This is an episode I’d forgotten about. These journals occasionally stir up memories that are best forgotten.
September 6, 1995
More roaches. Not as many as before, but more. I began my death-spray campaign two weeks ago but they’re still here. I saw one crawling up the bedroom wall last night and a few in the silverware drawer this morning. I locked the cats in the bedroom and doubled-up on the insecticide. I’ve got a tremendous, pounding headache. I don’t know if it’s from breathing Black Flag Inner City Strength Formula or from cleaning up cockroach droppings all morning. My index finger hurts from holding the spray button down. I emptied the can.
There was a sick article in The Times about how there’s a plague of asthma in the Bronx. It’s an everyday occurrence to see men and woman stop on the street to catch their breath and reach into their pockets for an atomizer. Do you know what they say is causing this epidemic? An inordinate amount of cockroach feces and body parts, along with the rat and mice urine in the area.
I’m going nuclear tomorrow morning. I’m taking the cats to Cindy’s apartment and setting off a roach bomb. But if the dirty slobs who live around me don’t get their shit together, it’ll all be a big wast of time and money.
This exhibit at the Canada Gallery on Broome St. is an exercise in warped perspective. It’s going to be difficult to describe but I’ll give it my best shot. It might help to click on these and get a magnified look.
A Fall of Corners by Samara Golden starts with a walk up a short flight of stairs onto a long platform.
Along the right-side wall is a formal dining room with full-sized tables and chairs. Tables are set with white linen tablecloths, white chairs and place settings. The linens are stiff and hang as they would if the tables were on the ground. Plates and cutlery are glued to the table, the chairs are secured to the wall.
A spotlight slowly pans the scene which creates fantastic long, shifting shadows.
On the far wall is another dining room. This one, a more casual and festive buffet with blue and red checkered tablecloths and country chairs.
If you stand at the edge of the platform and look down, you’ll see a mirror. It creates an effective illusion of depth and space.
Turn towards the end of the platform and thrown into a heap in the corner is, what appears to be, a pile of rags.
Closer examination reveals the truth: Bodies. Some are ghastly and skeletal. Who are they? The diners? People who wanted to eat but couldn’t?
Running up the left wall is a living room with silver furniture and, in an especially nice touch, a Christmas tree in the corner.
By this time, I was fairly disoriented. I wish I’d know about this warped perceptive in advance. I’d have dug out my bong from the attic and REALLY prepared. Once again, look over the edge and there’s a mirror. A projector plays a movie of moving clouds and sky. You’ve got to look down to look up. See your intrepid reporter there? Hello!
I’ve often wondered what the end game is to these exhibits. I can only presume they’re for sale, since they’re in a gallery. But who is the target audience for these large works? Museums, I suppose. Fun fact: NONE of these galleries ever charge an admission. And, best of all, they don’t care if you take photos. New York is a friendly place!
I had dinner on the Lower East Side last Friday night. We ate at Little Poland on 2nd Avenue and 12th Street. I had the big combo platter: Kielbasa, pierogi, bigos and stuffed cabbage. About four pounds of thick, heavy, gravied, Eastern European delights. Most satisfying! Unfortunately, I had forgotten that I had to run a charity 5K race the very next morning. Oh, no! Well, guess what? I killed it. I ran a personal best. It turns out that Polish food = ROCKET FUEL. Who knew?
Exile on Pain Street 