tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76715105540446084852024-03-05T03:17:05.784-05:00The NY Culture VultureA blog dedicated to the fine and performing arts in NYC and its environs.A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.comBlogger36125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-25891531838563091112011-01-30T09:28:00.003-05:002011-01-30T23:04:10.205-05:00Making StoneI've been seeing a lot of art and theatre, but I haven't been inspired to write about it. Mostly because I haven't been connecting on a deeper emotional level. Am I learning more about the human condition? I suppose. Am I experiencing beauty? Sometimes. Am I being exposed to new idea? Sure. So, what's the problem? It feels passive. And while I can't expect to have a transcendent experience every time I see a work of art, I wish the feeling was coming a little more often. <div><br /></div><div>I've decided to take action. I'm looking for new experiences--ones that make me feel like an active participant or collaborator. I feel like a cheeseball saying this, but I'm trying to create a sense of intellectual excitement, emotional vitality, and--dare I say it--well being. In the last couple of weeks, I went to my first yoga class since college; I polled friends for good non-fiction books and started reading; I redecorated part of the living room; I helped make a stone wall for a theatrical set; I explored an unfamiliar part of the City; and I made a new friend. I feel like I'm slowly shaking off the winter-time stupor. It will be interesting to see if this continued regimen will bear fruit. I think it might. </div>A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-89095957678560523062010-10-09T21:31:00.002-04:002010-10-09T21:44:49.434-04:00Museum of the City of New YorkKate and I visited the Museum of the City of New York today. She had never been. I had only visited once before. We were both surprised to discover most of the museum was closed for renovation. I guess we should have read the website before we showed up.<div><br /></div><div>In any event, we strolled through both of the special exhibitions and the period room hall. The clothes in <i><a href="http://www.mcny.org/exhibitions/current/Notorious-&-Notable.html">Notorious and Notable: 20th Century Women of Style</a> </i>were pretty fun. But then again, costumes always are. I was a little put off by the labels. If I were taking a shot every time I read the word doyenne, I wouldn't have made it out standing up. Still, I did learn such interesting tidbits as English-born actress Angela Lansbury presided over the centennial celebrations for the Statue of Liberty (she wore a red Glinda-the-Good-Witch-get-up) and Rosamond Bernier is still alive. </div><div><br /></div><div>I actually enjoyed the period rooms a great deal. I got to run through my mental Winterthur checklist. It's been a long time since I had looked at any dec. arts and I was delighted to discover I hadn't forgotten everything I was taught. I was a little surprised at the French stained-glass window amidst all the period rooms. I should have read a label to see why it was there. </div><div><br /></div><div>After going through the museum, Kate and I walked through the Central Park Conservatory Garden. It was lovely. A wedding party was gathered around the fountain and they couldn't have asked for a prettier, sunnier day. Kate told me I should come back in the late spring when it's awash in roses if I wanted to be really impressed by the walkways and vistas. I better go ahead and put it on the calendar. </div>A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-76748020335084176822010-10-03T18:38:00.004-04:002010-10-03T19:05:30.547-04:00Blessing of the Animals<div align="center"><em>All things bright and beautiful, </em></div><div align="center"><em>all creatures great and small, </em></div><div align="center"><em>all things wise and wonderful: </em></div><div align="center"><em>the Lord God made them all.</em></div><br />Across the street from my apartment is a beautiful Catholic church. I'm delighted every morning when I wake up to the sun rising above it's eaves, especially in the winter when the "rosy-fingered dawn" turns the snow a pale pink. In the evening, the setting sun bathes its rose window in glorious light. In the summer, I'm often treated to hymns when they throw their doors open to let in a breeze and the lovely music floats up to my office windows. On the weekends, I watch as wedding party's parade in and out the front doors. The church's beauty is a cherished part of my life in Park Slope, and yet I've never been to a service, nor been through its doors.<br /><br />This morning, the church celebrated St. Francis of Assisi and welcomed all to bring their animals to be blessed. Annette and I were returning from the gym and decided to join the throng of people and dogs on the church steps. While the dogs sniffed each other and twined their leashes around their owners' legs, the priest read a selection of passages from the Old Testament. I'm not Catholic (or religious), but I was moved by the beauty of the readings, the celebration of our animal friends, and the gentle admonitions to love all creatures. It felt right to participate in such a joyous moment and recognize that kindness transcends religion and creed.<br /><br />As I write this, Charlie is cuddled up next to me and I'm looking out my window onto the church lit up by its historic street lamps. Charlie's presence is made even sweeter by my morning diversion and the warm lights below are more dear for the welcome I felt as I joined the small gathering on the steps. Now, let's just hope I can hold onto these warm feelings when Charlie is waking me up at 5am for crunchies.A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-8520801156271089492010-09-18T13:14:00.008-04:002010-09-29T22:52:58.390-04:00Men Akimbo<i>There's more to NYC than the fine and performing arts. My next few posts are going to look at the life in NYC generally. For my first new-style post, I'm taking the <a href="http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/category/complaint-box/">NYT complaint box</a> as a model. </i><div><br /></div><div>Men on the subway: you take up more than your fair share of space. Close your legs. You don't need three feet between your knees. Particularly when it means you're taking up the better part of 2 other seats.</div><div><br /></div><div>My personal space is important too. I like having a distinct area that is mine. Your leg is not welcome. Why don't you put your legs together when someone sits next to you? I make room when you sit down next to me. In fact, like most women I politely and embarrassedly compact myself.</div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps men's wide legs are a birthright. Leg-spreading certainly starts young. One day I spotted an empty seat between a 50 year old woman and an 11 year old boy listening to his ipod. His legs were spread and clearly in the seat bubble next to his, but I figured he's young enough that he thinks I'm a real grown-up that deserves respect. So, I sat down. Like much older members of his gender, the kid did not move his leg. I sighed and settled in for the discomfort. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, guys, please while we're all stuck on the train together, close your legs. It's a small, crowded island we live on. Don't make it feel even tinier and denser than it already is with your far apart legs. There's nothing wrong with crossing your legs. You don't look silly. In fact, you look respectful and aware that you're sharing the subway with others. Thanks.</div>A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-53029426193229475672010-09-12T17:27:00.003-04:002010-09-12T17:32:56.261-04:00Glamour Travel<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXrU729YPrv8XZnBEr69zc0xDejiSBy57whBf7zBzAlqa8RG6qVIuCLyPhYhkYgr3Op-j11LI1wTGfO56-TDl4R3FerkkKzgkVnVkeiLpOQRiFqrsf61SD-Qm_i_O4hxrEHKWNjrY7PCnr/s1600/DSCF6170.JPG"></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">My first business trip ever was to Gainesville, Florida followed by a jaunt to Des Moines, Iowa to see the site of a sculpture park under construction. Interesting? Absolutely. Glamorous? Not very. Last week, I got sent to Venice to wrangle media at one of the national pavilions. Interesting? Absolutely. Glamorous? Yes very (if you ignore the mosquito-bite welts I got from sitting outside the Pavilion all day).</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"></span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I have a strict personal rule that </span></span><a href="http://nyculturevulture.blogspot.com/2009/02/lets-get-started.html"><span style=" color: rgb(0, 35, 227); font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I won't write about clients</span></span></a><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">. And I won't break it now. However, I do want to share the experience of visiting Venice for the first time. It's a beautiful place and a puzzling one—geographically and culturally.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">One of the charming (and frustrating things about Venice) is that, for the casual visitor, it's seems impossible to navigate. The narrow streets twist and turn. Alleys dump out into plazas with 5 different exits and minimal signs about which to choose. Granted you see lots of gracious old buildings and elegant bridges that way, but if you’re trying to get to work on time it’s anxiety producing. Asking for directions doesn’t really help either, even if they’re given in your own native tongue.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Amazingly, everyone can give you directions in English. Venice is an island for tourists. I learned that if I said my few Italian phrases with enough sweet vigor and my thick American accent, the stranger/waiter/shopkeeper I was speaking with would take pity on me and speak in English. In fact, I'm almost a little disappointed that I only had one language mishap. I was in a cafe waiting for a meeting to start and I heard the waiter deliver to the table behind me, "una Coca Cola." </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Fantastic</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, I thought to myself: </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I don't have to order water or coffee </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">(the only things I knew the Italian words for). So the waiter comes over and I give him a big smile and say, "Prego, una Sprite [please, a Sprite]." He looks slightly befuddled and returns a few minutes later with a luridly orange drink with an orange slice and an olive floating in it. I'm so hot and thirsty that I shrug, say "grazie," and take a huge swig. It was so </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">bitter </span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">that</span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I nearly spit it out. When I told the ladies at the Peggy Guggenheim Collection this story later they howled with laughter. I had unwittingly ordered Venice's famed "</span></span><a href="http://tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/09/09/case-study-toasting-the-venetian-spritz/"><span style=" color: rgb(0, 35, 227); font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">spritz</span></span></a><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"--a soda and campari cocktail.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">What I found thought provoking about the city was its sense of self. I felt like I was walking through a very large movie set. My American sensibility searched for dynamism, a sense that the past, present, and future all had a place on the sinking isles. Rather, it’s identity as a tourist destination has caused it to be frozen in time. Preserved for the very tourists who stop in for a few days hungry for experience and then who move on to the next experience.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The US, so young in comparison, seems so much more enchanted with its own past and celebrating it. We have markers everywhere talking about significant people or events. We have statues in most of our public parks and markers to our wars. That's largely missing in Venice--not that I could have read them if they existed. Still, I wanted to leave with that sense of history and veneration for the past.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-31580812075478743582010-09-07T21:09:00.001-04:002010-09-07T21:10:58.046-04:00Terrified at the Arsenale<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I have been moved, puzzled, bewildered, and awed by works of art. Until last week, I had never been terrified by a work of art. Imagine a pitch black gallery, light from the gallery leading into it illuminates the eight large columns that run down the center in pairs. Jumping, switching, writhing electric wires snap and crackle between them. It’s mesmerizing and terrifying. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Those are live wires. How can you have live wires in an art installation</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">? </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">At the end of the gallery was a tiny, backlit doorway. There were more galleries to see, but I couldn’t tell how much I actually wanted to see them if it meant walking next to the wires. So, I simply stood and looked some more, forcing my rising panic down. Upon closer examination, the light I thought was coming from the wires was coming from strobe lights mounted on top of the columns. I slowly started to edge my way along the gallery wall and as I did my feet squelched. The floor was damp. