busses, the latter because the dress code of the hipsters was conflicting their religious rules of not looking at uncovered skin. The Department of Transportation decided to remove the bike lane, but forgot about the hipsters, who repainted the lane in the night themselves and organized a Freedom Ride to enforce their dissatisfaction. A heavy snow storm prevented a topless bike ride through the neighbourhood, but could't stop the hipsters from cycling around with plastic breasts over their winter coats.
The result? A better and safe bike lane a few blocks away and a busy, often used and visible bike lane on Bedford. You would suspect that in a city like New York, the city of immigrants, different people choose to live together. If it's not possible here, then how can we have hope for all those other places of intolerance in this world?
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Socks
Socks
There is a world of socks. Socks with a story and a character. They live in a world in which one sock is incomparable to the other. Because no sock is the same.
This world of socks is similar to our world. There is music, there is television, and of course, they are on Facebook and Myspace. And this sock world has a god. Whose name is Marty Allen. And who creates characters of ordinary socks. After which he films them, and composes music for them. And he sells their pictures, in frames that he bought in China. That have a description of the sock puppets personality. Portraits that will tell you a lot about the sock in the front.
Talking to Marty, at his stall on Union Square, is a challenge. He's a fast talker. Really fast. And he uses the words sock puppets several times per sentence. Anyway, these socks are his live. And they make his living.
It might have been the charm and energy of their creator or their great appearance, either way, I walked away with one of the portraits. Carefully wrapped in bubble wrap, because Marty wouldn't let me take them without it. He wanted to take care of them before they left his house.
My sock-portrait-adoption-friend chose Lillith Lollybottom, who gazed at him in a sensual and slightly drunk way. I had to chose between Plim and Zimmy Zambini. Plim looked cool, like a rock star, with hair that was blown to one side in a very nonchalant way. Zimmy on the other hand looked like she just saw a ghost, or maybe just herself in a mirror. Her hair stood straight up, her mouth was still open after a loud and scary scream. It felt like I had to save her.
Marty assured me: Zimmy is Plim and Ploms smart sister. Together, they are The Fabulous Flying Zambinis: a very famous acrobat family, whose parents were crushed by an elephant when the children were still small. The other circus artist took care of them and now they take care of each other. Zimmy is the virtuous sibling but as a tender soul.
The choice then was easily made. Plim could take care of himself. I choose Zimmy.
There is a world of socks. Socks with a story and a character. They live in a world in which one sock is incomparable to the other. Because no sock is the same.
This world of socks is similar to our world. There is music, there is television, and of course, they are on Facebook and Myspace. And this sock world has a god. Whose name is Marty Allen. And who creates characters of ordinary socks. After which he films them, and composes music for them. And he sells their pictures, in frames that he bought in China. That have a description of the sock puppets personality. Portraits that will tell you a lot about the sock in the front.
Talking to Marty, at his stall on Union Square, is a challenge. He's a fast talker. Really fast. And he uses the words sock puppets several times per sentence. Anyway, these socks are his live. And they make his living.
It might have been the charm and energy of their creator or their great appearance, either way, I walked away with one of the portraits. Carefully wrapped in bubble wrap, because Marty wouldn't let me take them without it. He wanted to take care of them before they left his house.
My sock-portrait-adoption-friend chose Lillith Lollybottom, who gazed at him in a sensual and slightly drunk way. I had to chose between Plim and Zimmy Zambini. Plim looked cool, like a rock star, with hair that was blown to one side in a very nonchalant way. Zimmy on the other hand looked like she just saw a ghost, or maybe just herself in a mirror. Her hair stood straight up, her mouth was still open after a loud and scary scream. It felt like I had to save her.
Marty assured me: Zimmy is Plim and Ploms smart sister. Together, they are The Fabulous Flying Zambinis: a very famous acrobat family, whose parents were crushed by an elephant when the children were still small. The other circus artist took care of them and now they take care of each other. Zimmy is the virtuous sibling but as a tender soul.
The choice then was easily made. Plim could take care of himself. I choose Zimmy.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Teddy
I only need three things to be happy. A stage. A man. An instrument. The intensity of the happiness depends on the intimacy of the stage, the attractiveness of the man and the kind of instrument. I get more exited from a piano or a guitar than from a triangle, but that doesn't mean there won't ever be a really good, hopefully attractive triangle player who can touch me in the core of my heart.
For now, it's mainly piano's and guitars that do the work. I don't think I'm asking for much. Because even in the worse case - a big stage far away with an ugly guy who cannot sing and has an off tone instrument - I can still be moved by the setting.
