Holiday Celebration = Social Investment

It pays to take a breath and notice the resources we have in one another.

I recently wrote a celebration of shallow ties that unite the community and enrich us all but we can’t overlook the deeper ones either. From a social perspective, the holidays are about recognizing and reinforcing our connections on all levels.

From a nod on the street, to an office party, gift baskets for customers, Christmas cards for old neighbors we no longer see, brunches with friends and visits (even under duress) to or from families out-of-state, the season is a gauntlet of social obligations.

The other day, my wife and I shared our annual holiday freakout from being overwhelmed by it all. I asked her to take a deep breath and I needed one myself. So I walked to the studio through the neighborhood.

We're not alone

I received an unexpected email the other day. Hannah Minzloff is a Nova Scotia-based photographer  doing a project about a small section of a historic road,where she's newly transplanted.

It was a bit shocking to know that someone else is doing something so similar to what seemed like a pretty unique effort, but I shouldn’t really be surprised. Monticello Road was a response to a big need that exists in the Art World for art that is relevant to communities and a yearning in neighborhoods for the social benefits that artists are uniquely able to deliver. This is all over the world, not just me or in Charlottesville.

There’s nothing more encouraging than to look to either side and see fellows toiling alongside. I’m glad to know that I’m on to something important and its good to see others carrying the effort forward.

Here’s what she wrote:

Congratulations on succeeding with the fundraising for your wonderful project Peter. It has been amazing to hear about what you have accomplished in such a short time.


In a good way, hairs prickled on the back of my neck when I stumbled upon the Monticello Road project on Kickstarter (I was doing some research into crowdfunding) a couple of months ago. By wild coincidence I am also working on a photo-based community project along a short stretch of road in what is a relatively new community for me, in Dartmouth Nova Scotia on the east coast of Canada. As I read your description of Monticello Road, it felt like I was seeing my own words pouring out onto the page.


I'd like to share with you what I have been working on over the last 18 months. Portraits on Portland documents a neighbourhood in transition, celebrating the people and places along a 5-block strip of the Old Dartmouth section of Portland Street, Nova Scotia's first incorporated town. The exhibition will be presented as a series of large prints along with projections of historical images at a local gallery this September. A wall of the gallery will be given over to the community to post their thoughts, drawings etc of what then envision for the future of the area, and a number of stores on Portland will actively take part in the show by hosting their own displays of pictures and artifacts. I have been using a digital recorder to collect people's stories about the area but haven't quite decided how to present those during the exhibition. You can see a selection of the portraits and read more on the website: Portraits on Portland.


The way you reached out to engage the community through panel discussions and storytelling has inspired me to set up a panel discussion on revitalizing downtowns, and if I may I'd like to borrow your rocking chair storytelling afternoon idea.


After much research – can you believe it there are no crowdfunding organizations in Canada!– I decided to give crowdfunding a try by setting up a website and a PayPal account. I've almost reached my goal which is a real testament to the local community.


I wonder if there is an opportunity for an exhibition exchange here or for these works to intersect in some way?


thank you for the inspiration,


Hannah

All throughout this project, I have received constant voices of confidence from all quarters: sponsors, fellow artists, media, and the neighborhood itself. It’s rare in any life, including that of an artist, to be told with certainty that you are doing the right thing.

As we think about what makes us each successful and what makes a healthy community, that validation is a key ingredient. Let’s all do it for one another and do it often.

Monticello Road: Gateless Community

 

I'm not naive: I've lived in some very divided communities and Charlottesville is far from perfect, but there is an engagement here--a real effort to work it out.

I just read a terrific op-ed piece in the New York Times about gated communities and what they do to our ability to trust one another and the tragic effects that can bring. Right away I was reminded why this project is so important.

Basically, the column says that in their fear of outsiders (and the question of who is really an outsider is impossibly twisted), people in gated communities sequester themselves ever more radically in a feedback loop of paranoia. By putting themselves in a place where they only see members of their own tribe, outsiders seem more and more terrifying--and the world is full of outsiders, isn't it?