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Where on earth did this water come from? </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The wires weren’t wires at all. They were hoses. The snapping and crackling sounds I heard were water hitting the rubber floor. The strobe lights reflecting off the water created the electric effect. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I was relieved and chastened and I hated the piece. I felt manipulated and silly. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it over the next few days and when people asked me about impressions of the Arsenale, I always returned to that piece and shared my chagrin about being duped. I’ve actually come to appreciate the piece and admire its cleverness and ability to play on my expectations. Only after reading reviews of the Venice Architecture Biennale did I realize the piece was titled </span><a href="http://vimeo.com/14579230"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Split Second House</span></i></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">and it was created by Olafur Eliasson. If I had known the artist I might not have been so shaken when first viewing the work, Eliasson’s obsession with water is well known. But then, I might not have had such a pure reaction.</span></p> <!--EndFragment-->A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-79321926362487524192010-07-31T12:27:00.006-04:002010-08-22T12:54:36.936-04:00An Art Road Trip UpstateLast weekend, Patty, Katie, Rebecca, Nate and I piled into Rebecca's car to go upstate to see some art. Rebecca was desperate to see the exhibition <i>Carolee Schneeman: Within and Beyond the Premises </i>at the Dorksy Museum on the campus of SUNY New Paltz. Katie wanted to see the Serra sculptures at Dia: Beacon. Patty and I are always interested in seeing art, but mostly we just wanted to escape the city for the day. <div><br /></div><div>We had a fun drive to New Paltz and discovered a really good used bookstore. By really good, I actually mean that the sales rack felt familiar. A lot of the books for sale were ones already on my own bookshelf or ones I had already read and enjoyed. I had the impression that any book I walked out of the store with, I'd probably like. Unfortunately or not (probably better for my wallet), I got hustled out before I could make my decision.</div><div><br /></div><div>After lunch at a diner on New Paltz's main streeet, we made our way over to the Dorsky to see some contemporary feminist art. I had never heard of Carolee Schneeman before the weekend and if Rebecca, a curatorial assistant in the Elizabeth A. Sackler Center for Feminist Art at the Brooklyn Museum, hadn't been with me I would hope to never hear of her again. There was no wall text and minimal tombstones, so, I simply had to look at the art. Transcendental it was not. Schneeman's work was perhaps the most profane and solipsistic I had ever seen. Feather dusters held in her anus. Scrolls pulled out of her vagina. Close-ups of her nipples and clitoris. I wrestled with the intellectual openness born of my liberal education and the middle-class sensibilities ingrained by my rearing. I discovered (perhaps to my chagrin) that my sensibilities were stronger. Then Rebecca started talking about the art work and the historical gestalt in which Schneeman was creating these pieces. Things made a lot more sense when I realized she came of age during the first wave of the feminist movement and was a student at an art school that told her as a women she could not do abstract or edgy or provocative art. I still don't like the art, but now I can appreciate it--which sometimes is more important than liking.</div><div><br /></div><div>After the Dorsky, we headed off to Dia: Beacon. I hadn't had the best experience <a href="http://nyculturevulture.blogspot.com/2009/08/dia-beacon-opposite-of-love-affair.html">last time</a>. But almost a year later going in with the idea that I would probably feel disgruntled and alienated I had a great time. I didn't try to meet Dia: Beacon at their level; I met them at mine (which is to say I didn't take anything too seriously). We went specifically to see the Serra sculptures and I can honestly say I experienced something close to awe. I felt the soaring-inside-my-chest feeling, like when I walk inside a really tall, vaulted cathedral. The sculptures were incredible--tall, steel plates that curved with only a person-wide opening to walk through. One sculpture had another sculpture inside it and you walked through the exterior wall and then walked around the interior wall until you found the opening. The feeling it evoked is what I expect you're supposed to feel when you walk around a mandela. This wonderful sense of peace, discovery, and wonder. I even laid down inside this one and just looked up. While I might have only seen a warehouse ceiling, my mind's eye saw blue sky. I had the narrowed appreciation that comes with forced tunnel vision.</div><div><br /></div><div>All in all it was a great trip.</div><div> </div>A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-40769269253000660322010-07-03T21:21:00.005-04:002010-07-05T12:59:57.029-04:00Greenwood Cemetery (or, my new favorite place)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">There's a park in Brooklyn where no one goes. There are verdant vistas, untrammeled grass, and empty paths--in short, paradise in an overcrowded city. Of course, the reason it may be so empty is because it's a cemetery. For some reason people tend to be creeped out about hanging out around the dead. It's their loss--Greenwood Cemetery is awesome (and strangely life-affirming).</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfGlhOr0qGahoUOHQRKxdeF4zXLKJBfWJYtLy2kon9F4gDTHKtNfrBo2chn4UhQowiuTcbtXNRPxYqOHvkqH9EpnbyECQcqI_guatWw3Lek71b5RFY_zF3ZQSQJSsWR_Ie8dGXbqpf4qYh/s200/Parsons+Tomb.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490467157402865394" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">A group of us put together a self-guided tour of the Cemetery today. We were each responsible for finding a min</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">ute or two of things to say about a grave or landmark from a </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">pre-compiled list. We all took it seriously too, sussing out interesting tidbits to share with the group. I spoke about the amateur Egyptologist Albert Ross Parson's mausoleum, which is a miniature pyramid decorated with a fascinating mix of Christian and Egyptian iconography. The juxtaposition of motifs make a lot of sense when you consider that he wrote a book called, "New Light from the Great Pyramid" that explored how ancient Egyptian culture and religious beliefs could elucidate different teachings from the Bible.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Katie spoke about the quaker parrots that have taken up residence in Greenwood's gates. Ornothologists believe they somehow escaped from a crate being unloaded from a plane at JFK in the 60s. The bright green, loud birds spread all over the city, apparently, but the Parks Service routed them out of Central Park unmercifully because they were afraid they'd force out the native species. The folks at the Cemetery let the birds be and were actually rewarded for their salutary neglect. The parrots did displace the pigeons who roosted in the gate and whose corrosive droppings were eating away at the stone (apparently, quaker parrot poo doesn't harm stone).</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Kate gave us a rousing talk about the Battle of Brooklyn, which took place on the Cemetery's highest hill. That battle is credited as being the point at which Washington could have lost it all. The British were trouncing the Americans. Washington needed to retreat and regroup. He left 400 men on the hill to hold the Brits off as he got the rest of the troops to safer ground. All but 9 of those men died defending the hill. But their effort was not for naught--Washington and his troops escaped, evading the Brits, and continuing our nation's fight for independence. Kate also introduced us to a statue of Minerva, the Roman goddess of wisdom, who stands in direct line with the Statue of Liberty. Minerva eternally raises her hand in salute to Lady Liberty.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Everyone in the group gave great talks (and Allison did a great job leading us around) and we realized that there's still way more of the cemetery to see and enjoy. We're definitely planning on going again en masse. in the meantime, I might just need to go visit on my own. It's such a beautiful, calm place. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><br /></div><div> </div></div>A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-21329573146254539732010-05-29T22:31:00.009-04:002010-05-31T12:41:16.021-04:00Brooklyn Museum<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiYTaLS6e-yVosFWB9ObVKy3QBtVzJoSFD4NiDj5Xm_PNA_kGMf6Dlb6JKAyyKNpBpzhSSd02KRaKJZltxDBJFoYF1xDx8YrxJDKZoNO1jJ8uN8yGx9nlZAMEn6Kwvb5sJ4nXtk5yZEumg/s1600/The+Sculptor.jpg"></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Last weekend, Katie, Patty and I went to the Brooklyn Museum to see the costume show, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">American High Style.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> It was excellent, but then exhibitions of old clothes almost always are. There is something innately fascinating about costumes from another period; they are so familiar, yet so other. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">While we were there, I dragged them into the newly installed Egyptian galleries for a quick look around and to see Melvin the Mummy, who had gotten a </span><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/09/arts/design/09mummies.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">write-up in </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The New York Times</span></i></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">. I was underwhelmed by Melvin, but pretty intrigued by the galleries because of my work on the Tut exhibition. It was nice to finally have some context for the objects I blow by on a weekly basis as I chase down errant cameramen.</span></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">This afternoon, I went back to the BM to look around and read the wall text in the Egyptian galleries at my leisure. I didn't find the the layout of the galleries intuitive and wasn't quite sure how to move through them to move through time and read the interpretation in chronological order. So, I abandoned that and just did a lot of looking and read a lot of object labels--I became most interested in the materials the objects were made of. Most of Tut's stuff is gold, wood, or some form of alabaster. The objects at the BM were more work-a-day with many being some type of ceramic or carved stone. Not surprisingly the craftsmanship of objects made for non-royals wasn't as fine either. It must have been nice to being a living God on earth and have a God's send-off into the afterlife.</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpNQupbqXMKxz32h_vL1V8TjTkBmTF3l1BlMskChVtxOH1tkPSecUAVzrC1Dlvy8W7LWDrapYiGM4tcfrqTJuem7tG8GqqnDk54ckUB74RRgoMkuDJAzZ5vJxwkhy1XQ_rlrFaNjYIVusG/s400/Martinique+Woman.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477464770398569186" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 151px; height: 192px; " /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">While I was at the Museum today, I also went and paid a visit to my favorite work of art in the collection, </span><i><a href="ttp://www.brooklynmuseum.org/opencollection/objects/360/Martinique_Woman/image/4975/image"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Martinque Woman</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">by Malvina Hoffman. It's an arresting black marble sculpture of a larger-than-life woman's head. The interplay of textures and color--her smooth, flawless, dark black skin juxtaposed against the rough, stippled carving of her grayish white hair--is delicious. She gazes at the entrance of the gallery, pulling the viewer in and demanding their consideration. It's a powerful piece in a gallery of exceptional artwork.</span></span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">In fact, I had forgotten how much I liked her gallery, a sort of hodge podge of late 19th/20th century paintings and sculptures located in front of the American Wing's Luce Center. It's the eclectic, thoughtfully curated nature of the gallery that makes it so gratifying. At the front of the gallery, are folk-art sculpture of animals--a giraffe's painted head, and two fierce lions, carved from salvaged railroad ties and whose whiskers are made of wires. Beyond them is a marble statue of a woman, a late-19th century interpretation of classic Greek statuary. It's not very good (actually), but it's juxtaposition against the untrained folk art carver and across from Hoffman's statue, shows the range of sculptural work happening in America within a 60 year period.