Category Archives: NYC: A Users Guide

City of Narcissists and Art

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I. I’m Breaking Up with New York

New York is suffering an epidemic of narcissism. Maybe I’m just old and naïve and don’t recognize a new wave when I see one. Perhaps what I consider to be socially abhorrent behavior is, in reality, the new normal. I’ve always has a jolly laugh at the sight of geezers wrestling with new technologies. The way they fumble with mobile phones or botch their DVR programming. Who’s laughing now?

A few weeks ago, there was a disruption at the evening performance of Hand to God on Broadway. After taking his orchestra seat, just before the show began, a stupid boy noticed his mobile phone battery was about to die. He saw an outlet on the set, (a PRETEND outlet) jumped up on stage and plugged his phone in. He was immediately descended upon by the ushers. He later explained, “I saw the outlet and ran for it. That was the only outlet I saw, so I thought, ‘Why not?’ Girls were calling all day. What would you do?”

Shortly after that, at an evening performance of Shows for Days at Lincoln Center starring Patti LuPone, a young girl sitting near the front was texting throughout Act One. She was so disengaged from the performance that she shared her texts with her date sitting next to her. While walking off stage at the conclusion of Act One, LuPone walked over and grabbed the phone out of her hand mid-text and walked off stage with it. It was returned after the show.

Later, in a statement, LuPone said, “I am so defeated by this issue.”

But if you really want to take the pulse of the self-absorbed narcissists in this town, look no further than the Style section of The New York Times. Last weekend, they featured an article about women (wealthy, of course, because, apparently, money makes you insane) who are so worried about their appearance in their Instagram/Facebook photo taken immediately following childbirth, they hire hairstylists and makeup artists to come to their hospital room for a postpartum grooming. These services cost upwards of $700.

This is the photo that accompanied the article. She’s a lawyer who lives in the Financial District. (That figures.) The unintentionally hilarious aspect is that you CAN’T SEE THE BABY. She might just as well be cradling a loaf of pumpernickel or a bag of cash.

hospital selfie1Those are surgical instruments on the right and tools of the beauty trade on the left.hospital selfie2I’ve had it with these New York idiots who are incapable of living outside their own heads. To paraphrase, I don’t want to be a part of it, New York, New York. I’ll go back to Cleveland. The people out there are real.

II. I Love New York

Currently at the David Zwirner gallery in Chelsea is an exhibit by DeWain Valentine. I grabbed a cab on my lunch hour and ran down to see it. Valentine was part of the Light and Space movement in the 60’s and 70’s. The work focuses on using light, transparency, reflection and texture.

These four magnificent disks are made of polyester resin. They’re about 6′ tall. Crossing the threshold into the bright, airy gallery provided a genuine thrill.

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Valentine3I was lucky enough to have the galleries all to myself. People are okay to drink and hang out with, but I don’t want anyone around when I’m enjoying the art.

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Valentine4

The urge to reach out and touch them was overpowering, but since each piece was free standing, a monitor was on hand in each gallery to discourage close encounters. I like when you can see the room’s architecture through the piece.

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Valentine8

They’re several inches thick at the bottom but taper towards the top.

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Valentine5

This translucent wall reminded me of Richard Serra’s iron oxidized sculptures. I stood in this room for a long time, not realizing until afterwards that I’d completely forgotten what was bothering me that day. Art can take you someplace else.

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Valentine11

The gallery monitors weren’t Zwirner employees. They were employed by the artist to answer questions and provide insight into his process. They were knowledgeable and lacked pretense. They also instinctively knew when I wanted to be alone with the art and faded into the background.

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Valentine13

These more modest, but still fetching, pieces were in a side gallery.

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An even more spectacular example of the Light and Space movement (and one of the best exhibits I’ve ever seen) was two years ago when James Turrell turned the rotunda of the Guggenheim into a hallucinatory spectrum of light.

Being able to enjoy this sort of frivolity on my lunch hour is a privilege. It’s a lucky break I fell into—none of this happened by design. Who am I trying to kid? You guys or myself? I can’t leave New York! I guess I’m stuck here. I just wish people would learn to disengage. They’d see some interesting things if they’d stop spending so much time gazing lovingly into the mirror.

Opening a new bottle of wine for us.

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Every journal entry I’ve posted is from the same black binder. It contained such a rich vein of material that I couldn’t imagine any of the other binders being as fruitful. Just for fun I cracked open another binder. First time I’ve done it in a couple of years. I didn’t need go to any further than page 1 to find something interesting.

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October 29, 1994

The girl in apartment 5A was raped in the elevator. I didn’t believe it at first because the news came from the angry, militant lesbians on the 3rd floor. They’re malcontents who are always spoiling for a fight—any fight—so their credibility is suspect. But Cathy confirmed it so it must be so. There was another girl in the elevator with her at the time but she didn’t do anything to help. She couldn’t. She was catatonic with fear. I don’t know what I would’ve done. Probably try to stop it and had my throat slit. I don’t think I could’ve just stood there.