Monticello Road is the opposite of a gated community (though it has not always been thus and who knows what the future will bring).  I'm not sure how it got this way--that will be a question for our Community Planning panel--but it is a zone where folks do interact in a way that is civil and often much better than that.

My front yard has a fence (the previous owners had dogs) but we tore down the gate and kids in the playground across the street often use our bathroom. Out on the street, you're likely to run into someone dressed like the Elvis or to meet a man named James Brown who is not the king of soul but the city Sheriff and an active parent. Folks of all ages and many ethnicities intermingle and the results are not always pretty but we are all engaged in working it out.

No one but Jesus asks us to absolutely love everyone we meet but there needs to be respect and acceptance: two sides of the same coin. And there's quite a bit of love as well, a currency that is built by sharing--not by burying it in the backyard. This project is about overcoming obstacles and sharing social capital.

The Temple of my Mother

My mom would want me to take my camera along on my voyage of remembrance and I'm glad I did! I was channeling something that day and I can't wait to share more of the results.

When the news of my mother’s passing went out, we received many encouraging words and offers of support. It feels really good to know that I am the opposite of alone: I have many friends who would gladly do anything I ask, no matter the reason.

There was one invitation I especially could not resist: James’ cabin in the Goshen Pass, the seat of many joyful memories, a place of terrific beauty, and not least a place where I could spend some quiet time with a very dear friend, talking over weighty (and weightless) matters.

With my family’s blessing I threw my sleeping bag and a cooler in the car and raced over the Blue Ridge with an elated spirit. Knowing I would arrive about an hour before James, I resolved to go for a run and I knew just where I wanted go: a trail called Laurel Run that follows a lovely side canyon along a mossy and steep-falling brook into the heart of the mountains. I just wanted to stretch my legs but I got more than I expected.

After climbing a few miles, the trail petered out into a secluded glen high in a sheltered amphitheater on the mountain’s shoulder. The ground was mossy damp and open, with mighty oaks soaring up to support a green canopy high above. There were no human sounds and a quiet that is not typical in Virginia—just a few crickets, distant birdsong, and the sound of acorns falling.

I had strode unexpectedly into a cathedral, of the kind my mother had often spoken longingly and there could be no better place to remember her. I walked through the trees feeling completely invigorated and in touch with all lives, both current and disappeared or even forgotten. I thought about her presence in this place, within me and everywhere.

At a moment when I was receiving encouraging notes and gifts, this was the mightiest of them all. I am grateful for whatever force called me to that particular place. Whether it was a benevolent voice from my mother or from within me or simple chance that took me there, it was exactly what I needed.

After some remembrance and contemplation, I flew down the mountain and back to the cabin, ready to celebrate. I picked up some of that bumper crop of acorns. I will plant one in my yard to remember my mother, who taught me how to walk with the trees.

Postscript

I stored the acorns in a little plastic cup on my side porch. Meredith reports that some squirrels raided the place and spirited the acorns away. It looks like the job of planting them is now out of my hands. One can only hope that the squirrels buried the nuts in spots with plenty of light and that they forget a few of them, as they often do. It's an absurdity that my mom would appreciate. Meantime, I'll be on the lookout for tiny seedlings with alternate-lobed leaves.

The People of Monticello Road: Jon Trippel

By happy coincidence (or was it?) the painting that brought us together was hanging right there in the cafe. Detail on Jon's site.

My friend Lawrence was in my studio looking at photographs when he recognized his friend Jon Trippel in one of them, painting in plein air. Jon called me the next day and agreed to meet for a coffee.

I had planned it to be a quickie followed by an afternoon photo safari. After two hours with Jon I realized that the journey and the photo session would happen right there in La Taza.


The photo that brought us together. The painting in the photo that brought us together can be seen on Jon's site.

One look at Jon's work reveals an adventuresome spirit and an active mind. Our conversation traveled through some of his many experiences and more than a few subjects which he knows well. His path has not been a straight one but there are some threads that connect it all together, his art chief among them.

As in his life, Jon's paintings are a sum of observations, with each element treated on its own terms and given its due; yet he works equally hard to unify the whole. That tension gives the work its burning life-force and it has motivated his journey thus far.