</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiYTaLS6e-yVosFWB9ObVKy3QBtVzJoSFD4NiDj5Xm_PNA_kGMf6Dlb6JKAyyKNpBpzhSSd02KRaKJZltxDBJFoYF1xDx8YrxJDKZoNO1jJ8uN8yGx9nlZAMEn6Kwvb5sJ4nXtk5yZEumg/s200/The+Sculptor.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477471400949951314" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 143px; height: 192px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Rounding at the gallery's look at sculpture is John Koch's homoerotic painting </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The Sculptor</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">. The foreground depicts a naked, male model lighting the cigarette of the sculpture who is taking measurements of his calves and thighs with calipers. In the background stands a monumental sculpture, depicting a Grecian figure (perhaps Hercules?) battling some sort of monster. The focus of the painting is the finely rendered model's back, with it's rippling back. The figure is more sculptural than the sculpture in the background, which acts almost as a mere placeholder. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I'm pretty darn lucky that I'm only a 10 minute walk from the Brooklyn Museum. It's become my defacto hangout when I have a spare hour or two. Every time I am delighted and charmed. It's, honestly, a privilege to become familiar with a collection through repeat viewings. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <!--EndFragment-->A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-83097125852772720172010-05-17T22:00:00.009-04:002010-05-18T21:30:59.796-04:00"Restoration" at NYTW<div style="text-align: left;">I’m tickled when theatre looks at the art world.<span> </span>It’s no surprise then that (after I got over my opening scene heart attack) I enjoyed “Restoration” at <a href="http://www.nytw.org/restoration_info.asp"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">New York Theatre Workshop</span></a> on Friday.</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUf_EMumCfUz30V0n_t_0pZnSx4t30pzNrnvag2cQ_OKonTmWftrBoPbZEQQvfW6WFMrJeCbPmeybWVfTugOspC6b7QWNdXLIWQzCUKQCZ6n8pSHA8rsT75erg1KUsDD4EYM7FgQcifjuW/s1600/restoration.jpg"></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><o:p>As a prelude to my heart attack: the play is about an art conservator who has fallen out of favor with the “establishment”. Forced to the sidelines of the conservation field, Giulia practices in a garage in Brooklyn and teaches at the maligned Brooklyn College.<span> She labors in near obscurity, but due to her commitment to research and the support of a persuasive old mentor, s</span>he is given the career-changing opportunity to clean Michaelangelo’s <i>David </i>in honor of his 500<sup>th</sup> birthday.</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><o:p><span> So, my chest clutching: </span>Let’s not ignore the fact that Giulia works in what looks like a space without temperature control. When Giulia was done doing work for the day, she pulled down her large magnifying glass until it was <i>only 6 inches above the painting</i>.<span> </span>UGH. AGH.<span> </span>No conservator worth her salt leaves any sort of instrument hanging over a painting.<span> </span>Conservators envision disaster.<span> </span>They know that a magnifying glass could topple over a painting at any instance.<span> </span>Until the scene ended I squirmed in my seat and wondered if this was a first indication of lazy research during the play’s conception.</o:p></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUf_EMumCfUz30V0n_t_0pZnSx4t30pzNrnvag2cQ_OKonTmWftrBoPbZEQQvfW6WFMrJeCbPmeybWVfTugOspC6b7QWNdXLIWQzCUKQCZ6n8pSHA8rsT75erg1KUsDD4EYM7FgQcifjuW/s320/restoration.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472425555410316018" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 256px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Happily, things swiftly improved, including the lead actress’s performance.<span> </span>The playwright, Claudia Shear, plays Giulia, a brash, whip smart, Italian-American art conservator.<span> </span>The first scene opens with Giulia alone in her studio addressing the audience as she explains how was she drawn to the field.<span> </span>It’s not a badly written monologue, but Shear is not a subtle actress and she has not written her character in a nuanced way.<span> </span>The play might have been better served by an actress who did not know the character intimately, was not her creator, and who needed to find ways to connect to her.<span> </span>To be fair, the character does go through a transformation and Shear does do a fine job of portraying that arc.<span> </span>She is softened during her time working on the David and by the joshing friendship she forms with Max, the macho, yet sensitively cultured head guard at the museum (played by the excellent Jonathan Cake).<span> </span>She learns that no woman is an island and only statues can stand apart from humanity forever.</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Still, despite my above quibbles there is something oddly charismatic about Giulia. She cares about him vengefully and idealistically.<span> </span>She recognizes that this is her opportunity to blow raspberries at the academic conservation world that rejected her (something about a confusing slander case involving another conservator), but she also cares deeply about cleaning the David well and ensuring his survival for future generations.<span> </span>There is a moving scene at a press conference, where the director and PR manager try and coerce her into reading a press release about repairing the holes in the David’s back.<span> </span>Giulia deviates from the script to forcefully and eloquently defend the importance of preserving a piece of art’s history—in this case the holes from the stones thrown at the David as he was carted to the Palazzo del Signoria.<span> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>The audience never actually sees those holes, nor do they see the entire <i>David</i> until the end of the play.<span> </span>For most of the play, the statue is hidden behind scaffolding with only an assortment of visible body parts.<span> </span>The set designer, Scott Pask, plays with scale so that a foot is uncomfortably close to the tushy.<span> </span>The sculpture’s penis is at chest level and prominently displayed, leading to the compulsory awkward (well, the playwright couldn’t not go there) and hilarious cleaning session.<span> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>There are a lot of wonderfully funny moments in the play, tempered by poignant moments where the characters reflect on the <i>David’s </i>role in their lives and art in general.<span> </span>The audience members are the beneficiaries of their considered and heartfelt insights.<span> </span><span> </span>It’s a play worth seeing and it’s a play worth mounting again, now that New York Theatre Workshop has given it its first legs.</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Photo Courtesy of www.sdnn.com. Ticket courtesy of Annette.</span></i></p> <!--EndFragment-->A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-73371387782114581732010-03-21T10:24:00.010-04:002010-03-27T08:32:15.715-04:00Fighting my inner curmudgeon about social media<div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On an institutional level, I think social media is a pretty neat thing. On a personal level, I wish someone would permanently crash the servers at Facebook and Twitter.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I've been thinking a lot about social media lately. A couple of weeks ago, I attended Social Media Art Camp, a two-day conference that took a broad look at the cultural landscape and discussed how social media could become a pivotal transformation point for how arts organizations engage with their audiences. It was all very kumbaya (and predictable) as the speakers discussed how different platforms on the web can create a virtual gathering places, allowing people to share their thoughts and come together to discuss common interests, desires, thoughts on past programming, and ideas for new events. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I should like social media. It's useful and taps into a collective knowledge. It's democratized the cultural conversation, allowing anyone to participate. It's made our cultural institutions appear more transparent and customer-service oriented. Unfortunately, when practiced by hundreds of individuals as a part of their personal lives, I often find it nauseating as we all strive to prove to our friends and followers the meaningfulness of our lives and the uniqueness of our own perspective (I do recognize that I have a blog and a Facebook account and that I'm a hypocrite). </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Arts institutions and individuals have different goals. Institutions are self-perpetuating machines. In the most basic Darwinian sense, they ensure their survival always. Social media might eventually be the tools that most successfully allow them to retain audiences outside of their hallowed halls. Of course, they still need to create great experiences inside those halls.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Social media makes clear an odd tension in the human psyche, both the desire to stand out and the desire to fit in. We all participate because of the herd mentality (and because some real-life people have achieved popular media fame through the great equalizer--we all are waiting to be the unique exception plucked from obscurity). What's the cost of our new interconnectedness?Is the momentary pleasure from discovering that the vain cheerleader from high school gained 50 pounds worth the now life-long commitment to having her as a "friend"? Not all people are supposed to stay in our lives forever. In fact, it's sort of freeing to leave a few behind. Moreover, do you really want to discover how self-involved your acquaintances are through their status updates? As for Twitter, boiling down observations to 140 characters doesn't make your quotidian interesting. In fact, it's sort of depressing. It's the moment when I most wish the conversation hadn't been democratized. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So, is there anyway to just have arts orgs use social media and leave everyone else behind? (I didn't think so, either). </span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div></div></div>A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-36842240826728757342010-03-21T10:08:00.002-04:002010-03-21T10:23:45.753-04:00The SnarksThis weekend, instead of watching theatrical magic, I'm actually getting to create some of my own. I'm volunteering with the Snarks, an amateur all-female theatre troupe that just celebrated it's 100th birthday. They're producing "Mornings at Seven," a 1939 comedy by Paul Osborne.<div><br /></div><div>The Snarks (mostly women in their 50s, 60s, and 70s) share space with the Amateur Comedy Club, which owns an adorable carriage house on Lexington and 36th. On the first floor is a tiny stage and seating for about 75. The second floor houses the work room, dressing rooms, meeting room, and kitchen. The first time I entered I felt like I had gone home. The spirit of the place reminded me so much of Wellesley's Shakespeare Society, where women did everything and ran everything together. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yesterday, about 20 women and a few men gathered to finish building the set. Even a simple set takes a lot of work and we had our work cut out for us. My partners and I screwed homasote to the stage floor and glued down green carpet squares for grass. Grass laying was the best part, the "lawn" areas weren't square, so we had to cut the square up as if we were making a jigsaw puzzle. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was wonderful to be back in a theater and to get my hands dirty. It was nice to feel the sense of instant camaraderie that a show produces and to come together to create a unified artistic product. I'm really looking forward to running the lights next weekend. </div>A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-49483287606302738582010-02-03T00:00:00.002-05:002010-02-03T00:21:53.856-05:00So Impressed with BAMLast night, a representative from BAM called me. He began by noting that it was my first time buying tickets for a production there and he wanted to know what I had thought about <i>As You Like It</i>. My first response was shock, my second response was to begin speaking as quickly as possible. I've never had the opportunity to tell a professional theatre what I thought of their production (and I've certainly never taken the initiative to write to one after seeing a performance). That I hated the performance was beside the point; I felt all warm and gushy inside because I got to share my thoughts and, in some small measure, they counted. Someone at the organization actually cared. <div> </div><div>Before my phone died (I couldn't believe it, I was so enjoying myself), the BAM representative and I had a wide ranging discussion (or was wide-ranging as you can get in 5-8 minutes) about directorial choices, competent Shakespearean training, and name-brand actors vs. relative unknowns. Throughout the conversation, I made it clear that I took issue with director Sam Mendes's choices and placed the blame squarely on his shoulders. My dislike of the production, at this point had nothing to do with BAM as an institution. Still, I think the rep was slightly taken aback-- after I had leveled the first criticism he did say, "Well, tell us how you really feel." To which I might have responded: sugar-coating my disdain doesn't do you any good.