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..
Monday, March 21, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Mask
We got on the train together, but I didn't see him.
It was eleven pm and I just left the theatre where I had been working in the dark all day, to get into the warm subway. We were sitting opposite from each other. Only when I sat down, my bag on my lap, arms folded around it to rest a little, and looked around, I saw him.
He was wearing jeans, worn down sneakers. A tight jacket and a ladylike leather bag that could fit a phone, keys and more things girls stuff their bags with. And he was wearing a mask. No balaclava, but a golden burlesque mask.
His whole face was covered by it, there was only a little whole for his mouth. On the edges, it was decorated with golden knobs and the rest was covered in shiny coloured sequins. On the left side, at the level of his eyebrow, there was a little horn, golden of course, that curled upwards. The other horn, that I expected on the right side, appeared right under his nose.
His eyes were also hidden, behind little holes that reminded me of C3PO from Star Wars. His hands were knuckled, old. One held a lighter, the other aggressively ticked on his phone, on which he was playing a game as if his life was depending on it.
Once in a while he looked up, looked around and then focussed on his phone again. People around us couldn't stop looking at him. They did it though in the normal way of looking at people in the train: they would glance a little, but then turn away and stare in front of them like nothing strange was going on.
I just looked ahead, and therefor at him. His hair was short and bleached and was styled in some sort of David Bowie coupe. Sometimes he would couch a little, and put the hand with the lighter in front of his mouth.
I wondered if he might be going to a party, or if he just wanted to wear his mask today. Or maybe someone told him to do so. I would like to take his picture, but you shouldn't state the obvious. I hoped he would get out at my stop, which he did, but he headed in the other direction. He might live in the neighbourhood, so I might run into him again.
I can't wait.
It was eleven pm and I just left the theatre where I had been working in the dark all day, to get into the warm subway. We were sitting opposite from each other. Only when I sat down, my bag on my lap, arms folded around it to rest a little, and looked around, I saw him.
He was wearing jeans, worn down sneakers. A tight jacket and a ladylike leather bag that could fit a phone, keys and more things girls stuff their bags with. And he was wearing a mask. No balaclava, but a golden burlesque mask.
His whole face was covered by it, there was only a little whole for his mouth. On the edges, it was decorated with golden knobs and the rest was covered in shiny coloured sequins. On the left side, at the level of his eyebrow, there was a little horn, golden of course, that curled upwards. The other horn, that I expected on the right side, appeared right under his nose.
His eyes were also hidden, behind little holes that reminded me of C3PO from Star Wars. His hands were knuckled, old. One held a lighter, the other aggressively ticked on his phone, on which he was playing a game as if his life was depending on it.
Once in a while he looked up, looked around and then focussed on his phone again. People around us couldn't stop looking at him. They did it though in the normal way of looking at people in the train: they would glance a little, but then turn away and stare in front of them like nothing strange was going on.
I just looked ahead, and therefor at him. His hair was short and bleached and was styled in some sort of David Bowie coupe. Sometimes he would couch a little, and put the hand with the lighter in front of his mouth.
I wondered if he might be going to a party, or if he just wanted to wear his mask today. Or maybe someone told him to do so. I would like to take his picture, but you shouldn't state the obvious. I hoped he would get out at my stop, which he did, but he headed in the other direction. He might live in the neighbourhood, so I might run into him again.
I can't wait.
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!
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Duke and Battersby
This evening, Union Docs, a small non profit in Brooklyn that wants to show special projects to a bigger audience but also brings people together to develop new film projects, hosted a film night. Three films, all around fifteen minutes, made by the Canadian artists Emily Vey Duke and Cooper Battersby.
In the talk after the screening, they told about their relationship "Only work with people that you fuck, or have fucked for a ong time," as Duke put it. Once, they met, not in person but on paper. They both were putting up provocative posters in a small Canadian town, and recognized themselves in the other persons art. When they finally really met, collaboration was the only option. After seeing their films, I understand that when this is your art and you meet someone that understands it, you cannot let them go. I actually was surprised that there are actually two people who make films like these, and it's extremely special that they actually met.
What I liked about their films is that they combine different art forms: drawings, film, music, collages, weird stories. They don't make documentaries, they don't make films in it's pure form (a story that is being told by images that follow eachother). They are little art pieces, collages of thoughts, images, fragments and sounds, that are being put together. And, like with other art, you shouldn't think of it too much. Instead, just enjoy what you see.
See more films.