---

The People of Monticello Road is a weekly series of profiles that will run through the summer. Monticello Road is a photography and story-telling project about the people and places along a mile-long byway that is simultaneously humble and historic, home to many and a reflection of us all. There will be an exhibition and much more in the Spring of 2012.

Project Description | More Photos: Places | People

The Hummus Revolution

This picture doesn't match the subject matter exactly but it's new and I like it. Maybe it's more about how nature pulls things down instead of pushing them up, but it's really all part of the same story isn't it?

Springtime comes as a a shock every year--suddenly backyard and garden are in full riot--but it shouldn't. The vivacious life we see all over the place in April is always there but it's hidden under the leaves and in the soil. The real action is at the bacterial level, weeks and months of plotting and planning in a fully decentralized way. By the time shoots break the surface, it's just a few days until full flowering and winter's dreary cloak shoved aside without possibility of reversal.

Where does it come from? Broadly speaking the answer is "the soil," the unorganized hummus left over from what came before. The ground we walk on is alive and the source of all things.

I'm really interested to see how humans manifest the same pattern. Who organized the current upheaval in the Middle East? The answer is dispersed, quite different from the Nineteenth and Twentieth Century revolutions with their parties and manifestos. It came from the People. In a world where information is widely shared and communications dispersed, there is a new process for developing ideas. It's less like a brain and more like a gut, which is how the garden works and its power is unmistakable--and difficult or impossible to control.

The creative spirit works the same way. The artist channels unnameable energies from unknown sources toward an unknowable end and this is why poets and musicians always show up on the barricades. In a time of great uncertainty, the artist is in his element. We're well accustomed to getting all muddy and we have work to do.

Open Season

Everywhere I looked I saw work related to my own. When it wasn't the trees, it was the chairs. More invisible connections, more elegies for Arcadia...

On September 10, a horn sounded that was audible only in the Art World and the hounds went abounding over to Chelsea for the season’s first Thursday Gallery Crawl as the annual beacons of light thrust into the sky above Ground Zero

I went to see my friend Simen’s opening at Yossi Milo. It was packed, just like the streets outside. His work re-imagines naturalist taxidermy of the kind one finds in the Natural History Museum. It’s a great show, though far too many of the people there were just sprinting from gallery to gallery and not really looking at any of the art along the way.

It’s true that there was a lot to see, and it would be impossible to more than scratch the surface of an abundant ocean of art. I saw quite a few friends swimming along as well. It was a beautiful evening with an electricity that is reserved for Opening Night and this was the unanimous—if undeclared—premiere of a season of opening nights.

If what I saw was an indication, I will have plenty of company as an artist interested in the Natural World and in trees in particular. I saw very much work quite related to my own. See, for example, this. I’ve been doing it for a long time and I’m no slave to fashion and many of the others would state the same thing. So, we’re working together on something and it’s comforting for an artist to know that he is sawing on a string that has some resonance.

With my love for growing things fully aroused, I figured the best way to close the evening would be to stroll along the High Line, for I had not yet been there. It was just gorgeous but it also gave me a strange sensation that I hadn’t felt since Christo’s Gates. For some reason, it felt like I was in an architectural rendering of the High Line as much as in the actual place. There’s an extreme cleanliness of fabrication as if there’s little--if any--deviation from design to execution. Which begs the question: Why not just look at the designs and save the trip?

I would not go so far as to say that the High Line is not worth the trip, quite the opposite, but the over-the-top (if you’ll pardon the pun) attention the detail in execution seems misplaced to me. The place is supposed to be a garden, a little strip of Nature drawn across the concrete grid of the City. But without disorder, what’s left of Nature?

As I reached my stepping-off point at Fourteenth Street, I caught a glimpse of a short film playing up there on the High Line. It was Andrew Zuckerman’s “Bird,” which shows a series of beautiful and regal birds posed (or perched) in front of a white backdrop. It’s quite lovely, if heartbreakingly clinical. Kind of like the High Line really: a little piece of Nature, brought from someplace else, inserted neatly into a space that is so clean as to be nearly sterile.