</div><div><br /></div><div>Still without that call, I'm not sure how soon I would venture back to BAM. I certainly have no desire to go see <i>The Tempest</i>, the second play in the Bridge Project, directed by Mendes, and which starts in rep soon. I also didn't even know what was next in their season until that call. But after the call, I'm curious to see something else. I'm even hoping that I get called again. I like that this place called me. I'm just one of the unwashed masses, but BAM has democratized the experience. Even though I only bought a $31 ticket in the balcony, my opinion matters. They are blatantly cultivating my patronage and I love it. </div><div><br /></div><div>BAM, I'll be back soon. Thanks for listening and for being so gracious about my informed dislike of the production. This is the start of a sustained interest in you as an institution and your productions. I'm looking forward to forming my second impression of you.</div>A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-53330931814933873542010-01-30T21:36:00.004-05:002010-01-30T22:14:49.448-05:00As You Like ItOn Thursday, Annette and I went to see BAM's <i>As You Like It</i>. We were pretty excited since we had both worked on it in college; I had directed and Annette had been my stage manager. We love the text and had high expectations for this production. They were quickly dashed. The director Sam Mendes squeezed everything joyous and lovely out of the script. It was cold, dark, and depressing. <div><br /></div><div>Actually, it shared quite a lot in common with Sir Peter Hall's production, which I had seen in Boston my junior year, and which was equally as disappointing. Both Hall and Mendes's versions embraced the cold elements of the play--emphasizing the harshness of the world and man's precarious place in it. Both featured snow covered stages and modern-slob dress. Both downplayed Rosalind, making her almost an appendage to the male characters, who they clearly found more interesting. Frankly, it made me yearn for a professional production by a woman director. </div><div><br /></div><div>To me, the play has always been a study in artifice. A play which sets a cast of characters in a court where they must use their wits and smarts to survive. Rosalind must be an exemplary, tough as nails woman who does not show the psychic damage of being the daughter of a banished duke. Outside of the court she must pass herself off as a man in order to protect her physical safety. Orlando is a youngest son forced to hide his light under a bushel so as not to provoke the rage of an eldest brother who is not as intrinsically good as he. Touchstone and Jaques may place themselves in the positions of fools, but they are the cleverest and most clear sighted of the bunch. Ultimately, it is the vividness and truthfulness of Rosalind and Orlando's characters that forces them beyond artifice to embrace who they truly are and restore peace to Arden.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-35560119619040132352010-01-23T21:06:00.004-05:002010-01-24T11:40:30.858-05:00Americana WeekAt my first auction, I fell asleep. The room was warm; I was exhausted from a week of forced marches through New York to see as many antiques and museums as possible; there weren't any chairs and I was sitting propped up against a wall. But really, those are just excuses. I fell asleep because I was bored out of my mind. <div><br /></div><div>At first, there was sort of an ironic fun in watching poorly-dressed people bid on objects for thousands of dollars (one had to suppose their discretionary funds were entirely devoted to their antiquing mania). It was kind of intriguing to watch Sotheby's employees sitting at the phone banks intently whisper-narrating the auction floor to a bidder. It was even mildly exciting to watch people raise their paddles on the floor and be recognized by the auctioneer--"150,000 to the gentleman standing in the back. 160,000 to the lady seated to the left." But that was the first 15 minutes. Then it became a sort of monotonous litany that accompanied a slideshow that seemed to loop every 20 minutes or so. Oops, there's another side chair. Wait, didn't we see that card table before. I know I saw that folk art painting of a child just a few minutes ago. In any event, I didn't have a real desire to ever attend another auction.</div><div><br /></div><div>Imagine my own surprise then when I found myself accompanying Patty to Sotheby's this morning. She was meeting Katie there to watch the "Important Americana" auction and I promised to meet Sarah (a 2nd year Winterthur fellow and a dear friend from college) there in the afternoon to get some lunch. I figured I might as well just go see the auction too; maybe, I'd like it better this time. Again, the people watching was pretty good for the first 15 minutes. There were even a couple of on the floor battles, and I got to observe Leslie Keno at length. I think I've found the new brand-face for Energizer batteries--I have never seen someone look so perpetually engaged and excited for quite so long. But even Leslie couldn't detract from the fact, that it was the same schtick over and over--"20,000. Fair warning, selling for $20,000. <i>Peer intently around the room</i>. Sold. <i>Sharply </i>r<i>ap the rapper thingie</i>.... 40,000. Fair warning, selling for $40,000. <i>Peer like a bird of prey for a rival bid.</i> Sold." </div><div><br /></div><div>Luckily, I didn't have to be bored the entire time. I had brought along <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/We-Two-Victoria-Albert-Partners/dp/0345520017/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1264299827&sr=8-1">We Two: Victoria and Albert-Rulers, Partners, Rivals</a>--<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">an intriguing biography that examines both monarchs' childhoods and the power dynamics that drove their relationship</span>. </i>I picked it up after seeing<i> </i>the movie <i>Young Victoria </i>with Emily Blunt. I couldn't quite believe that the movie accurately reflected her character or her relationship with her husband. It just seemed too modern. It turns out I was largely right. The book "complicates our historical understanding" (to borrow a phrase from the pedants) of the relationship and shows how the social mores of the age even constricted the life of the Queen of England, the most powerful person in the land. In any event, Patty told me later she was relieved I had brought the book. She said I acted the part of the dutiful boyfriend on a shopping trip. To which, I should reply: Just doing what I can. Some people's furniture is another girl's shoe shopping.</div>A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-88348630919583718822010-01-11T21:07:00.007-05:002010-01-11T22:30:24.773-05:00A Weekend Spent Largely at the Met<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZQAugwqd8aiOZ0YgZhwPxNQu8yGnX-bYtPq0RbwWH-KeKWJYcpUXN2h3OVzlSvxd0fvNRfL6LhjKwKOXh4TjDlihdlDjuobZem6YKRtahpzPXi9GaSpcc6r6UaiK_J6p8cJ_-HdcDrtIC/s1600-h/Unicorn+Killed.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZQAugwqd8aiOZ0YgZhwPxNQu8yGnX-bYtPq0RbwWH-KeKWJYcpUXN2h3OVzlSvxd0fvNRfL6LhjKwKOXh4TjDlihdlDjuobZem6YKRtahpzPXi9GaSpcc6r6UaiK_J6p8cJ_-HdcDrtIC/s200/Unicorn+Killed.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425683364460943714" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Skipping out of order: on Sunday, Sal and I ventured up to 190th St. to visit the Cloisters, the Met branch dedicated to medieval art and architecture. Sal joked that we had ventured so far from Brooklyn that we were likely to see unicorns roaming the streets. Little did he realize that we actually had entered the land of unicorns. The Cloisters are home to the "Unicorn Tapestries," an incredible collection of 16th century tapestries that depict the hunting of unicorns.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Though I had some inkling of what to expect, nothing quite prepared me for the splendor of seeing these tapestries in person. They are beautiful, whimsical, and heart-rending. There is a vivid aliveness to their representation, as if the men marching through the forest will step out of the tapestry and into the gallery themselves. In </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Unicorn is Killed and Brought to the Castle </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">one can almost hear the men on castle's ramparts whispering to one another.</span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We explored the rest of the Cloisters too, but nothing is quite as breathtaking as those mind-boggling tapestries. I doubt if Athena's tapestry of the gods at play on Mt. Olympus could have rivaled these. How on earth could someone have woven, by hand, these intricate, detailed images. How does thread become an rabbit's eye that twinkles with such rabbity good humor? </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On Friday night, Patty and I had the pleasure of taking a private tour of </span></span><i><a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/special/americanstories/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">American Stories: Paintings of Everyday Life</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">at the Met</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Our friend Katie is a curatorial assistant in the</span></span></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQhtDtJFzTzIiD4oTMBFHuCa0_NIM-L2S0r_r3TQec3wcMHrNPmZlcYx_Y2lBma_AO08DFto0rMpkgvXa0BmuufFHzNTKEYFFpZ60xznCJNoP48x1ENOrjxR4hxPrNc_TlXg4p_bnxfg8o/s200/Spencer.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425687001993277394" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 144px; height: 200px; " /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> American Wing and has spent the last year working on the exhibition. She also authors the </span></span><a href="http://blog.metmuseum.org/americanstories/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">exhibition's blog</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> (make sure to check it out). On our tour, she regaled us with stories of how the show came together--from choosing the paint colors on the gallery walls to writing labels to make sure the color correction in the catalogue was correct. We particularly enjoyed this shop talk because Patty and I had our own small part in the exhibitions' behind the scenes. On a road trip in the Berkshires, we drove Katie to the Smith College Museum of Art so she could look at the sky in a Lily Martin Spencer painting in person. Happily, it really was blue and not the yellow the museum's slide indicated it was.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But about the show: it was pretty great. It sweepingly showed how America perceived and conceived it's nationhood from the time of the Revolution to the start of WWI. It's only open until the 24th, so head over to the Met soon. It's unlikely that such an impressive grouping of American paintings will be seen together anytime soon.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div></div>A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-13197248927850738822009-11-21T17:34:00.007-05:002009-11-22T09:09:18.186-05:00The New York Transit Museum<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg20GnBhJCIAsxU4T3TvpH3DACTAs8gq7dcgs8m__Ay0mV_-ORsEk9BZO-yh_SzoQ1pXVMODhYni1M_Lhyphenhyphen9bK1IOQ5bHdKQMr8YSnzeZQPmaBf84ALL96tg1T71HEi9gj3E0gmPCoSWUxuD/s1600/Transit+Museum+Map.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 137px; height: 124px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg20GnBhJCIAsxU4T3TvpH3DACTAs8gq7dcgs8m__Ay0mV_-ORsEk9BZO-yh_SzoQ1pXVMODhYni1M_Lhyphenhyphen9bK1IOQ5bHdKQMr8YSnzeZQPmaBf84ALL96tg1T71HEi9gj3E0gmPCoSWUxuD/s200/Transit+Museum+Map.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406702631057060834" border="0" /></a>Like most New Yorkers, I take the subway everyday and I take it for granted. Unless the train is running slowly, I never stop to think about how the subway runs, how it was built, or even how metrocard revenue is collected and counted. My visit to the New York Transit Museum today was informative and, more importantly, fun.<br /><br />To enter the museum, visitors (appropriately) descend down the stairs of a decommissioned subway station at Boerum Place and Schermerhorn Street. A friendly staff members sells tickets from a historic ticket booth (I wish they still made them with beautifully varnished, turned wood bars). The museum's first gallery is a passage with a low burlap cloth ceiling, which evokes the feeling of being in an early, unfinished subway tunnel. The passage is papered in historic images that show the construction of the city's first subway. There's also great clips from newspapers of the day that feature quotes from workers who survived freak accidents, the city officials who celebrated the new initiative, and critics who lauded the city's technological advancement. And I was surprised to learn that the subway began as a private enterprise and was not a civic amenity until well into the 20th century.