This neighborhood makes me sick. I hate the people. I hate junkies. If my family knew I wasn’t immediately planning a relocation after someone was raped in the elevator they’d think there was something was wrong with me. Maybe there is. I’d move back to Brooklyn tomorrow if I could but I can’t. I’m broke. I’m economically trapped in this beautiful apartment. My golden cage. Where else am I going to get a 900 sq. ft. two-bedroom flat for $550/month? Back in Cleveland, I suppose, but that’s out of the question, too. I asked Cathy and Hilly how they could still live here after someone was raped and Cathy said, “I love my apartment too much to leave it. That’s just part of living in the City.” But she’s wrong. That’s the worst part of New York.

I can hear those sons-of-bitches yelling down in the streets right now. I hate Latino music. It’s obnoxious, dull, repetitious and LOUD. I look across the way at the high-rise projects off in the distance and every single window is glowing blue. A city of zombies parked in front of their TVs all fucking night.

November 15, 1994

I didn’t tell everyone it was my last day of work because I didn’t want a fuss. I bumped into Amy in the elevator and we both wished each other good luck, knowing full well we’d never see each other again. I like her a lot but I’m not ambitious enough for her. I didn’t want to tell Mary because she’s partially deaf and when she gets excited SHE SHOUTS. Then, everyone would know.

Bob knew it was my last day. I like Bob but he’s too gay. I don’t like when men put their hands on me in an affectionate manner without being invited to do so. In fact, I don’t like it even if there aren’t any sexual overtones. It’d be great if I felt like experimenting—I’d be busy every weekend—but it’s just not my thing. I like girls. A lot. If he wants to get a drink once in a while or see a play, that’s fine. Whatever. But I’m glad he’s no longer a part of my daily existence. He invades my space. [Note: He and I became good friends. He was in my wedding party.]

I got crappy balcony, obstructed view seats to see Pina Bausch at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. I asked Ann to go. She was invited to go on opening night with the German Consulate but she couldn’t make it. They wanted to send a car at 5:30 and she won’t close the gallery until 6:00, so she went with me instead. I saw Bauch’s Palermo, Palermo about a year ago at BAM and it was one of the most interesting nights I’ve ever spent in the theater. This piece, Two Cigarettes in the Dark was a pretty dull affair.

I was walking home from the subway and bumped into a really pretty Chinese girl. Not hard. We kind of walked right into each other. It was both our faults. But our bodies made complete contact with one another, touching from head to toe ever so softly. Like a gentle embrace. Afterwards, I couldn’t remember the last time a woman held her body against mine like that. It reminded me of what it feels like and I was sad the rest of the night. I got home and was petting the cats and they leaned hard into my hand.

Cathy and I saw a jazz combo at Sweet Basil’s last Friday. I thought it was going to be dull but it wasn’t. It was fantastic. We sat right under the band’s noses. I love being so close that I can see the piano player’s fingers glide across the keyboard. We were on the Blue Note Records guest list. Our cover and drinks were paid for. When it came time to pay, everyone around us started fumbling for their wallets and purses. All I had to do was sign the bill and hand it back. Everyone was looking at me like I was somebody. Little did they know I’m nobody. Lots of Japanese tourists. The Eurotrash maître d’ treated me like shit but that’s fine.

The new Big Audio Dynamite album is terrific. Ditto the new Bryan Ferry. Ferry’s in town next week for a show and is doing a CD-signing at Tower Records. I might go. I like him.

The way is clear
The light is good
I have no fear
Nor no one should.

Into the woods
Without delay
But careful not
To lose the way.

woods

Into the woods
Who knows what may
Be lurking on the journey?

Into the woods
To get the thing
That makes it worth
The journeying.

NYC’s Newest Summer Scam

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New York City is a buzzing hive of scoundrels. They have no intention of putting in an honest day’s work for an honest day’s wages. That’s for suckers like you and I. They live to surgically separate people from their money as quickly and stealthily as possible. And they’re always coming up with novel ways to do it. [Come to think of it, that sounds like the dictionary definition of the advertising industry.]

Currently, there are some Buddhist monks strolling around midtown Manhattan with big smiles on their faces. They bow slightly to tourists, give them some prayer beads and hold their hand out. OF COURSE people give them money. They’re Buddhist monks!