If you can get past the American Apparel aesthetic, it is a lovely elegy for the Natural World, and it fit perfectly with the other art I had seen that night. I cannot think of a more fitting way to close the evening and perhaps the most beautiful thing of all is how all the experiences fit together without being coordinated or planned.

A Convergence of the bad....

Any regular visitor to this blog knows how much I love invisible threads and hidden parallels. When talking about the Armory Show extravaganza of this past weekend, it’s impossible to avoid comparisons to ArtBaselMiami. One connection between the two whacked me over the head and simply demanded to be blogged.

It’s unusual to find a work of art that stands out in a big pond like like Miami, but there was one that was just head-an-shoulders below the rest in terms of badness. [Photo here--it's not for all audiences] It just reached a little too far in trying to be sensationalist and landed in the zone of the annoying--like a child in mid-tantrum who really really wants you to pay attention to him and winds up creating the opposite desire. Seldom do my friends and I all agree about all aspects of art but they were unanimous their sympathy for me needing to sit in a booth next to that horrible thing--doubly so since Bridge Miami was so dead there were no customers to distract me. I'll always remember that piece, but for the wrong reasons.

Back in New York, I'm gallery surfing in Williamsburg during the art fairs. There's one gallery that sits head-and-shoulders below any other in terms of ridiculous and annoying attempts at sensationalism. It's a good place to see naive comicbook art or lurid paintings of boobs with acne-faced teens (or occasionally satyrs) oggling or fondling them. Sebastian refuses to go in there and he's right. I don't want to validate them by creating a google hit for them, but insiders will know the place from its shorebird name.

What should I find in the back room of said horrible gallery but the same horses and erections from Miami! I wanted to high-five the room because it's seldom that you see such a perfect marriage between awful artist and awful gallery. I salute them and thank all parties for renewing my faith in God and humanity.

Don't get me wrong: the weekend was alot of fun. I saw much great work, connected with old friends and met lots of new people. It was like the Miami Fair but sleeping in my own bed. I skipped the big fair and went to a bunch of satellites. My fave was the Fountain Fair. It certainly had the best party. How many other art fairs could boast a below-deck, a mizzen-mast, an engine room, a murder lounge, a sunset couch, a roving band of pirates, a hotdog grill, and a burlesque girl in the old red-white-and-blue. America the beautiful...

When things come together

A few weeks ago our friend Rachel came to dinner and gave us a CD from one of her favorite new artists: Bon Iver. Love it. Last week’s New Yorker contained a glowing review of that very disk that agreed perfectly with, and built upon, our own impressions. Seems like Rachel plugged us into something good.

That made us think of our visit to New Orleans a few years back (before the flood). On our last night we sort of fell into a very unassuming bar where the music was simply jamming. Guys were coming in off the streets, sitting in for a few numbers then yielding their chairs to someone else. The groove was more infectous than anything I’ve experienced since. The next day on the plane ride home, we opened the Crescent City’s version of the Village Voice, hot off the press. In his weekly column, Andrei Codrescu wrote how he had found the beating New Orleans’ beating heart at the very same gig. Everyone in the room could feel it.

Last night I dreamt that Sebastian had overfilled the bathtub and I awoke to find the pie plate I had left under the radiator had failed miserably in catching the surplus outflow. The result was a pool of water on the living room floor. I suppose the dream was a warning from my subconscious mind that a small domestic catastrophe was on its way, just as the meteorologists had foreseen Katrina.

I celebrate the many connections that tie us to one another and connect each of us to the universe around and within us. It would be nice however, to be able to read those invisible linkages before I have to get out the mop. I suppose that’s where intuition and wisdom meet.

The coolest part of the highlight of a nice holiday weekend

There are plenty of familiar faces at the Yousuf Karsh retrospective at the MFA.
Karsh, Estrellita Karsh, 1963. (MFA via Time.com)

On Boxing Day, Cole and I left the Booga with his grandparents (we were staying in Rhode Island) and spent a date-day in Boston. I wanted to see several shows at the MFA followed by some strolling, casual coffee, opportunistic post-Xmas recession sale trolling, dinner and
conversation. Just a nice day together, which I'm sure the parents among you will appreciate.