<br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />One of my favorite displays in the museum illustrated the evolution of the subway's fare system, <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZRd914IX4lznjsS7op4UO_UYBPXl7Wne4RAhQvB2jbYPdHJa3eYibVd9oTm0mFeyEoJ-rZOxLWPvzEjRtGqj7vx9t7EPnpDxzSjmLzMHAouhZ_5A1KSJgudtU11JllweZEl-atjxiQ8JF/s1600/MTA+coin.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 159px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZRd914IX4lznjsS7op4UO_UYBPXl7Wne4RAhQvB2jbYPdHJa3eYibVd9oTm0mFeyEoJ-rZOxLWPvzEjRtGqj7vx9t7EPnpDxzSjmLzMHAouhZ_5A1KSJgudtU11JllweZEl-atjxiQ8JF/s200/MTA+coin.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406700737624132226" border="0" /></a>from paper tickets to tokens to today's metrocards. The best part were the examples of fake tokens that people had passed off as the real thing, including a quarter that someone had taken the pains to punch a "Y" out the middle of, just like a real token from the '70s. The board of fakes perfectly illustrated a conversation Sal and I had on our way to the museum. As he tells it, there was a coin in Costa Rica that was the exact size, shape, and weight as the MTA subway token. Illegal vendors on the street would sell a bag of the coins for a few dollars to fare evaders. Still, even the metrocard introduced in 1994 and fully phased in by 2004 experienced evasion kinks when it started. Someone discovered if you creased the magnetic strip just so, the computers in the turnstiles would think a valueless card still had enough value on it for a ride.<br /><br />In the same gallery as the subway tokens are old station turnstiles. The first turnstiles had heavy wooden arms and were operated by an attendant who pushed a footlever which allowed a passenger to turn the arm and enter the station. It's a far cry from the sleek, polished stainless steel, computer operated turnstiles the MTA uses today. We even learned why the sides of the today's turnstile are slanted and the barred passage is so narrow. The slanted slides keep people from getting a purchase on top, so they can't jump over the arm. The narrow entrance dissuades people from crouching and going underneath the arm. Given that challenge and the opportunity (we wouldn't be arrested for fare evasion in the museum), we took turns sneaking through the turnstile. We also tested the other historic turnstyles and loved that the museum allowed us to interact with and touch the artifacts (after withstanding millions of people year after year, what's a few thousand more at the museum?). <br /><br />The lowest level of the museum is the decommissioned station's platform, where 19 subway cars dating from 1904 to the present are lined up on the downtown and uptown tracks. Down the center of the platform are interpretative boards with detailed descriptions of the subway's evolution. Outside each subway car is a label telling the car's length of service and context of use. Interesting fact: subway cars were wooden until an accident shattered one and killed 93 people in 1918 After that cars were made of metal. Another interesting fact: subway revenue used to be collected at the stations at night and then taken by specially guarded subway cars on dedicated tracks to a carefully concealed money room in Brooklyn (since 2006, it's taken by armored car to Queens).<br /><br />The subway cars are open and people are free to wander in and out, sit on the seats, and hang on the straps. In the cars, we spent a lot of time looking at the old maps--graphic design has come a long way--and the old advertisements, which have been around since the very beginning. As we were traveling back to Park Slope, we looked around at the ads in our car and realized that the ads have evolved a lot. There are fewer of them and they're longer and horizontally oriented. Even up until the 1970s, there were more and they were smaller, with a more vertical orientation. Our ads push services , sell tourist experiences, or are sponsored by the MTA to make you feel good about the transit authority. The historic ads sold goods.<br /><br />I really can't gush about the museum enough (I'm just going to ignore the exhibit on Robert Moses, which I thought had confusing explanations and illustrations of the Triborough Bridge) because I left so energized. I love when I go to a museum and it dynamically teaches me about a segment of the world I interact with everyday. I love that the museum allowed me to explore and touch the artifacts. I liked that my experience interacting with the museum objects was informed by and now informs how I relate to my everyday environment.<br /><br /></div>A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-31091097381421706802009-08-17T22:09:00.006-04:002009-08-19T23:10:35.890-04:00Dia: Beacon - The Opposite of a Love Affair<o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="PlaceName"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="PlaceType"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal" ><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal" ><span style="font-size:85%;">I love MASS MoCA.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">I hate Dia: Beacon.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Both museums exhibit modern and contemporary art in rehabilitated and converted factories.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">My affection for the former and my distaste for the latter led to an important realization: I feel ambivalent about art from the second half of the 20<sup>th</sup></span> century.<span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">To understand and enjoy works of art from this time period, I need interpretation that is both well-written and accessible.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal" ><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal" ><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal" ><span style="font-size:85%;">My first, engaged experience with contemporary art was at MASS MoCA, as part of a <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Davis</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place> fieldtrip in college.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Although I had never been to a contemporary art museum, I never felt alienated, nor stupid.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">There was clear, introductory wall text and concise labels throughout which provided information about the artist, the materials used, and often a brief explanation of the piece’s purpose or its context in a greater movement or cultural moment.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">I was also gratified by the high level of participation the museum encouraged.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">I still remember my pleasure and delight at being allowed to sit amongst the finches in “Library for the Birds of Massachusetts,” a giant aviary stocked with bird seed and books.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Now, every time I get a chance to go to Western Mass, I always go back to MASS MoCA.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">I’m never disappointed.</span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal" ><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal" ><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal" ><span style="font-size:85%;">So, by the time, I got to Dia: Beacon on Saturday, I felt comfortable looking at contemporary and modern art. I was also looking forward to seeing how another museum rehabilitated and converted a factory space.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">The physical museum is glorious.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">There are broad galleries, flooded with natural light from windows and skylights.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">The floors are luscious, distressed, blonde wood.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">The ceiling rafters are exposed and in the Flavin gallery, fluorescent tube lights nestle along them, creating a sort a dialogue between those pragmatic fluorescents that light the space, and the artistic fluorescents that are Flavin's artwork.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal" ><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal" ><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal" ><span style="font-size:85%;">Despite how enamored I was of the physical space, I was alienated and provoked by the installations’ interpretation.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">The wall labels are perfunctory—an artist’s name and the title of the work (I'll admit, g</span><span style="font-size:85%;">ood for those who like unmediated artistic experiences).</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">For those who need help understanding contemporary art, there are receptacles with laminated, essay-like labels. Unfortunately, those labels </span><span style="font-size:85%;">are exercises in mental masturbation.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">The prose is verbose and the sentences are poorly constructed.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">The label writers try too hard to conform to an academic style that favors jargon over comprehension. </span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">“Mythemes of glass, axiomatic status, and the phenomenology of color" are all vaunting phrases--precocious to the point of illogic--that communicate nothing.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">And, ultimately, the labels made me mistrust the art.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">The interpretation was so overwrought that I had to wonder, <i style="">is the emperor naked?</i></span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal" ><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal" ><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal" ><span style="font-size:85%;">I was also shocked that there was no way to participate with the museum.</span> <span style="font-size:85%;">In fact, one form of engagement—photography—is not allowed at all.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Most museums encourage their visitors to take part in some way, whether through picture-taking or in more active, creative ways.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">At MASS MoCA, I’ve contributed to an exhibition that asked visitors to write on sticky notes and I’ve shared my impressions in (analog) comment books sprinkled throughout the galleries (I've also taken many photographs).</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">At the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Brooklyn</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place> last week, after viewing a Yinka Shonibare installation, I tweeted my impressions to the Museum's feed on the gallery's computer.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">After visiting the Met, I became a fan of their Facebook page and I put their hash tag on my photos on Flickr.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Social media takes relatively little effort on a museum's part to deploy and provides a number of ways for visitors to engage before, during, and after their visit.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> It can aid interpretation. It's also becoming vital to audience attraction and retention, especially for a younger demographic.<br /></span></p><p style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal" ><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal" ><span style="font-size:85%;">The audience at Dia: Beacon is a segment that most museums strive to attract—Gen Y. The nature of Dia: Beacon’s collection lures Gen Y to the museum, but I doubt the museum is nurturing long-term relationships. Dia: Beacon does not use any of the new social media to retain or engage a generation which believes that personal expression is an inalienable birth right and that the internet is a democracy that allows any one to tke part in the conversation. </span><span style="font-size:85%;">One day Dia: Beacons's survival may depend on an engaged Gen Y and it's time they start taking the steps to build their relationships with them. They need to allow photography. They need to create a Facebook page. They should twitter. They should vivify their website. </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Perhaps if Dia: Beacon uses the new media I might begin to feel like a participant in the museum's mission, and not like a neophyte at the alter of ART. </span> </p><p style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal" ><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(Head over to <a href="http://retrogradedesign.blogspot.com/">Retrograde Design</a> for Patty's take on our visit.)</span><br /></span><span style=""> </span></p>A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-4985082029842595752009-07-25T18:15:00.011-04:002009-08-02T13:54:40.834-04:00The BPL: My New Favorite Place<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_EpUMlnsF_q39ZhXI6R3Xy6gmDTqpOjHR1tn_Xq5ETovhoXMoJXYbTbin0g-zqqkPzlaEj4PeAYbT2fs9Gym44DcucYtV7pCHJQ3kTea2nJFs3wwUW6ILxcDzw_9rsyw1UfWYM9AiO2oo/s1600-h/2009_0621Summer090151.