In the talk after the screening, they told about their relationship "Only work with people that you fuck, or have fucked for a ong time," as Duke put it. Once, they met, not in person but on paper. They both were putting up provocative posters in a small Canadian town, and recognized themselves in the other persons art. When they finally really met, collaboration was the only option. After seeing their films, I understand that when this is your art and you meet someone that understands it, you cannot let them go. I actually was surprised that there are actually two people who make films like these, and it's extremely special that they actually met.
What I liked about their films is that they combine different art forms: drawings, film, music, collages, weird stories. They don't make documentaries, they don't make films in it's pure form (a story that is being told by images that follow eachother). They are little art pieces, collages of thoughts, images, fragments and sounds, that are being put together. And, like with other art, you shouldn't think of it too much. Instead, just enjoy what you see.
The Beauty is Relentless from cooper battersby on Vimeo.
See more films.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Hunger
I'm always hungry. Or I always long for something. For a grand and glorious life, let that be clear.
The last few days, that hunger is really present. That's partly because of the airplane food, which is actually not that bad, but which is rarely the vegetarian option that I chose when I booked my flight. So often, I have to give back half of the microwaved food in little plastic containers to the steward that just gave it to me. Or I share it with the person sitting next to me, if I need to be friends of them because of a lack of space.
It's also partly because the trip from the airport to my new home was slightly difficult because of the huge suitcase I brought with me. I normally always try to travel as light as possible, which means a small backpack that can easily be lifted. This time, I thought I needed to bring more shoes, so it seems appropriate to bring a suitcase. Shoes. Because of shoes, I had to drag this heavy thing off the stairs at home, through the cobbled streets of Amsterdam. through train stations and airports and the New York subway, where it was impossible to go through the gates. Then, I had to walk several blocks more than expected, and at that time, my hands couldn't pull or push anything, let alone this heavy monster. So when I finally arrived in my new home, I collapsed and couldn't get my body up to eat something before falling in a deep sleep.
So in the morning, I was hungry. Unbelievable hungry.To the city, the people, food, coffee, stuff, experience, and a lot of grand and gloriousness. Luckily, this city is perfect if you're on a quest for all of this, and it will be the last one to tell you to stop. Contrary, it encourages you to consume. The Not For Tourist guidebook that I bought - to satisfy my hunger - is filled with restaurants, cafes, shops, theatres and film venues where one can spend ones money. I noticed quickly that after buying - in chronological order - bagels and tea for breakfast, a very sexy laptop, coffee and soup and beautiful books to write in, my hunger was still not satisfied. I hadn't had enough.
In a capitalistic world, it's normal to buy stuff to satisfy the hunger. And of course, I participate in that too. After spending money for a day, I want to use all the stuff that I just bought to satisfy that other hunger: for people, experiences. But I Know the hunger will last. Whatever happens.
Buddah sais that longing is the cause of suffering and can only be solved by accepting the reality for what it is. I will try to surrender to reality, hoping that the hunger will disappear over time. But I will also try to discover as many restaurants as possible in New York. A (wo)man gotta eat.
The last few days, that hunger is really present. That's partly because of the airplane food, which is actually not that bad, but which is rarely the vegetarian option that I chose when I booked my flight. So often, I have to give back half of the microwaved food in little plastic containers to the steward that just gave it to me. Or I share it with the person sitting next to me, if I need to be friends of them because of a lack of space.
It's also partly because the trip from the airport to my new home was slightly difficult because of the huge suitcase I brought with me. I normally always try to travel as light as possible, which means a small backpack that can easily be lifted. This time, I thought I needed to bring more shoes, so it seems appropriate to bring a suitcase. Shoes. Because of shoes, I had to drag this heavy thing off the stairs at home, through the cobbled streets of Amsterdam. through train stations and airports and the New York subway, where it was impossible to go through the gates. Then, I had to walk several blocks more than expected, and at that time, my hands couldn't pull or push anything, let alone this heavy monster. So when I finally arrived in my new home, I collapsed and couldn't get my body up to eat something before falling in a deep sleep.
So in the morning, I was hungry. Unbelievable hungry.To the city, the people, food, coffee, stuff, experience, and a lot of grand and gloriousness. Luckily, this city is perfect if you're on a quest for all of this, and it will be the last one to tell you to stop. Contrary, it encourages you to consume. The Not For Tourist guidebook that I bought - to satisfy my hunger - is filled with restaurants, cafes, shops, theatres and film venues where one can spend ones money. I noticed quickly that after buying - in chronological order - bagels and tea for breakfast, a very sexy laptop, coffee and soup and beautiful books to write in, my hunger was still not satisfied. I hadn't had enough.