Well, folks, they’re not. They’re a bunch of Chinese dudes who live in Queens impersonating monks. They bought some ceremonial robes and cheap prayer beads and—PRESTO!—instant monk. Apparently, word has gotten out that it’s an easy way to make a buck because I’m seeing more and more of them, especially since summer arrived. It’s been reported in all the papers but, as far as I can tell, nothing’s being done about it. I caught one of the holy Lamas taking a cigarette break on the steps of the stage door at the Nederlander Theater on 41st Street.

monk

Hey! Those guys aren’t supposed to smoke! Aren’t their bodies supposed to be temples? Ah, well. Maybe they’re not a bunch of benevolent pacifists after all. For instance, I saw this headline in New York Daily News yesterday:

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I remember (now, fondly) the three-card Monte grifters of my early NYC years. I was played for a fool once or twice but quickly learned you can’t beat them. It was intoxicating. There was always a shill so folks could see how easy it was. They’d let you win a few times to suck you in. You’d stand there with a fist full of cash and a big, dumb grin on your face, impressed with your brilliance and thinking you knew how to beat these bastards at their own game. The end result was always the same. You’d be liberated of that cash you’d just won and then some. You had to admire their ability to use your greed against you.

It made for great, free, theater. I spent many afternoons in Central Park during my broke-ass years watching them reel in fish after fish. Those guys never paid out. The scam was, if someone accidentally won and selected the right card (which, believe me, rarely happened), they’d kick their boxes over, yell, “Cops!” and scatter in different directions with their pockets full of cash. Your cash. It was beautiful. Nobody got physically hurt. People just felt stupid. A friend came to visit and I BEGGED him not to get involved but you know how that ended, right?

If you’re planning a visit this summer, stay away from the monks. I warned you.

My Bride made a rare trip into the city for work yesterday and took this spectacular pic of The Flatiron. It’s her favorite building in all of NYC. When it opened, one architectural critic glowingly referred to it as a great battleship steaming up Broadway. Hell, yeah, it is.

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Here’s another architectural marvel on Amsterdam and 71st St. This is The Dorilton. It’s a beautiful Beau Arts co-op (originally apartments) constructed in 1902.

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It’s listed on the National Register of Historic Places and featured in many architectural guidebooks. It’s one of the most flamboyant buildings in the city. Criminy. I wish I had a pied-à-terre there. If I did, my life would be perfect and I’d have to stop complaining. The Dorilton sits on the northeast corner. On the southwest corner, diagonally across the street is this abortion:

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I don’t know or care what the name of this fugly mess is. This is the product of greedy real estate development turds. Why spend all that delicious money on design flourishes? That would just cut into profits.

I took these early yesterday morning. Bryant Park, 6:30 a.m. Nobody is around at that hour. It’s just me and a cup of coffee cart coffee.

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Asbury Park, 2009. That was then.

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Asbury Park, 2015. This is now.

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*Sigh* Why does this makes my chest hurt?

Love/Hate

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I got tagged by my Polish Pal to do the 10/10 list. 10 things I love. 10 things I hate. It goes without saying that I love my family and health. So I won’t say it.

I love little baby ducks, old pickup trucks, slow movin’ trains and rain.

Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. I love that. I find it strangely comforting.

I love when I reveal my age and someone says, “Oh, you don’t look that old” and they mean it.

I love the nightlife. I got to boogie on the disco ‘round.

Good God in heaven, sweet Mother of Jesus, I love New York City. I was walking down 54th Street on a sunny day, in a good mood, looked down and saw this Haiku written in chalk on a sidewalk:

haiku

I love coffee. It’s the affordable addiction. The one that won’t cost you your family or job.

Love is all around no need to waste it. You can have the town, why don’t you take it?

We disciplined the 8-Year Old and she went to bed upset. I love that the next morning My Bride found this under her pillow from her older sister. It makes me feel like I’m finally doing something right.

note

I love paper and ink. I like how they smell when married together. I like how it blackens my fingertips.

I love this Bukowski poem. From top to bottom it is, for me, the truest and most perfect poem I’ve ever read. I own a letterpressed broadside of it and go back to it all the time. It fortifies me.

a consistent sort

at the track
the other day
during the
stretch run
the announcer screamed:
“HERE COMES PAIN!”

I had a bet on
Pain and
he finished
2nd,
one half-length
short.

he didn’t win
that time
but he will
win soon
and you can
bet on that
again and
again and
again.

get down
heavy

I hate myself for loving you. Can’t break free from the things that you do. I wanna walk but I run back to you. That’s why I hate myself for loving you. (Ow! Uh!)

I hate when that happens.

I hate Jeff Bezos and his Amazon shitsite. He single-handedly slaughtered bookstores. He took something away that was important and vital and meaningful in my life.

I hate that something’s bothering you right now. I wish I could help you solve that problem. Is there anything I can do?

I hate mobile phones. I hate what they’ve turned us into. I wish I could put the genie back in the bottle. I’d do it. I’D TOTALLY DO IT.

I hate my vanity. Who fucking cares how old I look? What difference does THAT make?

I hate that I’m not over it yet. My God. How many years ago was that? Enough already. That’s enough.

I hate rap. It’s ugly, corrosive and anti-life. It’s the new slavery.

