Gimme Shelter

Last night I learned why Mick Jagger is a sex symbol. Having been introduced to him and the music of the Rolling Stones when he was already pushing 45 (I was 8) I just didn't see the appeal. He just seemed like a skinny old man courting major hip replacement surgery with all of that strutting and gyrating around stage. Clearly, having smoked waaaaaaay too much of something, he had deep crevices at each side of his mouth, and his hair desperately needed a good washing. Yes, I was a judgmental child, but I also knew a dirty old man when I saw one.

Last night, though. Whoa. In Gimme Shelter, which I saw in the basement of the Rubin Museum of Art with an old college friend, LA, Mick is hot. There's no other way to describe him. He still showed off those awkward gyrating pelvic bones, but the shaggy hair and pretty pink lips nearly had me and LA swooning on the floor. (That could also be because of the one (count it!) drink I had just before.)

The true star of the documentary, however, was the drummer, Charlie Watts. Obviously, blow dryers were acceptable appliances for men in the late '60s, because his hair is incredible. Framing his pale, chiseled features, it hung poker straight down to his chin, with a lovely side part. And he's so tense as he plays, curling his lips into his mouth and occasionally giving Mick a side glance as if to say, "Really? That move again with the hands held above the head and the hips? Really?"

What was truly remarkable about him though is that he seems to be the only member of the band who took the events of the film seriously. Gimme Shelter was intended to be about the Rolling Stones's 1969 American tour, and for the most part it consists of footage from various concerts, where Mick sings, girls scream and Keith Richards wears frilly pink shirts through which his nipples show. There's an incredible scene from Tina Turner's performance as an opening act, in which you realize why she was so revolutionary for women musically, socially and sexually.

Unfortunately, not all of the Stones' concerts went so smoothly. At the Altamont Free Speedway Festival in northern California 850 people were injured, 4 were killed and a fifth was stabbed to death right in front of the stage. Much of the blame was placed upon the Hell's Angels who were hired (wages: beer) to keep people off the stage and protect the generators. Obviously, not trained professionals, as intoxicated as the crowd and by definition anti-social, the Angels armed themselves with sharpened cue sticks and viciously attacked anyone out of line, including the lead singer of Jefferson Airplane. If your security doesn't know who is actually allowed on the stage, it's clearly counter-productive to have them. On the other hand, the crowd was unbelievable! I've never seen such unruliness in a public arena - climbing the rafters, milling about on stage, stripping naked and climbing on top of people (ew), and throwing glass bottles into the crowd (a pregnant woman suffered a skull fracture).

As I watched Watts watch the footage of this particular concert, and listen to a Hell's Angel on the radio blame the Stones for the whole fiasco, I could see the incredible pain it caused him. No one spoke of the bad press they would suffer, or the fines, or the generally despicable behavior of the organizers. The Stones watched the footage to see if there was anything that might show who stabbed and killed 18-year-old Meredith Hunter, an African-American man who had purportedly wished to shoot Jagger because his girlfriend mentioned how hot the latter was. Jealousy, it seems, never pays.

I'm still mulling over this film. The contrasts with the orderliness of my own concert-going experiences (even those that are free and outdoors) is startling. It explains the generally terrible reputation of Hell's Angels in California (and really, motorcylists in general) and it has me very curious about something. How many of those naked, unruly, irresponsible, drugged-up young people became my teachers? Also, where can I find the red, ruffled bolero with sparkly flowers Keith Richards wore? His daughters are so lucky.

Wile Your Time Away

Many of you know that I prefer few things to reading. Compulsively consuming everything from newspapers and magazines to treatises on the special relationship between women and birds (parrots, specifically) and artists' manifestoes makes me a better art historian and, more importantly, conversationalist.

The latter is a great point of pride to any New Yorker, but especially a transplant, and especially a transplant to Brooklyn. It’s important to know your way around, but it’s invaluable to know your neighborhood history. That chic salon on the corner of Court and Baltic Streets used to be a plain old coffee shop and before that it was an Italian bakery with the best and cheapest cannoli you could ever ask for. Only a nickel each! Thanks to Jasmine’s mom, who is a bit of a history buff herself, for that bit of neighborhood trivia. And, actually, thank you to the Italian bakers for retiring before I relocated across the street. The tempting smell alone would have thwarted all my (half-hearted) efforts to avoid excess sugar. [Left: The intersection of Dekalb Street and Fulton Street, near my old apartment in Fort Greene.]