In a capitalistic world, it's normal to buy stuff to satisfy the hunger. And of course, I participate in that too. After spending money for a day, I want to use all the stuff that I just bought to satisfy that other hunger: for people, experiences. But I Know the hunger will last. Whatever happens.
Buddah sais that longing is the cause of suffering and can only be solved by accepting the reality for what it is. I will try to surrender to reality, hoping that the hunger will disappear over time. But I will also try to discover as many restaurants as possible in New York. A (wo)man gotta eat.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Train
When I opened the door to the compartment and entered, I saw that there were two seats left opposite a young woman. I thought I recognized her, but in the bustle that comes along while entering a train, I figured I could better put my stuff and myself down first before I checked again. If it were her, we could talk. I put my bags on the seat, my coffee on the table and my sandwich next to it. Only after I removed the bags from my shoulder and was getting out of my coat, I saw it.
She was crying.
Shit.
I didn't know her that well. But since I was in the middle of this process, I could not stop and leave. I decided to sit down. Organizing my stuff, flipping through my agenda, drinking my coffee and once in a while peeking at the girl in the mirroring window. It was her. And she was still crying. Softly. Did she recognize me? Would she even know who I was? And more important: would she want me to recognize her?
The voice inside of me yelled: Talk To Her! Ask her how she is doing! Ask if you can help! Because she's not doing ok!
But, what if she didn't want me to say anything to her? What if me saying something would force her into talking to this person she vaguely knew, to share her sorrow with? Would she feel uncomfortable? I would have asked any unknown person I would meet in this situation if I could help, if they wanted to talk about it. But now, I was afraid.
Still flipping through my agenda, I would once in a while look up, choosing a direction that wouldn't involve her in my sight, only to dive into my bok again afterwards.
Though the tears had stopped, she was still sniffing. The problem was that it felt impossible to me to turn the situation around, I couldn't just look up and suddenly recognize her now. And if she had recognized me, she'd know I'd seen her too. So now we were keeping up the appearances and we wouldn't change that anymore. At least, I had no idea how to. I tried to think of things that could have happened for her to sit here like this. But most things didn't seem adequate. It must be something really bad, like a death or someone who got really sick, or some other terrible thing that you wouldn't want to share with an almost stranger.
The sniffing turned into crying again. In the meantime, I'd accepted the situation and I just kept hoping she would get out of the train at the next station, so she could blend in with the crowd and just feel sad without being confronted with my presence.
So I kept silent, and didn't look up when she left the train. But from the moment she disappeared until now, I've been hoping that she knows that my silence was a sign of respect and sympathy, instead of disinterest. And I hope that she's feeling better. Looking back at it, I think I should have said something.
I'm so sorry, vaguely familiar woman! I wish I could have comforted you!
She was crying.
Shit.
I didn't know her that well. But since I was in the middle of this process, I could not stop and leave. I decided to sit down. Organizing my stuff, flipping through my agenda, drinking my coffee and once in a while peeking at the girl in the mirroring window. It was her. And she was still crying. Softly. Did she recognize me? Would she even know who I was? And more important: would she want me to recognize her?
The voice inside of me yelled: Talk To Her! Ask her how she is doing! Ask if you can help! Because she's not doing ok!
But, what if she didn't want me to say anything to her? What if me saying something would force her into talking to this person she vaguely knew, to share her sorrow with? Would she feel uncomfortable? I would have asked any unknown person I would meet in this situation if I could help, if they wanted to talk about it. But now, I was afraid.
Still flipping through my agenda, I would once in a while look up, choosing a direction that wouldn't involve her in my sight, only to dive into my bok again afterwards.
Though the tears had stopped, she was still sniffing. The problem was that it felt impossible to me to turn the situation around, I couldn't just look up and suddenly recognize her now. And if she had recognized me, she'd know I'd seen her too. So now we were keeping up the appearances and we wouldn't change that anymore. At least, I had no idea how to. I tried to think of things that could have happened for her to sit here like this. But most things didn't seem adequate. It must be something really bad, like a death or someone who got really sick, or some other terrible thing that you wouldn't want to share with an almost stranger.
The sniffing turned into crying again. In the meantime, I'd accepted the situation and I just kept hoping she would get out of the train at the next station, so she could blend in with the crowd and just feel sad without being confronted with my presence.
So I kept silent, and didn't look up when she left the train. But from the moment she disappeared until now, I've been hoping that she knows that my silence was a sign of respect and sympathy, instead of disinterest. And I hope that she's feeling better. Looking back at it, I think I should have said something.
I'm so sorry, vaguely familiar woman! I wish I could have comforted you!
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