I'm sitting behind my Apple laptop, with in my hand a new opened bottle of Mountain Spring water from Trader Joe's. Next to my computer are the remains of a Wholefoods scone. With my blue Wolky boots, I slowly tap the floor while I'm searching for the right sentences. The label of my Victoria Secrets bra scratches my back, forgot to remove it. I take another sip of water and get up to make some Twinnings Earl Grey tea. In the meantime, I try to figure out where I will eat later today. At one of the nearby restaurants, or at one of the bigger chains, like Humus Place or Sushi Samba?
Too much choice.
I want to see a movie, and luckily, there's no Pathe here in New York. I can choose either Angelica or IFC. My eye, with contacts of Bausch & Lomb, catches The greatest movie ever sold. I take the MTA subway to Broadway and Lafayette and not much later, I sink in the red chair.
When the lights go out, commercial images follow each other for one and a half hours on the screen. It's going fast and I distrust everything I see. Why do we find it so normal that companies and organizations crush us with their messages of dream worlds on a daily basis? How did we let this happen, that we don't think of something to do ourselves, but that we need others to tell us? And, even more important: why do we buy it? Why do we shrug our shoulders and move on? Doing exactly what the corporations have told us we want to do?
After the film, I walk outside feeling dizzy. I'm thirsty. I walk into a bodega and by a POM drink. Weird, I never wanted to buy that before.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
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!
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Choreography
People are standing, spread out. Some sit on wooden benches. Everyone seems to be in their own world, staring in front of them, playing a game on their phone. Some people are wearing head phones, that produce parts of music. All those different songs create a new sound in which some songs sometimes are better heard then others.
Then, a loud sound. Two lights that come closer. The sound of doors opening. The mass moves. All the different positions move to one and the same place, they mingle with others, passing characters in a life.
Speed takes over and gives a rhythm to the people. Together, they move to the left, to the right. Little movements, perfectly coordinated, at the same time. Every one holds on, some sit, others lean to doors or poles. But they share the rhythm. It seems uncontrolled, sudden.
Every one keeps staring. In front of them, or down, in books or phones. They try not to touch and move away when people get to close. But sometimes, with or without purpose, they touch. A foot touches a leg, a hand touches a back. Small signs of solidarity, of being part of a group. Confirmations of each others existence. Sometimes, looks cross. One nods, sometimes smiles.
When the doors open, the ritual repeats itself. Old passengers leave the group, new ones arrive and blend in with the rhythm of the speed.
Then, a loud sound. Two lights that come closer. The sound of doors opening. The mass moves. All the different positions move to one and the same place, they mingle with others, passing characters in a life.
Speed takes over and gives a rhythm to the people. Together, they move to the left, to the right. Little movements, perfectly coordinated, at the same time. Every one holds on, some sit, others lean to doors or poles. But they share the rhythm. It seems uncontrolled, sudden.
Every one keeps staring. In front of them, or down, in books or phones. They try not to touch and move away when people get to close. But sometimes, with or without purpose, they touch. A foot touches a leg, a hand touches a back. Small signs of solidarity, of being part of a group. Confirmations of each others existence. Sometimes, looks cross. One nods, sometimes smiles.
When the doors open, the ritual repeats itself. Old passengers leave the group, new ones arrive and blend in with the rhythm of the speed.
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.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Sketchbook
Once a year, thousands of empty notebooks travel the world. Where people are waiting impatiently until their new blank treasure arrives, so they can start poring their hart and soul in it. You could compare it to a diary. But where diaries, once they are filled with all the tears, sorrow and joy of previous times, are stored on a shelve or in a box, these notebooks are returned to sender. Their temporary owners fill them with writings, drawings, unique little art works and all the others things they want to share, and then return them to the Art Library in Brooklyn.
The Sketchbook Project is a collection of worlds. Of words, drawings, fabric, paint, stickers. Of sweet little angles who present beautiful sayings and one eyed monsters that stare at you in a cold way from the dark pages that produce them. Some notebooks burst with information and need to be tied together with rope and rubber bands, others are missing pages, leaving holes that create new forms.
Above all, it's a collection of love. Besides their different content and the different lives of their creators, all of them have put their love, time and energy in creating a unique little book. They have thought about it and have taken the effort to wrap their little world and send it back to Brooklyn.
And because of all those people, thousands of little books are traveling America. Standing next to each other, brotherly, waiting for other, unknown, people to select them from the shelves and explore them. Little books that move or impress their audience. Make people laugh, or fall quiet for a moment. To tell the story of their creators to strangers.
The Sketchbook Project is a collection of worlds. Of words, drawings, fabric, paint, stickers. Of sweet little angles who present beautiful sayings and one eyed monsters that stare at you in a cold way from the dark pages that produce them. Some notebooks burst with information and need to be tied together with rope and rubber bands, others are missing pages, leaving holes that create new forms.
Above all, it's a collection of love. Besides their different content and the different lives of their creators, all of them have put their love, time and energy in creating a unique little book. They have thought about it and have taken the effort to wrap their little world and send it back to Brooklyn.
And because of all those people, thousands of little books are traveling America. Standing next to each other, brotherly, waiting for other, unknown, people to select them from the shelves and explore them. Little books that move or impress their audience. Make people laugh, or fall quiet for a moment. To tell the story of their creators to strangers.
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