So imagine my delight when I found Brooklyn Revealed in the Daily Roundup as I scoured the NY Times online for an article about something other than the economy or grandmothers who will or will not help their daughters with their newborn children. (For the record, my grandmother was heavily involved in my childhood, as were my aunt and uncle, and I turned out smart, funny and, overall, just fantastic. Their words, not mine. And my, also really awesome, mother plans to help me with my children, albeit from an RV parked outside my co-op on the Upper West Side. Long story . . .) Here is a site with interactive maps and photographs so you can learn how streets got their names and the history of the six original townships that composed the County of Kings. It's a little time travel to a time of open spaces, horse carriages, and separate designations of citizenship, as well as a great place to cull a general sense of how far the borough has come.

In my own narcissistic way I looked for pictures of the neighborhoods I've lived in (Fort Greene and Cobble Hill [both in the red Brooklyn section) and places that my mother lived until she was nearly an adolescent (she was born in Fort Greene but hopped from Bedford-Stuyvesant [same red section] to Ocean Avenue [green Flatbush area]). Expect me to gush about the old photographs of the Brooklyn Museum of Art and the farms in East New York. Imagine the CSA’s we could have had! [Right: A view of Fulton Street, which, I think, is where the Fulton Street Mall is now. That’s where my grandmother used to shop for her nurse uniforms and holiday outfits for my mom and her siblings.]

If you find yourself with limited time to visit the borough, this should give you an idea of what Brooklynites mean when they say it's just quieter and slower paced. Despite our complaining about the Manhattanization of our neighborhoods, there really is a wonderful feeling of continuity with the various waves of those before us, who, at first dismayed at being pushed out of the center of it all, discovered a place to call home. Though, really, don't take the photographs too much to heart; there are McDonald's and Tasti-Delights next to beautifully restored brownstones and there aren't nearly as many horse carriages anymore. Rather than smell like Central Park South, we prefer the hot summer stench of the Gowanus Canal.

Commitments Real and Imagined

The ever-dreaded threshold of thirty is just around the corner (one year, nine months, twelve days), and all of those Things I Should Have Done By Now are creeping into my very overwhelmed head. Graduate school, they whisper; serious boyfriend, they say; publications, they whine. Oh, if only I could quiet them and appreciate the here and now! Though I’m a huge fan of to-do lists, long-term planning actually gives me a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. Nervous and unsure, I feel hemmed-in—as though I’m stuck in a tiny hatch-back on a cross-country road trip and no one will let me drive. (FYI: I always drive on road trips. This does not make me a control freak; it makes me a better driver.)

Commitments are something my friends and I discuss constantly. At Nicole’s (very fun) birthday dinner, for example, it was relationships. The clueless men we’re dating and the ones we’d like to date. The ones that marry us, the ones that text their friends, but not us, that they can’t wait to see us, and the ones that appear after years of silence to tell us we still matter. I tend to specialize in the last species, and find it an emotionally exhausting and insecurity-fueled experience (and am therefore not looking forward to Venus in retrograde in April and May). Why can’t we get it right the first time, or in one case the third or fourth times? Really, why must everything be left so open-ended? On the other hand, I have been receiving a bit more attention than usual from a friend whom I’ve always been interested in. And we’ve never dated before—so look at that! Progress! Only I should probably warn him that I’m not much for the rituals of dating (really, who has the time?), so a surprise kiss and declaration of love will do the trick just fine. Oh, and if he even mutters the word “casual” I will walk. Walk, I say!

Mostly, though, I worry about my career. Today’s economic environment is ripe for career-anxiety, but I’m very lucky to have a position that I love with curators that appear to value me as more than an elaborately (and expensively, might I add) trained chimp who can press buttons on machines they don’t understand. Still, it’s not at all surprising that I’m beginning to freak out over my application to graduate school, which I turned in Sunday. What if I don’t get in? Worse, what if I do get in and don’t finish? (Again.) What if I suffer from writer’s block? (Again.) What if my professors hate me? (Or so I imagine, again.) What if I’m tired after work and can never get the readings done? Or what if I’m just no good at school any more? That would be devastating. The scariest part of it all is that an M.A. puts me on a path that firmly cements past decisions I’ve made and forces me to contemplate how I will move forward in the curatorial field. It’s really about taking the next step forward and trusting that everything will turn out how I want it. The only difficult part is defining exactly what I want. That’s what that one year, nine months, twelve days is for, I guess, but I'll try to be flexible about the time schedule.

Coming up Roses

Last month Brandeis University announced that it would close the Rose Art Museum, one of the most respected collections of post-war American art in the country. Roberta Smith wrote a thoughtful piece, which I encourage you to read here. A personal chord was struck, as I read about how the Rose been a responsible entity, raising its own funds, supporting its own programming and even, seemingly, paying an onerous tithe to Brandeis. For all that hard work it will be closed.