We had a nice lunch at the museum's mid-casual cafe between the excellent Assyrian show and the promising Karsh photoretrospective. We sat next to a striking older woman I was sure I had seen someplace before. She was eating with a younger woman (perhaps my age) who kept thanking her profusely for something (we could not hear what). She personalized a catalogue from the Karsh exhibit and Cole glimpsed the name Karsh in the signature (we were sitting that close).

Later, after the nice Rachel Whitetead installation, we took our time and took a quality look at the Karsh show. After all the famous portraits--Einstein, Jackie-O, Mother Theresa, we saw one that positively made our jaws drop: his widow Estrellita, the woman from the cafe! It was only then we noticed every piece in the show was "courtesy Estrellita Karsh." That explained some things.

I love it when I catch a personal glimpse at the invisible bonds that tie the universe together, an artist's version of "dark matter." I love to witness capital moments and I love it when some instinct alerts me to that moment's importance. It was cool that I was able to share that moment with someone who knew how to fully appreciate it.

On a wonderful day that was the best part of the holiday weekend, that moment was the highlight, the beating heart that sent the blood of inspiration coursing through my soul.

---

Postscript: I crossed Bedford Avenue to write this entry at the Rabbit Hole, which has become a sort of writers room for both Meredith and me. The writing took a lot longer than expected because an excellent band was playing (they've never had music there before): Brooklyn
Browngrass, one of my favorites. Turns out their members are from Charlottesville. A thousand more dark matter threads to explore there if I wanted to...

But it's late, we're all tired, the cafe is closing and it's time to file my missive. They'll be back next Saturday...

Farewells and Welcomes

Alyson, Krazy Karl, Cynthia, and Don Pedro are a few of the folks I'll miss most. The good news is that they're New Yorkers and I'll still see them! In fact, I already have or soon shall...

Of course it was difficult to leave VCCA. Everyone kept asking if I would be back, and my answer was always the same, "I would love to come back!"

As much as it was wonderful there, it was also easy to realize how great my regular life is as well. After a very short and sleepy drive, I was back at Springtree for a long weekend of quiet time with my family in the country. Just resting, gardening, and enjoying time with old friends, Sebastian, Meredith and her folks. Plus a swim and a visit with my own parents.

While I saw a bear on my first full day in Virginia, on the last evening Sebastian spotted a bald eagle that swooped over our riverside picnic. We all got a nice long look and his apparition was a nice bookend for the experience and a signal of farewell.

When we got back to Brooklyn, after our favorite brunch place opened specifically for us (and before and dear friend and uber-neighbor Amelia served us a delicious "welcome home" dinner, Sebastian and I stopped by a Labor Day party at my studio building. It was a lovely party with kids and interesting people and good food. The perfect way to close a terrific summer that was full of symmetry and meaning.

I was not really surprised at all then when Cynthia from VCCA (pictured above in the blue shirt)walked into the yard and said hello. Her BF is close friends with Gerbo (the host) and they coincidentally decided to stop by. What a treat! I love those moments that seem intended to demonstrate that there is an order to things, that all things are connected by a million invisible fibers that could never be traced yet feel so obvious.

I'll see Krazy Karl, Don "Juan", Alyson, and a few others later this week.

Sad to have left, glad to be back.

Infinity's Crossing Point

The signs of Spring are everywhere!

The other night I attended a celebration in the East Village to welcome the Vernal Equinox and the amazing full moon that arrived on the same evening. That was not the first pagan ritual I have joined over there—I love the spirituality that is resident in that neighborhood. It feels plugged in to something really, really old. Lots to think about: seasonal renewal, new beginnings, and the interweaving of opposing forces, the male and female, the Hieros-gamos.

Of course the trip home was a nightmare due to construction on the L train. Took me over an hour, which is considerably longer than it would have taken had I walked home. About two miles as the crow flies. It was one of those things that make me hate the city. Those periodic (and frequent) indignities are a key part of the Williamsburg experience. Yet we cannot relocate within the city, leaving a stark choice between regular humiliation or departure.