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 230px; height: 172px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_EpUMlnsF_q39ZhXI6R3Xy6gmDTqpOjHR1tn_Xq5ETovhoXMoJXYbTbin0g-zqqkPzlaEj4PeAYbT2fs9Gym44DcucYtV7pCHJQ3kTea2nJFs3wwUW6ILxcDzw_9rsyw1UfWYM9AiO2oo/s200/2009_0621Summer090151.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365164338190925394" border="0" /></a><br />I've spent the past two Saturday mornings at the Central branch of the Brooklyn Public Library. I'm in love; the place is magical and <span style="font-style: italic;">whimsical</span>.<br /><br />The building--at first glance--is imposing, with a strangely concave front facade. Yet--on second glance--it is ameliorated by unattributed quotations about the power of reading. The quotations express wonderfully idealistic sentiments about the place of books in culture and the transformative effect of knowledge. The library's very physical shell is an ode to the idea of books as instruments of self-improvement. After reading the library's website, I discovered that the building's physicality is meant to evoke the materiality of a book. "The spine is on Grand Army Plaza and the building's two wings open like pages onto Eastern Parkway and Flatbush Avenue."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4t3yGOvmPstHJ8iO8kqb-4E-nysDKZuhHsp-L9WIX9o4XAARo6l_-3MUfqS9o9Iuw-yE_Qm1ubl26CJdaEaeMS2HnomsmSQNLeqB9j0nNZ9UQcWVDZBJGwaYVUUj15jswGpS84i8oCE5g/s1600-h/2009_0621Summer090154.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4t3yGOvmPstHJ8iO8kqb-4E-nysDKZuhHsp-L9WIX9o4XAARo6l_-3MUfqS9o9Iuw-yE_Qm1ubl26CJdaEaeMS2HnomsmSQNLeqB9j0nNZ9UQcWVDZBJGwaYVUUj15jswGpS84i8oCE5g/s200/2009_0621Summer090154.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365163882019572338" border="0" /></a>The steps leading up to the library are shallow and short, which induced me to skip and skim my way up, just like when I'm hurriedly reading a well-plotted book to figure out what will happen next. Once inside the building and past the first information desk, there's a soaring foyer of gray marble and honey colored wood. It feels deliciously calm, but not at all solemn. Off the foyer is the children's reading room and the literature reading room. On the second floor are the nonfiction reading rooms. All are incredibly large, sunny, and inviting. I spent several happy hours wondering up and down the stacks.<br /><br />What I especially love about the Brooklyn Library is that, while not a university library, it's still a very serviceable research library, with an extensive and diverse nonfiction collection. Having grown up in the 'burbs of Georgia, I was almost convinced public libraries were architectually welcoming, but largely buildings that only housed popular reading, the classics, and some how-to manuals. I was delighted to wonder in today and pick up a treatise on the condom industry in the US, a historical study of the creation of a teen culture over the course of the twentieth century, and a Brits memoir of the American homefront during WWII. I'm in eclectic heaven.A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-40438955790847468702009-07-10T23:39:00.007-04:002009-07-19T20:50:14.666-04:00The 21st-Century Promenade<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioaIvd6kM8o0-XsRFetFCz3DzyibPMVXr-WeUa53CcoQeMz5lCMrSzdvIVddxxAmhEmfb8qK3A4LvyZDN_KbAoxnJjzaQnAaJzGR7Dv1ZjzDlVZoU7fnz2GLqQg_RZFAlvmODEZgtvlIUR/s1600-h/Highline.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioaIvd6kM8o0-XsRFetFCz3DzyibPMVXr-WeUa53CcoQeMz5lCMrSzdvIVddxxAmhEmfb8qK3A4LvyZDN_KbAoxnJjzaQnAaJzGR7Dv1ZjzDlVZoU7fnz2GLqQg_RZFAlvmODEZgtvlIUR/s200/Highline.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357045221059428130" border="0" /></a>The City is replete with hip places to see and be seen. The newest and, ironically, most egalitarian is the Highline--a park on the old elevated train tracks that used to run from Gansevoort Street to 20th Street, between 10th & 11th Avenues (see the map). Forget strolling anywhere else in the city during twilight, everyone is flocking to the magical, green oasis in the sky.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGcXKudzjcBkJt_xaFpCie9QEySqYKS4sB7rA7ecqKvwvCkq8qW4kfesTbO-ARhxCNO8q1iS_ndDcrOFFjx9xiLimsa1apvv80N4qow5aHa2EJk_4OjBrLjlLx0NceK26BVNl_-ztB640O/s1600-h/2009_0710Summer090122.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 181px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGcXKudzjcBkJt_xaFpCie9QEySqYKS4sB7rA7ecqKvwvCkq8qW4kfesTbO-ARhxCNO8q1iS_ndDcrOFFjx9xiLimsa1apvv80N4qow5aHa2EJk_4OjBrLjlLx0NceK26BVNl_-ztB640O/s200/2009_0710Summer090122.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359976203135794850" border="0" /></a>For good reason: the park is awesome, which stems--in part--from its novelty. The shocking juxtaposition of vibrant wildflowers with dead-looking city buildings is delicious. The ability to look at architectural details on level is delightful. Then there's the built-in teak benches which overlook the river during sunset. I also particularly like how the wildflower are planted between the old railroad ties.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmBtRQk687_uyzciYhnaSon9VilkxLwTEMZWp5_DGydSS0jvH08Jvq8WiipFDWQVaH6L5QZahu2APz3t1wEnPA8wh6UZGTizcaeybHjV1ROl0VRx3t6vj1fBPO11gPyNfmB_QLU9IrWUNQ/s1600-h/2009_0710Summer090131.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmBtRQk687_uyzciYhnaSon9VilkxLwTEMZWp5_DGydSS0jvH08Jvq8WiipFDWQVaH6L5QZahu2APz3t1wEnPA8wh6UZGTizcaeybHjV1ROl0VRx3t6vj1fBPO11gPyNfmB_QLU9IrWUNQ/s200/2009_0710Summer090131.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360338202597864466" border="0" /></a><br />But, the best part of my visit last week was the unexpected, unofficial jazz band that had set up on the fire escapes of an apartment building that overlooks the 20th St. entrance. The trumpet and trombone players scatted. The drummer rat-a-tat-tatted and the piano player provided the melody everyone started swinging to. New York is the only place where life sometimes really can be a musical--where joy transcends and infuses a moment so that the only thing one can do is sing and dance.A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-28643208674752713092009-06-27T22:30:00.004-04:002009-06-29T23:54:50.115-04:00Shakespeare in the ParkYou know you have a good friend when... she'll stand in Central Park all day to get tickets for Shakespeare in the Park. Annette was a champ, arriving at 9:30am, to get tickets for <span style="font-style: italic;">Twelfth Night </span>at the Delacorte. Was it worth the wait? Simply put, the show was fantastic. The play was vividly and energetically brought to life.<br /><br />Most of the show's reviews start with a discussion of the show's headliner, Anne Hathaway. Charles Isherwood, who <a href="http://theater2.nytimes.com/2009/06/26/theater/reviews/26night.html?scp=1&sq=charles%20isherwood%20twelfth%20night&st=cse">reviewed the play</a> for <span style="font-style: italic;">The New York Times</span>, certainly did. He spent the first half of his review gushing over her performance. It was mildly nauseating (which makes me wonder just how low his expectations were to fall all over himself like that). She <span style="font-style: italic;">was</span> good, but as I was sitting there watching her be Anne-Hathaway-in-a-soldier's-uniform, I realized just why the <a href="http://www.publictheater.org/">Public Theater</a> mounted <span style="font-style: italic;">Twelfth Night</span> so quickly after it's last run of the play (in 2002, Julia Stiles was Viola): Viola may be the character the plot largely turns around, but she's not on stage all that much. This fact makes the play a fantastic vehicle for young, untried-on-stage, film ingenues. If they're good, so much the better. If they're not so good, it doesn't really matter because Viola's scenes are few and far between and it's an ensemble piece--the genius of Feste, the hilarity of Sir Andrew Aguecheeck, and the acerbic tongue of Maria can keep the audience engaged and chortling.<br /><br />Director Daniel Sullivan hedged his bets, surrounding Hathaway with a superb supporting cast. Julie White was a pitch-perfect Maria. Hamish Linklater, who played the wayward knight Andrew Aguecheek, offered a sincere and hilarious interpretation, imbuing the character with an injured dignity rarely seen in the role. Raul Esperaza managed to portray Orsino's stalkerish and incessant chase of Maria as sympathetic, even noble. Michael Cumptsy, as Malvoli, and David Pittu, as Feste, stole the show. Their scene, in which Festes impersonate the rector Sir Topaz to taunt the imprisoned Malvolio, was squirm-in-your-seat masterful.<br /><br />Part of the delight of the show was the set, designed by John Lee Beatty, and the way the actors used it. Beatty created a set that was a park within a park, with verdant, rolling hills of astroturf nestled under the night-dark treeline of Central Park. Plus, it just looked fun to be on. The back of the set was about eight feet high and formed a sort of wall, along which was a path lined with trees. A staircase carved out of the hillside allowed the actors to move from the top down to the bottom. At centerstage on the right and left sides were gentle hillocks, both liberally planted with trees. The characters his behind trees. They ran up and down the hills, slid down them, jumped off them, and generally employed the set as an aid to create great physical comedy. Beatty's set was the perfect example of a set designer and a director perfectly merging their talents to create something better than its constituent parts.<br /><br />Shakespeare in the Park is a gift to the residents of the City and this production of <span style="font-style: italic;">Twelfth Night </span>was well worth the wait in line. Annette, I got your back next time.A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-74419269089494671012009-06-26T10:07:00.008-04:002009-07-30T15:34:40.547-04:00Model as Muse<span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-size:85%;" ><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="time"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="country-region"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype></span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New \(W1\)"; 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mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-size:85%;" ><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="time"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="country-region"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype></span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New \(W1\)"; panose-1:2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Georgia; panose-1:2 4 5 2 5 4 5 2 3 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:647 0 0 0 159 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Times New \(W1\)"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >I have a lowbrow proclivity to admit: I love “</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-family:Georgia;">America</span></st1:place></st1:country-region></span><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >’s Next Top Model.”<span style=""> </span>I <span style=""> </span>cannot get enough of Tyra Bank’s modeling competition.<span style=""> </span>Last cycle, I even carefully orchestrated my </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-family:Georgia;">Manhattan</span></st1:place></st1:city></span><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" > to </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><st1:place><span style="font-family:Georgia;">Long Island</span></st1:place></span><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" > commute to make certain I would be home by </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><st1:time hour="19" minute="45"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">7:45</span></st1:time></span><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >, settled down, and in place for the </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><st1:time hour="8" minute="0"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">8:00</span></st1:time></span><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" > start.<span style=""> </span>I can’t even excuse this reality show viewing by likening it to watching a train wreck.<span style=""> </span>I actually like seeing the clothes the girls model.<span style=""> </span>I’m amused by the girls whining about how HARD modeling is and I even get a kick out of watching Tyra swan around the judging room.</span></p><p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >Imagine my shock when my lowbrow indulgence actually informed my enjoyment of a highbrow exhibition, “<a href="http://metmuseum.org/special/se_event.asp?OccurrenceId=%7BEB2C67EF-1CCB-4EB2-9329-A955A7EDFBC2%7D">Model as Muse: Embodying Fashion</a>” at the <a href="http://www.metmuseum.org/">Met</a>.<span style=""> </span>I had no idea that I had learned so much about iconic fashion images and the history of the fashion industry from a <i style="">reality television show</i>.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>See team, tv won’t always rot your brain.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span></p><p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >Looking at an image from the 1950s of a model in profile, bent over with her arms akimbo, my date exclaimed “Ugh, why is she hunched over like that.”