I hate the CEO’s of giant investment banks. If I was sitting at a bar and Jamie Dimon was on one side of me and Lloyd Blankfein was sitting on the other side and I got up to put money in the jukebox, those two clowns would have a fistfight over who was going to steal my change off the top of the bar as soon as my back was turned. They’re nothing a bunch of cheap pickpockets and thieves.

I hate 9/11. Who fucked up my town? And my wedding anniversary, to boot?

Critics sharpen knives. Björk gets filleted.

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I’ve read some negative reviews in my time but nothing like what’s raining down on the Björk “mid-career” exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the Björk show at MoMA is bad, really bad.”
Ben Davis
artnet

Yikes!

“…the show reeks of ambivalence.”
Roberta Smith
The New York Times

Ouch. She said it reeks.

“And the dresses, honey, the dresses.”
Jason Farago
The Guardian

I attended a preview and thought the show was okay (just), but after reading some of the scathing critiques, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s as bad as they say it is. They make some astute observations, these critics.

I’ve had a bug up my ass about Björk for years. Occasionally, an artist will say something that’s so insipid and void of perspective that it leaves me with an ambivalence towards their work that won’t fade away. For instance, back in 2010, while one-note actor Michael Cera was promoting Scott Pilgrim vs The World, he delivered this nugget of clarity:

“I don’t really want to be famous, and I’m kind of scared that might be happening.”

Then don’t be a MOVIE STAR or take a lead role in a BROADWAY PLAY, stupid. I could go on with similar examples. (And, in fact, I have.)

In 2000, Björk was promoting Dancer in the Dark, a movie she starred in with Catherine Deneuve for which she received much praise and an Oscar nomination. During a press junket, she said filming was:

“…like signing on to war, going to the Vietnam War. I believed I might die. Acting is like jumping from a cliff without a parachute.”

What an idiot. I’ve done neither, but I’m fairly certain that making a movie is nothing at all like fighting in Vietnam. She lives in a vacuum. I’ve dated girls like Björk. They’re in a constant state of crisis—a crisis that’s usually of their own construct. They’re malcontents who’re always spoiling for a fight and feel the world is against them. After she said that, I lost interest in her work.

Flash forward. I entered the exhibit with an open heart. I resolved to judge her work on its merits and forget about this foolishness from 15 years ago. I had a nice enough time but it’s like the Orlando Hard Rock Café without the overpriced hamburgers. Examples of her hand written lyrics and journals were under glass. Man, I don’t care about her scribblings. And journals? Give me a break. Who wants to read someone’s journals?

Before entering the exhibit, you’re given an iPod and a pair of pretty decent Bang & Olufsen headphones. There’s music and spoken-word narration for each individual gallery. The tracks are triggered by motion detectors. As you move between the small, cramped galleries, the music and narration changes automatically when you cross a threshold. It’s a clever conceit but I soon lost interest and relegated the audio portion to the back of my mind. I couldn’t understand the dialogue over the music. It was only later after reading some reviews I discovered there’s a linear story being told about Björk being on a journey. Who knew?

The galleries contained videos and costumes from her live performances. There was her swan dress from her night at the Oscars (on a cartoonish likeness of her). The eggs are a nice touch.

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A translucent, nipple-pierced Björk was dressed in this Alexander McQueen gown. It slowly rotated on a pedestal.

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The Bell Dress, another McQueen creation, along with headpiece hair sculpture by Hrafnhildur Arnardottir.

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The cool robots from her All Is Full of Love video.

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I’m not entirely certain where these were used. The gallery was packed and I couldn’t get to the description card. But they were interesting. They must have been uncomfortable to wear. If anyone can fill in the blanks, feel free.

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Her videos, arguably the bread and butter of her oeuvre, are relegated to a room with serviceable projection and uncomfortable foam furniture. It’s a shame because the camera loves her. The guy sitting in front of me had horrific B.O. and I had to leave earlier than I would have liked. That’s not Björk’s fault.

She created a new work specifically for this exhibit. It’s a :10 minute film for Black Lake, which appears on her new album. It’s about her breakup with conceptual artist Matthew Barney. You enter a dark, circular room with two large facing screens and sit on the floor. A great sound system cranks up and you see a film of Björk crawling around on her knees in a cave, emoting, beating her chest and singing a song of unrelenting heartache.

Family was always our sacred mutual mission
Which you abandoned

You have nothing to give
Your heart is hollow
I’m drowned in sorrows
No hope in sight of ever recover
Eternal pain and horrors

Oy. What melodrama. Even during my worst break-ups I never thought the pain and horror was eternal. I would never commit thoughts like that to paper. They say artists “feel” more. Maybe that’s true.

This is the 7th anniversary of my blog. Here’s to another seven years *ting*.

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Did Shakespeare maintain a blog? Sure sounds like it.