The historical trend in the neighborhood (going back at least a hundred years) is for the ambitious to leave and for the broken to default to systematic degradation. I don’t feel like I can take that $h!t much longer. Couple that with the predictable longing one feels for green and growing things following a springtime rite and it is easy to ask oneself, "Why exactly am I doing this?"

I had lifted weights that day and it tends to make me ornery, so that explains the mood a little bit. The next day I took a train to Sleepy Hollow and went for a three hour run through the woods and fields and that certainly mellowed me out. Still, I feel like there is a clock ticking within me and the point is approaching when the alarm will ring and I will say, "I’ve had it."

Out of Body

Image stolen from Wired New York.
Note that on this day, it was not snowy and the bridge was stuffed with traffic.

Ready for my surreal moment of the week? I was bombing (i.e. running real fast) though Old Calvary Cemetery (you might even say I was running like the Old Cavalry through Old Calvary) on a perfect clear afternoon. The light was perfect, photographic. When I really get rolling, time seems to stand still and my mind separates from my body. On easy days, I purposely slow my self down, but on my real workout days, I just let myself go to an "out of body" state where I feel nothing and my conscious mind goes to its own little place while my body does its thing. Like sleeping. That's when I run really fast and well and this was one of those days, fueled, no doubt by the three cups of coffee I had just consumed.

So I was cruising through the hills feeling all blissed out, when I looked up at the Kosciuszko Bridge, which looms overhead and to the south. I've crawled across that bridge a number of times on the way home from the beach, or just about every time I've driven on the BQE for that matter. But this time, the cars totally stopped. In fact, when I came around for my second lap (a mile and a half later), the cars were in the exact same positions. It was as if time was standing still. Combined with the runners high (who needs drugs, right?) and the beauty of the day, the effect was eerie. Not in an "oooooooooooo...spookey: we're in a graveyard" way (although I was) but in a Twighlight Zone way that made me look around for the inevitable Martian landers.

Then I headed home, changed clothes, picked Sebastian up from school, took him to the playground and enjoyed the nice day. Wonderful way to spend an afternoon in February.

Surfing a Vibe

A few years back, one of my ambitious New Years resolutions was to become sensitive to the subtle currents that pulse through our lives and to become proficient at harnessing them to my advantage. On a grand scale, it’s a path to success. On a quotidian level, it can turn an everyday hour into a boogie board ride.

For example, I was on my way to work the other day. I got off the L train at Union Square and found the platforms for the uptown trains completely packed with people. No trains, so why not go upstairs and have a coffee in the square? No use getting pi$$ed off. On a whim, I decided to scoot the two blocks to Utrecht to pick up some spray fixer I needed. I walked in just as the store was opening and asked for the product. They showed me the empty space on the shelves and apologized. I poked through some nearby boxes and found just what I needed. They asked at the counter if I had a discount card.

"Expired," I replied.
"We never check the date."
"As I was saying: I do have a discount card, thanks!"

Back at the square, I drank my coffee and watched the pigeons overhead. Then I boarded a very fluid subway uptown to work.

At the end of the day, I had a crunch: I needed a workout but I also needed to stop by the Turkish Baths to see if I had left my credit card there. And I was in a hurry to get home some I could read Sebastian’s bedtime story. I decided to run home (7 miles) which had the added advantage of avoiding any subway annoyances.

Running all the way from Central Park to the East Village along 5th Avenue during rush hour is exhilarating, like riding a storm surge and almost as dangerous. Bombing past commuters, making eye-contact with cabbies, finger-waving at bus drivers, I was feeling very fit and completely plugged into the fabric of the City.

When I got to the baths, David knew just what I wanted and pulled from his drawer a little bundle of credit cards, removed the rubber band and laid mine on the counter. Then I unleashed a wonderful uninhibited kick across the Williamsburg Bridge to my home and dinner with Meredith and Sebastian. Four birds with one stone! I felt exhausted and delighted.

Like a New Yorker.