<span style=""> </span>While I trilled at the exact same moment, “Look at those angles!”<span style=""> </span>Nigel, one of the photographer-judges on the show, is adamant that the girls contort their limbs to create more visual interest in an image.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFawiSItou4Ir1yu861rHSQSwpFEvbYESjn-XKBsfvjnBBpurZpXH0BwXMrfU2aUJIfsGOpadxkMNBVaAAxKBquo8PBiS3JrdHPG8DPCT6mXR3Jrvw3q1RtxtIfhr2-DITcvc8BB_zxfGW/s1600-h/tyra.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 68px; height: 91px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFawiSItou4Ir1yu861rHSQSwpFEvbYESjn-XKBsfvjnBBpurZpXH0BwXMrfU2aUJIfsGOpadxkMNBVaAAxKBquo8PBiS3JrdHPG8DPCT6mXR3Jrvw3q1RtxtIfhr2-DITcvc8BB_zxfGW/s200/tyra.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351644565856170386" border="0" /></a></p><p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span></p><p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >Walking by a wall of <i style="">Sports Illustrated</i> covers, I started looking for Tyra.<span style=""> </span>As I helpfully informed my date</span><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >, </span><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >she </span><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >had been the first African American model to grace the yearly bikini issue.<span style=""> </span>Sure enough, the cover was there, although I suspect he would have appreciated it even without the historical context.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p></o:p></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br />Strolling along another wall of covers from the late 1970s/early 1980s, I started looking for Janice Dickinson.<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </span>Sure enough, she was there too.<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </span>When I mentioned to my date that she was the first supermodel, he naturally asked, “How did she become the first?”<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span> <p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span></p><p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-size:85%;">“Oh,” I replied.</span><span style=";font-size:85%;" > </span><span style="font-size:85%;">“She coined the phrase.”</span><span style=";font-size:85%;" > </span><span style="font-size:85%;">I didn’t mention that Janice’s status as the first supermodel was an oft mentioned fact on ANTM, where she had been a judge for a few cycles. </span><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span></p><p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >“I see.”<span style=""> </span>He said.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span></p><p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >Then because I couldn’t stop myself, I added “She destroyed her face with too much plastic surgery.”<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </span>I could see him start to wonder how exactly he had been induced to wonder through a fashion exhibition with a woman who could spew idiotic minutia like this.<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </span>Still, he gamely carried on.<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </span>Although, really, how hard is it to be a good sport when you get to ogle gorgeous women to your heart’s content?<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span></p><p style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFFW1vDMzD7geWstw2ZXSbzHwxG3ezp5QDMDwTvcPd05yUP0D6KHtSIbl148vukN8Y7D1e2c9gEA5SkjCRnqKqY-4OnoeQtOTmK8ZU75Va9grq_o_g4fVp1QEEriIFbijKnu6MUiTt5z17/s1600-h/dovima.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 158px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFFW1vDMzD7geWstw2ZXSbzHwxG3ezp5QDMDwTvcPd05yUP0D6KHtSIbl148vukN8Y7D1e2c9gEA5SkjCRnqKqY-4OnoeQtOTmK8ZU75Va9grq_o_g4fVp1QEEriIFbijKnu6MUiTt5z17/s200/dovima.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351645351772061202" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >Even without my hard-won knowledge from <i style="">Top Model</i>, I would have dug the exhibition.<span style=""> </span>From the very first display—a recreation of Dovima wearing Christian Dior and posed with her arms outstretched next to two elephants—you could tell that the exhibition designer had a field day.<span style=""> </span>The exhibition was exuberantly playful, occasionally reverent, often irreverent, coy, and accessible.<span style=""> </span>The hallway leading into the main galleries were illuminated with photographer’s umbrella-ed lights.<span style=""> </span>Each gallery represented a different decade and each gallery was decorated in the era’s aesthetic—the ‘90s gallery looked like a grunge club with glow-in the dark graffiti on the walls and black lights for illumination.<span style=""> </span>My date and I spent almost as long just checking out the model graffiti on the walls.</span></p><p style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);" class="MsoNormal"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New \(W1\)"; panose-1:2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Georgia; panose-1:2 4 5 2 5 4 5 2 3 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:647 0 0 0 159 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Times New \(W1\)"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> </p><p style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Still, he must not have enjoyed himself as much as I thought.</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">He hasn’t call since.</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">I guess I better save geeking-out about model trivia for my girlfriends. Or not.</span><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p></o:p></span><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:10;" ><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:10;" ><span style=""></span><o:p></o:p></span></p>A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-513757154206391672009-06-21T20:56:00.011-04:002009-06-21T22:41:38.838-04:00In Between the Rain Drops<span style="font-family: georgia;">Living in New York lately has felt a lot like living on the planet in Ray Bradbury's "All Summer in a Day"--the rain never stops. At five this morning, I awoke to the steady beat of rain and cursed the never-ending water. Happily, by lunchtime the sky had cleared. Like the children in Bradbury's short story, Patty, Katie, and I scurried out into the sunshine, afraid to miss a moment.</span><br /><br /><a style="font-family: georgia;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP5YmTB3xtjUL-84QuO0Kt32B7fwGURmp1yvg8-nU-jaLkMMXJe49aYAKjA5cffDFl-73JDxKfOXxgNzghvkn45fH2iD4_0JPyrq3Ei-xI9F_nJgReAjq2IlZtSj4Q1g1KNbKlBPnsaUub/s1600-h/Street+Fair.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 182px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP5YmTB3xtjUL-84QuO0Kt32B7fwGURmp1yvg8-nU-jaLkMMXJe49aYAKjA5cffDFl-73JDxKfOXxgNzghvkn45fH2iD4_0JPyrq3Ei-xI9F_nJgReAjq2IlZtSj4Q1g1KNbKlBPnsaUub/s200/Street+Fair.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349952688487759314" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;">We decided to walk over to the Brooklyn Museum since Katie and I had never been. On our way, we discovered a street fair underway on 7th Ave. It went on for blocks and blocks and there were tons of people out and about. We gorged ourselves on Italian sausages and peppers, Thai spring rolls, and fruit smoothies on our walk. It's just the sort of sustenance once needs for a day of museum viewing. Besides, you can't go to a street fair without experiencing the street fare.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">We got a little lost on the way to the </span><a style="font-family: georgia;" href="http://www.brooklynmuseum.org/">Brooklyn Museum</a><span style="font-family: georgia;">, but--happily--we discovered the </span><a style="font-family: georgia;" href="http://www.bbg.org/">Brooklyn Botanic Garden</a><span style="font-family: georgia;">. Inspired by the glimpses of the roses we had caught behind the wrought iron fences, we decided to scrap the Museum for verdant paths and gorgeous flowers.</span><br /><br /><a style="font-family: georgia;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjFo4mgiAci9j-aiDjDjocRYfAoZijjRuzwoonoqdfUkSZcngphBuETDLPu4_okZX4b2v0JKrrAgs3z6-iEdCjG-J4NeJJVyS8AWvm4GKegtLhEfvwp_wBw_un-e44IZKrMGtscoAMno81/s1600-h/Bridge.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 251px; height: 189px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjFo4mgiAci9j-aiDjDjocRYfAoZijjRuzwoonoqdfUkSZcngphBuETDLPu4_okZX4b2v0JKrrAgs3z6-iEdCjG-J4NeJJVyS8AWvm4GKegtLhEfvwp_wBw_un-e44IZKrMGtscoAMno81/s200/Bridge.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349965781309649410" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;">Entering the Botanic Garden is like leaving the borough behind. Once you are within the gates, it is a wholly new place. Although the occasional high-rise apartment insinuates itself into the view, the vistas are largely uninterrupted green space. One of the loveliest parts of the Garden is the Japanese Hill-and-Pond Garden. The calm lake with large koi, the hanging weeping willows, and the simple wooden bridge beguiled us. Beyond the bridge was a charming waterfall. In the pool at the bottom, turtles sunned themselves on a rock. They too were soaking up the sun time.</span><br /><br /><br /><a style="font-family: georgia;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFkHej33u2RfbekxM34fMU2BTUWpJUU3uZ0TRN0Ko7VuYKoO3pL0CELgHpsm0k8ysUznrCg0t9cp2jmQ7sZ-M5LqKQNLPzXEETQOSoVk_qFkzWbTu4XUNdfMXMRyH4Lj3tgNNZF_GdlpNX/s1600-h/2009_0621Summer090246.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 95px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFkHej33u2RfbekxM34fMU2BTUWpJUU3uZ0TRN0Ko7VuYKoO3pL0CELgHpsm0k8ysUznrCg0t9cp2jmQ7sZ-M5LqKQNLPzXEETQOSoVk_qFkzWbTu4XUNdfMXMRyH4Lj3tgNNZF_GdlpNX/s200/2009_0621Summer090246.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349967742493952130" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;">As we walked along the outer edge of the Garden, we spotted the Brooklyn Museum and decided to pop in for the rest of the afternoon. I must admit, I was slightly mystified by the museum's exterior. Who ruins a beaux art facade by slapping on some tiered-glass spaceship? I suppose it's meant to make the museum more inviting and to draw people in on the ground-level, but I still think it's aesthetically horrifying.</span><br /><br /><br /><a style="font-family: georgia;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj1tUp6cdbmnQe8Xv-G0rwoq8fhQbdTVSkvBdO7wxuWN3S8wVzOmIDG83isV4LgJGm5ntiKHVNxJTNN3hyphenhyphenJHJqMLc71S-Alm2XePqtk9u43iP-1HJGmnlJRcoyHmnJV7mMKb_5JgBQr5tO/s1600-h/2009_0621Summer090247.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 153px; height: 208px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj1tUp6cdbmnQe8Xv-G0rwoq8fhQbdTVSkvBdO7wxuWN3S8wVzOmIDG83isV4LgJGm5ntiKHVNxJTNN3hyphenhyphenJHJqMLc71S-Alm2XePqtk9u43iP-1HJGmnlJRcoyHmnJV7mMKb_5JgBQr5tO/s200/2009_0621Summer090247.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349971706832739970" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Museum's facade, it turns out, foreshadowed the juxtapositions within. As nonplussed as I was by the outside of the museum, that's how enchanted I was with the installation of the "American Identities" gallery. In this gallery, decorative arts are juxtaposed with paintings (and sometimes the ceramics or furniture depicted in the painting have a one to one example in a case below the painting). English colonial paintings are displayed next to Spanish colonial paintings, showing the similar ways in which the upper class established their social position. A landscape of Niagra Falls was in dialogue with an abstract painting of water splatters. Both vibrated with the energy of thousands of tons of cascading water.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">What I loved about "American Identities" was the sense of excitement. The galleries were painted in vibrant colors. </span><a style="font-family: georgia;" href="http://retrogradedesign.blogspot.com/">Patty</a><span style="font-family: georgia;"> and Katie thought the colors were too saturated and took away from the art, but I thought the colored walls created a sense of dynamism. When I walked into the gallery, it was as if the walls said </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: georgia;">something is happening here</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">. Then as I focused in on the paintings and decorative arts how they were presented, you could see that there were really exciting dialogues between the displayed objects.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">That same dynamism was also on display in the Brooklyn Museum's Luce Center. Unlike the static one at the Met (parallel rows of case after case of furniture, silver, glass, and paintings), the Brooklyn Museum's drew the visitor further and further into it. A display of Tiffany glasses were lit up just inside the entrance. A display with a Murphy's folding chair contained a video screen showing technicians manipulating the chair into its 50 different iterations. Drawers with objects could be pulled in and out, creating a jewelry box sense of excitement. This was the first Luce Center I encountered that was </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: georgia;">playful</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">It was an amazing day in Brooklyn and I'm looking forward to visiting the Botanic Garden and the Brooklyn Museum many more times. It would take a year of Sundays to take it all in.