What will its students do without original objects from which to study? As one of my favorite professors says, “It is always the object which asks the question; you can only get so far with theory and abstractions.” What would my own education have been like without the resources of the Clark Art Institute, Mass MoCA and, most importantly, the Williams College Museum of Art, where I led tours for three years, and worked in the curatorial and education departments each summer? What if I had never interacted with original objects in the study rooms of each place, never held a Rembrandt etching, or lectured next to a Degas pastel? Would I ever have pursued work in museums? Or would I have ended up in law school or on Wall Street like so many of my classmates? (That would have been much kinder to my finances!)

Much has been said about how the administration’s decision is short-sighted and akin to cannibalizing itself. There goes the art history program! No more studio projects! And, donors? Well, they’ll be less likely to give ever again—to the university or the Rose, if it’s saved, because who knows what might happen during the next fiscal crisis. What will be next? Will Brandeis auction off books, buildings, and donor portraits? It’s incredibly disheartening to see acts of philanthropy completely turned on their heads. I doubt that the men and women who donated paintings worth $5,000 in 1962 did so because they thought, “I sure hope this Lichtenstein appreciates and that they’ll be able to sell it to a private collection in 2009 for millions of dollars.” No, they donated original works of art because they are unique, important contributions to the field. If those donors had wanted Brandeis to have the cash they would have written a check, which is significantly easier to transport, believe me.

What hasn’t been talked about is the failings of the staff of the Rose. On one hand, they are victims in that they were given absolutely no notice or say about the closing, and are now unemployed in a difficult economy in an extremely difficult field. On the other hand, one of the primary jobs of a university museum is to make itself one of the most priceless resources on campus. It’s not just another library or laboratory; it’s a living breathing space in which students and faculty from all disciplines can interact with historical documents. In Smith’s article the director discusses how many objects are on tour and how many millions of people see the Rose’s art annually. These are the kinds of statistics important to a large civic institution that must justify its existence to a skeptical public. For a university museum the mandate is much narrower. Those objects on tour should be on campus. Curators should be collaborating with faculty to create exhibitions that cross disciplinary lines and tap into the interests of the most students possible, not boasting about sending resources around the world.

In 1997 I spent a formative summer on the Brandeis University campus. My days were spent in theater rehearsals and writing workshops, and learning the foundations of Judaism that have served me much of my adult life. The Rose was closed all summer for renovations, and I never got to peek inside. Instead I had the opportunity to travel to the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, where I encountered a room full of John Singer Sargents and decided right then and there that I wanted to work in museums. The Rose would always be there I thought; I’ll visit some day. That doesn’t appear to be the case.

This Made Me Happier Than Average

Morocco + Christmas =



This is exactly what Marrakech is like. Really. Especially, the lighting yourself on fire part. Oh, but not the red hats; those are for Fes only.

It's too bad this is happening on my birthday or else I would be hopping around on those buses!

http://www.brooklyneagle.com/categories/category.php?category_id=12&id=25020

However did they choose the colors for the different "loops", I wonder? And who really believes art is a good "investment" these days? No one is going to make the kind of financial returns David Rockefeller made on his Rothko a year and half ago. Buy because you love it and can't live without it!

Also, come to my birthday get-together. Details to be sent out soon via email. Don't be Brooklyn-resistant.

Contradictions

Last winter, as I sat in a home made of dirt bricks, with a bamboo roof, ill from whatever parasites had infected me, and lacking heat or running water, I was very nearly driven mad by the contradiction of being in such a harsh environment, but still able to connect with my family and friends via wireless internet. (I am now experiencing this in reverse, as I chat online with friends that still live in Morocco. More than once have I read "My fingers are too cold to type! TTYL!) It was nearly impossible to imagine that the environment in which I sat could exist simultaneously as the one which I had left. Was I even on the same planet?

Trust art to address this issue. I just learned about the artist Filippo Minelli. Now a conceptual artist who uses graffiti and documents it photographically is not that novel, but his ongoing project Contradictions, speaks to me in such a visceral way, I barely even have the vocabulary for it. By visiting slums in the developing world and scrawling incredibly popular websites, such as Facebook, Myspace and Flickr, on tin houses, scrap heaps and run-down trains, he frames the incredible chasm between how people live in these environments and how, we in the developed world, spend a great deal of time in an alternate reality. Here's a quote from him from the Daily Dish:

What I want to do by writing the names of anything connected with the 2.0 life... [on] the slums of the third world is to point out the gap between the reality we still live in and the ephemeral world of technologies. It's a kind of reminder, for people like me..., I'm an Apple user and also have social-network accounts, that the real world is deeply far from the idealization we have of it...