This night had all the good variables, in terms of the stage, the man and the instrument. And it also was at a special location, namely the RMH, that organizes monthly NS evenings. Evenings on which the stage doesn't hold more but a singer and his (or hers) instrument, and maybe a mic. In this case, the mic wasn't on. It was only there for the musician to stand behind.
Teddy Thompson, the man I'm talking about, was acting incredibly nonchalant. Jeans, a vest, long sleeve t-shirt and a guitar. It seemd like he was jogging through Chelsea, ran pass the museum and decided he could just as well play some tunes there. He started of without saying anything. He appeared a bit unease, standing alone on that stage. But slowly he loosened up and talked about not having a playlist. He repeatedly had to get his iPod out of his pocket to find out the chords of his songs. He explained his relaxedness from just returning from California.
I realized that, even though I know and have listened to his music for years now, I don't know any of his lyrics, but only the melodies. Neither did I know any of the titles of his songs, like other people in the audience that tried to help him pick another song for his playlist. "No, can't do that one without band". "That one is too difficult to sing alone." "I haven't song that in a long time, don't remember the lyrics."
Because it was just him and his guitar, without all the other instruments that normally are in his songs, there was not much left but the lyrics. So for the first time, I heard about his longing, his deceptions. He wants her to leave, misses her, feels rejected, wonders why they're still together. Teddies songs are all about love! And of course, that makes him even more attractive.
One of my favorites:
For now, it's mainly piano's and guitars that do the work. I don't think I'm asking for much. Because even in the worse case - a big stage far away with an ugly guy who cannot sing and has an off tone instrument - I can still be moved by the setting.
This night had all the good variables, in terms of the stage, the man and the instrument. And it also was at a special location, namely the RMH, that organizes monthly NS evenings. Evenings on which the stage doesn't hold more but a singer and his (or hers) instrument, and maybe a mic. In this case, the mic wasn't on. It was only there for the musician to stand behind.
Teddy Thompson, the man I'm talking about, was acting incredibly nonchalant. Jeans, a vest, long sleeve t-shirt and a guitar. It seemd like he was jogging through Chelsea, ran pass the museum and decided he could just as well play some tunes there. He started of without saying anything. He appeared a bit unease, standing alone on that stage. But slowly he loosened up and talked about not having a playlist. He repeatedly had to get his iPod out of his pocket to find out the chords of his songs. He explained his relaxedness from just returning from California.
I realized that, even though I know and have listened to his music for years now, I don't know any of his lyrics, but only the melodies. Neither did I know any of the titles of his songs, like other people in the audience that tried to help him pick another song for his playlist. "No, can't do that one without band". "That one is too difficult to sing alone." "I haven't song that in a long time, don't remember the lyrics."
Because it was just him and his guitar, without all the other instruments that normally are in his songs, there was not much left but the lyrics. So for the first time, I heard about his longing, his deceptions. He wants her to leave, misses her, feels rejected, wonders why they're still together. Teddies songs are all about love! And of course, that makes him even more attractive.
One of my favorites:
Monday, March 21, 2011
Card
Je are who you want to be.
At least, in New York.
In an ideal world, you can be who you want to be and get accepted by others. But in an ideal world, there's world peace, no global warming and chocolate's growing on bushes, so you can reach it easily.
There is no ideal world. But New York comes close to it. Depending on the subject.
On the matter of global warming, I messed up my ten years of turning-of-lights-when-i'm-not-in-the-room and recycle-paper-and-plastic and don't-shower-too-long and getting-chargers-out-of-the-outlet-when-you're-not-charging-anything in about three weeks. Everything here is served in plastic trays, with plastic forks and plastic knives, preferably packed in plastic bags and put together in a bigger plastic bag. Sorry, earth.
I wouldn't pick chocolate from bushes here, but the sweets that can be found - organic chocolate cakes, freshly baked muffins, home made cookies as my personal favorites - are delicious.
And then there's peace on earth. Which ain't here either. Like the kid on the packed train in the morning, who attacked someone who accidentally touched him while walking out, and gave that person an extra push and said: 'don't touch me'. Honey, if you don't want to be touched, don't take a train at this part of the day. Ride your bike. I have admired people who were standing in inhumane positions, trying to hold on to one of the poles or even the ceiling, while peacefully reading their book. And I myself have experienced some interesting situations in which I didn't know where my limbs were in between that pile of bags, legs and bodies, hoping I would retrieve them undamaged.