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyGZBuO9jxCjf2RNbzWtduIbr80PYUzIxxXO2RDmvXdRwWmWpansKR6V5uCfNAFlLfFLITetuSlft2uCLhk5JbzNgFdbDe18uL2uADCPCKkWWUkxSqRlsr4jyl0T1NnJDesK-8Gzy_KgNU/s1600-h/2009_0621Summer090236.JPG"><br /></a>A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-22775457810351042572009-06-07T10:13:00.009-04:002009-06-09T22:05:08.648-04:00Our House<span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br />Patty and I just moved to Park Slope last weekend.</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >We’re still getting used to the amount of time it takes to get from place to place.</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >We misjudged last night and missed the first ten minutes of “<a href="http://www.playwrightshorizons.org/mainstage.asp">Our House</a>” at Playwright’s Horizon.<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > </span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmxxrotAKLMElDpRSloKwYkrjLStCuDtIOyRDedNwhpL8TQxMTTJXJiDgkQX1zCTSIVZXS1_sv_0qL2W_IAZzeKEcb2kk8QdUrTXMV6ztcro6vjc0E_W4ijdVEab6T8jxW_iqUDdhNKIDy/s1600-h/our+house.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 295px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmxxrotAKLMElDpRSloKwYkrjLStCuDtIOyRDedNwhpL8TQxMTTJXJiDgkQX1zCTSIVZXS1_sv_0qL2W_IAZzeKEcb2kk8QdUrTXMV6ztcro6vjc0E_W4ijdVEab6T8jxW_iqUDdhNKIDy/s200/our+house.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344589208210862146" border="0" /><br /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">When we arrived at the theater, the usher put us in a small holding pen at the top of the theater until the next cue when she could show us to seats in the theater.</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">The “holding pen” had plexiglass and it created the strange distancing effect of television as we started watching Merv, played by the daffily self-absorbed Jeremy Strong, and Alice, played by the self-righteously infuriated Katie Kreisler, argue about who was going to clean the kitchen.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><i style="">Ugh</i>, I thought, <i style="">why do we want to watch a scripted Big Brother</i>.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><i style="">It’s bad enough idiots like this fill the air waves</i>.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">It turns out, as a few more minutes of watching unfolded, that was the whole point of the play (you know, I really need to start reading synopses before I go to these things)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />“Our House” is preciously meta.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">A tv exec of the fictional SBS (an acryonym for <b style="">S</b>uch <b style="">B</b>ull<b style="">S</b>hit, perhaps?) network decides that because the network’s ratings are too low; he’s going to shake things up by making Jennifer, pitch perfect Morena Baccarin, his star morning news anchor the host of the Big-Brother-style reality tv show “Our House.”</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Merv, who is obsessed with tv, watches it openmouthed as his own interpersonal relationships explode around him.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />The script written by Theresa Rebeck was strong, with biting dialogue and trenchant observations on the dumbing down of network television, the role of news in America (the tv exec wants to do away with it totally and is shocked that the FCC requires he broadcast news to get the airwaves for free), and the refracted reality of reality television.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Strong theater takes situations far beyond reality, or rather, to a reality rarely achieved in life.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">In this case, Merv takes his roommates hostage after a particularly fraught house meeting.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Rebeck made me squirm as she sent her vauntingly ambitious tv anchor into the fray and overlooked common human decency to get the story. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />It’s a smart play and the acting is excellent—and no surprise, over half the cast was educated at Julliard.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">And yet, I really disliked the play and the actors in it.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Part of this might be director Michael Mayer’s fault, the acting too often devolved to outright shouting.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Shouting certainly raises the stakes, but too much shouting loses impact and quickly becomes stagey.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">In real life, people can rarely afford to lose their tempers so often.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">In this case, the shouting was simply sloppily characterization too—used to communicate diva fits, put-upon martyrdom, and boorish self-centeredness.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Towards the end I wanted to shout, “Just move out and spare us all!”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br />Image courtesy of broadwayworld.com</span><br /><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p>A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671510554044608485.post-28084491464259559252009-04-25T23:58:00.010-04:002009-04-27T17:47:35.860-04:00The Elixir of Love<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; 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panose-1:2 4 5 2 5 4 5 2 3 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:647 0 0 0 159 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.0in 1.0in 1.0in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >Until last Wednesday, I had never been to the opera.<span style=""> </span>My dim notions of the art form were entirely shaped by snippets from PBS broadcasts and the erotically-charged glamour of the film <i style="">Pretty Woman</i>, when Edward takes Vivian to the opera for the first time.<span style=""> </span>As Richard Gere and Julia Roberts settle into their box seats, he whispers, “People’s reactions to opera, the first time they see it are very dramatic.<span style=""> </span>They either love it or they hate it.<span style=""> </span>If they love it, they will always love it. <span style=""> </span>If they don’t, they may learn to appreciate it, but it will never become a part of their soul.”<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p><br /></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/32RKTcN1a_U&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/32RKTcN1a_U&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />(See: 3:50-6:40)<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >I had hoped to love the opera.<span style=""> </span>In lieu of that sensation, I wish I <i style="">had</i> hated it. Instead, <span style="font-style: italic;"></span>I experienced a provoking sense of alienation. <span style=""> </span>It seems I must learn to cultivate an appreciation.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >I had hoped that despite not understanding Italian, I would be engrossed by <span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.metoperafamily.org/metopera/season/production.aspx?id=9978">L'Elisir d'Amore</a> </span>(The Elixir of Love<span style="font-style: italic;">), </span>a story inspired by <span style="font-style: italic;">Tristan and Isolde</span>.<span style=""> </span>After all, I don’t speak Spanish, but I can raptly watch Spanish-language soap operas (the actors are so passionate; their faces are so contorted; the language is so rapid fire).<span style=""> </span>No such luck.<span style=""> </span>Sung Italian is definitely not the same as spoken Spanish.<span style=""> </span>And while I had subtitles—in front of each seat is a velvet bar with an embedded screen which flashes translations—knowing what they were actually singing about wasn’t particularly engaging.<span style=""> </span>Unrequited, uncommunicated love is so tiresome.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >What also surprised me and discomfited me was the very obvious performance unfolding before us.<span style=""> </span>The fourth wall simply doesn’t exist in opera.<span style=""> </span>The audience is not voyeurs, as is often the case in theater.<span style=""> </span>Case in point, the soprano finally declared her love for the tenor and her lower body melted into his, but her torso and face were twisted away from him.<span style=""> </span>She sung her love of him to us.<span style=""> </span>I get that a singer needs to project to the back balcony and while I appreciated that consideration, I would have rather lost volume than watch that tortured physicality.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >I had written to a friend, the day before the performance, that I was excited to experience a brand new (to me) art form—that it felt exciting to have no basis for discernment.<span style=""> </span>And while it’s true that I can’t detect whether the singers coloratura was intricate or plain, whether their intonation was crisp or muddled, or whether their technique was top-notch or a near fail (all concepts I’ve picked up from scanning the <i style="">New York Times </i>reviews<i style="">)</i>, I do understand theatricality, imagined worlds, and set design.<span style=""> </span>On these points the opera failed and abetted my sense of disenchantment.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQqt6nRyaXUwBfNnGDCJAfdwogE4nMcC5GWSiAU1HoOIzmnUGe4QsyWKEChngMRYCoOJiZDf8Oxg_ofG8IeEKfAWoK7Pp-2XXpGQINCV-_IiuE_uly3PED6Pczd5DgNxty6jwp2Kgv_uyq/s1600-h/Lisa+Frank.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQqt6nRyaXUwBfNnGDCJAfdwogE4nMcC5GWSiAU1HoOIzmnUGe4QsyWKEChngMRYCoOJiZDf8Oxg_ofG8IeEKfAWoK7Pp-2XXpGQINCV-_IiuE_uly3PED6Pczd5DgNxty6jwp2Kgv_uyq/s200/Lisa+Frank.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328849036785132290" border="0" /></a><br /><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >The set looked as if Lisa Frank, the beloved artist of elementary school girls the nation over,ha</span><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >d suddenly </span><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >decided she was bored of dolphins, unicorns, and kitties and decided she shoul</span><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >d </span><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >instead </span><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" >design 19th-century Italian villages.<span style=""> </span>From the trees to the buildings, everything was rendered in pastel hues (the last time I checked wood grain didn’t come in shades of pink and green).<span style=""> </span>And, when the protagonist Nemorino abandons the village to join the army, the trees that descended from the flies looked like a flock of broccoli.<span style=""> </span>The lighting designer joined in on the fun, bathing the stage in warm golden and pink lights.<span style=""> </span>I know its a comedy, but pastel psychedelia doesn’t actually create a fairytale type of world in which these characters can bumble, fail, and ultimately recognize their love for one another.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p>Despite the questionable aesthetics of the set, I will say that I loved the scale of the opera.<span style=""> </span>I reveled in the very largeness of it—a grandness and giganticness that translated all the way to the last tier of the balcony.<span style=""> </span>I appreciated the score of cast members, playing villagers, who filled the stage.<span style=""> </span>Spying with my binoculars, I was charmed by the microcosm dramas being lived as part of the larger action—the small boys who engaged in playful roughhousing; the lovers who leaned their heads against one another; the men who chatted idly; and the women who preened to catch the soldier’s attention.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:11;" ><span style="font-size:85%;">Patty, Katie, and I decided we’d give the opera one more chance.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">We’re also considering better seats (as the other proletariat in the Family Circle applauded and cheered, I wished I had brought an airhorn—we would have fit right in).</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Next up is a tragedy.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">I’m actually looking forward to this, as of yet unpicked performance.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">I’d really like to see an operatic suicide.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">For the amount of caterwauling that went on in <span style="font-style: italic;">The Elixir of Love</span>, the lead soprano and tenor really should have plunged daggers into their breasts.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p></p>A.H. Buchbinderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14671449040661004208noreply@blogger.com6