What speaks to me most about is the tightrope many developing nations walk as they build technological infrastructures, which are vital to their efforts to attract foreign investment, but often neglect what we consider very basic infrastructure, such as rural electrification and water treatment plants. There simply aren't enough resources for them to do both, and foreign investment wins out because it ostensibly generates immediate revenues. A rural farmer simply isn't going to produce a larger crop because the government connected him to the power grid, but her sons can travel to the nearest large town to work for outsourced jobs from larger economies.

I doubt that Minelli's art "helps" anyone in the communities in which he works, but that's not really the point. You and I are his target audience. How we process the contradictions he highlights is the truly interesting aspect.

Life as a Waking Dream

Whenever I'm having a major mini quarter life crisis my grandmother always asks me: If your life were a dream, how would you interpret it? I know, it sounds a little funny, and it is, but sometimes it's a really useful way to step outside of myself and think about how to overcome any obstacles in my path. Other times, when there is no crisis, and I'm a bit bored, I pick out random themes that seem to repeat themselves. This week has been especially rich with oddities.

One of my (really awesome, friendly, funny) co-workers ordered a fox from Ebay. Not a live one, though. It's a specimen of taxidermy, on which she's writing her master's thesis. Then I met a man with the surname, Fox. And I've been thinking about the cute little kid in the movie, "You've Got Mail", that spells out his name, F-O-X, in this really adorable way. Ummm, the problem with this? Foxes apparently represent trickery and fire. And that totally connects to the fact that I burned my thumb pretty badly on some coffee and my favorite brunch place was closed last week after suffering damage from a kitchen fire. I don't think there are any consequences to all these silly observations of mine, but I will not be building any fires in my house like I did last winter.

Life has been relatively uneventful in the past week. I've made little progress on my room, which is a total mess and looks not too dissimilar to a war zone or, more accurately, my room in the third grade. I did attend a great lecture by Maira Kalman, a graphic artist and painter, who does tons of work for The New Yorker. She was personable, self-deprecating and incredibly smart. She also pursues whatever she wants, and fully admits that luck aids her talent. I like that kind of honesty.

This is Fabulous News!

Congratulations to Jimmy Carter, the countless educators on the ground and the people who have made small adjustments to their behavior to nearly eradicate the affliction that is Guinea Worm!

http://kristof.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/12/05/jimmy-carter-and-george-w-bushs-future/

And to echo Kristof's thoughts: What will a former President Bush look like? Will he chop wood or help to save forests? The cynic in me says he'll probably spread the myth that zebras are vicious man-eating beasts that should never, ever be put on the endangered species list.

Experiments and Omens

In one last-ditch effort to blend into the neighborhood that is Williamsburg, I forewent washing my hair today. It was an inspired decision brought on by a combination of laziness and the odd looks I get at El Beit, a coffee shop on Bedford Avenue, for having obviously freshly washed, extremely wet hair. Where skinny black jeans had failed before, my slightly greasy hair succeeded. Though my super-smooth french press coffee didn't necessarily taste any better (it's pretty damn good to begin with), it was nice to not be stared at for maintaining basic hygiene.

Alas, this experiment will come to an end for two reasons. First, my head itches, and I have very little tolerance for discomfort of this nature. Second, I'm moving to greener pastures this Friday, where, yes, coffee shops still serve sustainably grown, organic, fair trade coffee in wasteful paper cups with plastic lids and cardboard sleeves, but where everyone appears to be freshly showered by 11:30 AM! They also appear to hold steady jobs, or at least feel obligated to appear friendly and ready for the day. In addition, these new neighbors of mine stay thin not by chain-smoking and shivering in the cold outside the eight hundred bars in the neighborhood, but by going to the gym, or, running outside. Perhaps the best thing about my new apartment in what is probably the second most yuppie part of Brooklyn, is that it's on the top floor, so I wont have to worry about crazy upstairs neighbors who throw combination stomp-karaoke-furniture moving parties at 2:00 AM each Wednesday. (I should mention here that my current sublet is actually quite nice, and my three roommates even nicer. It's just that the neighborhood is so not my speed - as you can see.)

There were, however, a couple odd omens this morning when I went to pick up my keys. First off, the G train arrived much too quickly, which made traveling to Bergen Street so easy as to catch me off guard. Then there was a crazy pigeon just hanging out on the exit sign above the platform. I assume he wanted the F train and was a bit irked by the abnormally efficient G. Then one of my favorite restaurants, Miriam's on Court Street, was on fire. OK, I didn't actually see any flames streaming from windows, reaching for the cold winter sky. But I did see three giant fire trucks, and many, many handsome firemen coming out of Miriam's, telling everyone everything was "OK now." Finally, when I went into a cute little bakery to have a pumpernickel bagel, there was an Andy Warhol look alike (face, clothes, hat, everything) sitting in the corner. He told me that he'd never seen me there before. And I said, "Well, I'm new to the neighborhood."