New York does offer a part of an ideal world. Everyone can be who he or she wants to be. I met a girl who told me: "I'm a singer, and that's why I came to New York, but I really need to start doing that." After which she admitted she'd been working at a hair dresser for the past five years. In this city, everyone who serves you your coffee, takes your order or checks out your groceries is an artist. It doesn't matter if they actually do something in the arts or just think about being an artist. You are who you want to be.
Depending on the location though, you also are what you do. At an event of the Netherlands-America-Foundation, I couldn't get away with: I'm just enjoying myself. People were working at banks, were graduating at well known universities or were working at important businesses. Luckily, I just found an activity to keep myself busy, which meant I was a somebody. The only problem was I didn't have a card.
You can be who you want to be, you can do what you want to do and still want to be something different and become that person, you can not think about who or what you are, as long as you have a card. Everyone who calls themselves something, has a card that can prove it. Every day, I walk home with at least two new cards, of people who put the to prove their existence in my hands.
In other words: I need to go to Kinko's..
At least, in New York.
In an ideal world, you can be who you want to be and get accepted by others. But in an ideal world, there's world peace, no global warming and chocolate's growing on bushes, so you can reach it easily.
There is no ideal world. But New York comes close to it. Depending on the subject.
On the matter of global warming, I messed up my ten years of turning-of-lights-when-i'm-not-in-the-room and recycle-paper-and-plastic and don't-shower-too-long and getting-chargers-out-of-the-outlet-when-you're-not-charging-anything in about three weeks. Everything here is served in plastic trays, with plastic forks and plastic knives, preferably packed in plastic bags and put together in a bigger plastic bag. Sorry, earth.
I wouldn't pick chocolate from bushes here, but the sweets that can be found - organic chocolate cakes, freshly baked muffins, home made cookies as my personal favorites - are delicious.
And then there's peace on earth. Which ain't here either. Like the kid on the packed train in the morning, who attacked someone who accidentally touched him while walking out, and gave that person an extra push and said: 'don't touch me'. Honey, if you don't want to be touched, don't take a train at this part of the day. Ride your bike. I have admired people who were standing in inhumane positions, trying to hold on to one of the poles or even the ceiling, while peacefully reading their book. And I myself have experienced some interesting situations in which I didn't know where my limbs were in between that pile of bags, legs and bodies, hoping I would retrieve them undamaged.
New York does offer a part of an ideal world. Everyone can be who he or she wants to be. I met a girl who told me: "I'm a singer, and that's why I came to New York, but I really need to start doing that." After which she admitted she'd been working at a hair dresser for the past five years. In this city, everyone who serves you your coffee, takes your order or checks out your groceries is an artist. It doesn't matter if they actually do something in the arts or just think about being an artist. You are who you want to be.
Depending on the location though, you also are what you do. At an event of the Netherlands-America-Foundation, I couldn't get away with: I'm just enjoying myself. People were working at banks, were graduating at well known universities or were working at important businesses. Luckily, I just found an activity to keep myself busy, which meant I was a somebody. The only problem was I didn't have a card.
You can be who you want to be, you can do what you want to do and still want to be something different and become that person, you can not think about who or what you are, as long as you have a card. Everyone who calls themselves something, has a card that can prove it. Every day, I walk home with at least two new cards, of people who put the to prove their existence in my hands.
In other words: I need to go to Kinko's..
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Extacy
I love films that are set in New York. A lot of films are. Even better is to see films that are set in New York, in New York. Sometimes, with Dutch films, I have trouble to loose myself in the story, because I get derived by little mistakes that are not factually true. (One cannot park at the Munt, not at night and never, dear Reinout Oerlemans. And the bathrooms of Tuschinski are in Tuschinski and not at some fancy nightclub, dear Antoinette Beumer). But in New York, I don't know the city that well so I don't see most inconsistencies, and second, I'm still so exited to be here that I don't even care. Best of all is to watch a movie about New York in New York, while you can hear the subway rattle under the venue. Though the Not For Tourist guide points this out as a disadvantage of this locatie, I think it adds that extra touch.
There are so many films about New York. There are scary film, like, Aftershock, Earthquake in New York or Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. There is action, like Spiderman or The Day after Tomorrow. There are blockbusters, like Sex and the City (the film) and Confessions of a Shopaholic, and there are good films, with about all Woody Allen films, The Godfather and Smoke - that happens to be taped in my neigbourhood.
But the films I like best, I must confess, are the the socalled Indie movies, about modern day New Yorkers, which are great to identify with. They are often about wannabe artists (check), who are struggling with difficult times in their lives (check), who do cool things with friends (check) while hoping that everything will end well (check). Often, there's a lot of drinking coffee in parks, drinks in dark bars and a lot of personal conversations (check, check, check). To give the film at least one consistent story line, at least one strange thing happens in the beginning that will evolve during the rest of the film.
Three years ago, they made Nick and Nora's Infinte playlist, about teenage New Yorkers, two years ago I saw New York I Love You, with eleven short stories about love in the city and this year, there's Happythankyoumoreplease. Written, directed and played by Josh Radnor, known from the television show How I Met You Mother, that is about the same principal. That actually leads me to a critical note about this film: half way through, I sometimes didn't know if I was looking at Ted from television or Sam from the film. Even more critical would be to say it didn't matter in the end.
But I didn't care. I just had a great time. Nice film, nice city, nice actors (additional plus is that Josh appears to be allergic to dogs) nice film locations, and very nice music. And afterwards a nice ride home by train.
Happy. Thank you. More please.
There are so many films about New York. There are scary film, like, Aftershock, Earthquake in New York or Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. There is action, like Spiderman or The Day after Tomorrow. There are blockbusters, like Sex and the City (the film) and Confessions of a Shopaholic, and there are good films, with about all Woody Allen films, The Godfather and Smoke - that happens to be taped in my neigbourhood.
But the films I like best, I must confess, are the the socalled Indie movies, about modern day New Yorkers, which are great to identify with. They are often about wannabe artists (check), who are struggling with difficult times in their lives (check), who do cool things with friends (check) while hoping that everything will end well (check). Often, there's a lot of drinking coffee in parks, drinks in dark bars and a lot of personal conversations (check, check, check). To give the film at least one consistent story line, at least one strange thing happens in the beginning that will evolve during the rest of the film.
Three years ago, they made Nick and Nora's Infinte playlist, about teenage New Yorkers, two years ago I saw New York I Love You, with eleven short stories about love in the city and this year, there's Happythankyoumoreplease. Written, directed and played by Josh Radnor, known from the television show How I Met You Mother, that is about the same principal. That actually leads me to a critical note about this film: half way through, I sometimes didn't know if I was looking at Ted from television or Sam from the film. Even more critical would be to say it didn't matter in the end.
But I didn't care. I just had a great time. Nice film, nice city, nice actors (additional plus is that Josh appears to be allergic to dogs) nice film locations, and very nice music. And afterwards a nice ride home by train.
Happy. Thank you. More please.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
China
Yesterday, I walked in the pooring rain at ten thirty with two people through Chinatown. We were hungry and we figured it should be possible to get something in this exiting part of New York at this time of the day. However, while walking through the narrow streets, the only thing we saw was the closing of one rolling shutter after the other and Chinese men cleaning their steps. The rain made it all even more desolate. Then, we saw a light and seven waiters who just cleaned the place, sitting together after a hard days work. When we asked them if it would be possible to get some food, they quickly talked in Chinese and then gave us a short nod. Enter. While seven waiters, and the five cooks that were also free now, sat on the table next to us, we ate our Foe jong hai. Back in the rain we talked about the Chinese work ethics: if there's a chance to make money, you have to take it.
Today, I saw a documentary about the The Chinese bubble, in which a cab driver concludes that he has to work for two hundred years to be able to buy a house and a real estate magnate decides to buy a piece of land in, of course, New York to built an Asian city. "I will call it Asian Star or New Asia." They are all so positive, those Chinese. Or at least, the wealthy ones. they have big dreams, want to reach the skies. The cab driver just hopes the economy won't collapse, because less people will take a cab when it does. The builder longs for the past in which everything was better than it is now. He works way up high and "even in my dreams I'm in the air".
The documentary reminded me of the Go West Project, by journalist Michiel Hulshof and architect Daan Roggeveen. They are researching the development of the new Chinese cities, which, due to the stagnant growth of the metropolises in the East, increasingly extends westward. In a presentation of their project, which ultimately results in a book, they showed how China is slowly filling up with empty cities, with empty apartments, empty roads and huge empty shopping malls, where no one walks yet, but that are waiting for millions of people who are about to leave the countryside.
According to the economist in The Chinese Bubble, real estate is the only way of investing in a country where you can't invest abroad and where the stock market is too weak. On the website of the GWP, the deserted cities are on every photo you see.
lastly, this reminded me of Highrise, out of my window, in which Tainan (once founded by the Dutch) is the only 'Chinese' city in this project. You'd think there are plenty of other cities that can show you a beautiful view out of their windows.
Check those sites! They are great!
Today, I saw a documentary about the The Chinese bubble, in which a cab driver concludes that he has to work for two hundred years to be able to buy a house and a real estate magnate decides to buy a piece of land in, of course, New York to built an Asian city. "I will call it Asian Star or New Asia." They are all so positive, those Chinese. Or at least, the wealthy ones. they have big dreams, want to reach the skies. The cab driver just hopes the economy won't collapse, because less people will take a cab when it does. The builder longs for the past in which everything was better than it is now. He works way up high and "even in my dreams I'm in the air".
The documentary reminded me of the Go West Project, by journalist Michiel Hulshof and architect Daan Roggeveen. They are researching the development of the new Chinese cities, which, due to the stagnant growth of the metropolises in the East, increasingly extends westward. In a presentation of their project, which ultimately results in a book, they showed how China is slowly filling up with empty cities, with empty apartments, empty roads and huge empty shopping malls, where no one walks yet, but that are waiting for millions of people who are about to leave the countryside.
According to the economist in The Chinese Bubble, real estate is the only way of investing in a country where you can't invest abroad and where the stock market is too weak. On the website of the GWP, the deserted cities are on every photo you see.
lastly, this reminded me of Highrise, out of my window, in which Tainan (once founded by the Dutch) is the only 'Chinese' city in this project. You'd think there are plenty of other cities that can show you a beautiful view out of their windows.
Check those sites! They are great!
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Big Apple
It's easy to dwell in beautiful fantasies about adventures, important events or other future and maybe one day completed projects. But to actually start them, is something completely different.
So it was fairly easy for me, two years ago, to decide to live in New York a year later (2010). I imagined myself drinking coffee with friends in one of the thousand coffee shops, working in a place with a view on Manhattan, and being bored in the subway in the morning, just like all the other commuters on their way to work. After I made this decision, I floated from happiness because I was there again. Half a year earlier, I arrived for the first time, fell in love, and decided to return. On my second visit, I would become emotional every time I realized what decision I just made. This city was about to become my home!
When I returned in Amsterdam, it all wasn't as easy as I hoped. Even trying to figure out all options, cost a lot of time and effort and actually was discouraging. Although, in my mind, I still could see myself drinking coffee with new friends, I found myself biking through Amsterdam, that suddenly looked more beautiful and sunnier than ever. Over the last two years, my love for the city blossomed again, for the cafes and theatres where I drink coffee with friends, for the fact that I can go anywhere by bike, for my work and work location. Well, for the life that I'm living.
Which is always a good time to step back for a while. Not for always, not that long, but long enough to really be away and try other things. Without a job, without a goal. I'm going to drink coffee in New York. I'm going to write, film and live. And if the writing and filming won't actually happen, I'm just going to be there. Because I can. Because my fantasies have become reality, though in a smaller version, and thanks to a lot of people.
The most important lesson? keep fantasizing, but also act! Because who knows, dreams can come true.
Talking Big Apple '75
So it was fairly easy for me, two years ago, to decide to live in New York a year later (2010). I imagined myself drinking coffee with friends in one of the thousand coffee shops, working in a place with a view on Manhattan, and being bored in the subway in the morning, just like all the other commuters on their way to work. After I made this decision, I floated from happiness because I was there again. Half a year earlier, I arrived for the first time, fell in love, and decided to return. On my second visit, I would become emotional every time I realized what decision I just made. This city was about to become my home!
When I returned in Amsterdam, it all wasn't as easy as I hoped. Even trying to figure out all options, cost a lot of time and effort and actually was discouraging. Although, in my mind, I still could see myself drinking coffee with new friends, I found myself biking through Amsterdam, that suddenly looked more beautiful and sunnier than ever. Over the last two years, my love for the city blossomed again, for the cafes and theatres where I drink coffee with friends, for the fact that I can go anywhere by bike, for my work and work location. Well, for the life that I'm living.
Which is always a good time to step back for a while. Not for always, not that long, but long enough to really be away and try other things. Without a job, without a goal. I'm going to drink coffee in New York. I'm going to write, film and live. And if the writing and filming won't actually happen, I'm just going to be there. Because I can. Because my fantasies have become reality, though in a smaller version, and thanks to a lot of people.
The most important lesson? keep fantasizing, but also act! Because who knows, dreams can come true.
Talking Big Apple '75
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)