Sunday, December 6, 2009

Saturday, October 17, 2009


Tanja Trygg has an epic project to map the world through solargraphs. Solargraphs are pinhole photographs taken with a lensless pinhole camera with a long exposure. By doing so the invisible movements of the Sun can be made visible in landscapes.

View the project here.

the invisible man

Performing artist Liu Bolin paints himself into his surroundings. See more here.


"Our race has long been titillated by images of a 'lost civilization' beneath the sea. Some say it is legend, some say it is genetic memory, a few say there is small difference. Their common mistake is their relegation of this 'vanished' utopia to ancient history. Deep consciousness is hardly bound by the constraints of linear time. Atlantis is in our future, not our past."

- Tom Robbins

According to scientists, no creature on earth dreams as much as the human fetus. If the fetal brain has had no experience, then what does it dream about?

Friday, October 16, 2009

strange harmonies

"Massimo Cristaldi creates 'possible and strange harmonies' between nature and industry."

"[His work] is concerned with the ineffable qualities of the visible world. Here, nature and industry make an unlikely pair, yet they make a conceptual reciprocation. The flock of starlings in this photograph are drawn to the refinery's thermal flows; en masse they create a kind of super-organism that almost emulates the scale of the artificial complex."

- from jen bekman

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

welcome to the machine

housing projects in Ixtapaluca, Mexico.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

sea change

"On the outskirts of Salvation Mountain: lacking a proper river for his boat, Leonard painted his own."

the salton sea

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

fighting season

An Afghan National Police officer who was injured by gunfire sings to mynah birds at an outpost on the front line.

Louie Palu

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

swan song

The phrase "swan song" is a reference to an ancient belief that the Mute Swan (Cygnus olor) is completely mute during its lifetime until the moment just before it dies, when it sings one beautiful song.

"The swan, who had been caught by mistake instead of the goose, began to sing as a prelude to its own demise. His voice was recognized and the song saved his life." - Aesop

"There, she poured out her words of grief, tearfully, in faint tones, in harmony with sadness, just as the swan sings once, in dying, its own funeral song." - Ovid

And Tennyson:

"The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul
Of that waste place with joy
Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear
The warble was low, and full and clear; ...
But anon her awful jubilant voice,
With a music strange and manifold,
Flow’d forth on a carol free and bold;
As when a mighty people rejoice
With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold..."

Friday, September 4, 2009


The first time an angel heard the devil's laughter, he was dumbfounded. That happened at a feast in a crowded room, where the devil's laughter, which is terribly contagious, spread from one person to another. The angel clearly understood that such laughter was directed against God and against the dignity of his works. He knew that he must react swiftly somehow, but felt weak and defenseless. Unable to come up with anything of his own, he aped his adversary. Opening his mouth, he emitted broken, spasmodic sounds in the higher reaches of his vocal range, but giving them an opposite meaning: whereas the devil's laughter denoted the absurdity of things, the angel on the contrary meant to rejoice over how well ordered, wisely conceived, good, and meaningful everything here below was.

Thus the angel and the devil faced each other and, mouths wide open, emitted nearly the same sounds, but each one's noise expressed the absolute opposite of the other's. And seeing the angel laugh, the devil laughed all the more, all the harder, and all the more blatantly, because the laughing angel was infinitely comical.

- Milan Kundera

the great influenza

Thursday, September 3, 2009

what's in a word?

"When the Viaduct de Millau opened in the south of France in 2004, this tallest bridge in the world won worldwide accolades. German newspapers described how it "floated above the clouds" with "elegance and lightness" and "breathtaking" beauty. In France, papers praised the "immense" "concrete giant." Was it mere coincidence that the Germans saw beauty where the French saw heft and power? Lera Boroditsky thinks not.

A psychologist at Stanford University, she has long been intrigued by an age-old question whose modern form dates to 1956, when linguist Benjamin Lee Whorf asked whether the language we speak shapes the way we think and see the world. If so, then language is not merely a means of expressing thought, but a constraint on it, too. Although philosophers, anthropologists, and others have weighed in, with most concluding that language does not shape thought in any significant way, the field has been notable for a distressing lack of empiricism—as in testable hypotheses and actual data.

That's where Boroditsky comes in. In a series of clever experiments guided by pointed questions, she is amassing evidence that, yes, language shapes thought. The effect is powerful enough, she says, that "the private mental lives of speakers of different languages may differ dramatically," not only when they are thinking in order to speak, "but in all manner of cognitive tasks," including basic sensory perception. "Even a small fluke of grammar"—the gender of nouns—"can have an effect on how people think about things in the world," she says.

As in that bridge. In German, the noun for bridge, Brücke, is feminine. In French, pont is masculine. German speakers saw prototypically female features; French speakers, masculine ones. Similarly, Germans describe keys (Schlüssel) with words such as hard, heavy, jagged, and metal, while to Spaniards keys (llaves) are golden, intricate, little, and lovely. Guess which language construes key as masculine and which as feminine? Grammatical gender also shapes how we construe abstractions. In 85 percent of artistic depictions of death and victory, for instance, the idea is represented by a man if the noun is masculine and a woman if it is feminine, says Boroditsky. Germans tend to paint death as male, and Russians tend to paint it as female.

Language even shapes what we see. People have a better memory for colors if different shades have distinct names—not English's light blue and dark blue, for instance, but Russian's goluboy and sinly. Skeptics of the language-shapes-thought claim have argued that that's a trivial finding, showing only that people remember what they saw in both a visual form and a verbal one, but not proving that they actually see the hues differently. In an ingenious experiment, however, Boroditsky and colleagues showed volunteers three color swatches and asked them which of the bottom two was the same as the top one. Native Russian speakers were faster than English speakers when the colors had distinct names, suggesting that having a name for something allows you to perceive it more sharply. Similarly, Korean uses one word for "in" when one object is in another snugly (a letter in an envelope), and a different one when an object is in something loosely (an apple in a bowl). Sure enough, Korean adults are better than English speakers at distinguishing tight fit from loose fit.

In Australia, the Aboriginal Kuuk Thaayorre use compass directions for every spatial cue rather than right or left, leading to locutions such as "there is an ant on your southeast leg." The Kuuk Thaayorre are also much more skillful than English speakers at dead reckoning, even in unfamiliar surroundings or strange buildings. Their language "equips them to perform navigational feats once thought beyond human capabilities," Boroditsky wrote on

Science has only scratched the surface of how language affects thought. In Russian, verb forms indicate whether the action was completed or not—as in "she ate [and finished] the pizza." In Turkish, verbs indicate whether the action was observed or merely rumored. Boroditsky would love to run an experiment testing whether native Russian speakers are better than others at noticing if an action is completed, and if Turks have a heightened sensitivity to fact versus hearsay. Similarly, while English says "she broke the bowl" even if it smashed accidentally (she dropped something on it, say), Spanish and Japanese describe the same event more like "the bowl broke itself." "When we show people video of the same event," says Boroditsky, "English speakers remember who was to blame even in an accident, but Spanish and Japanese speakers remember it less well than they do intentional actions. It raises questions about whether language affects even something as basic as how we construct our ideas of causality."

- article borrowed from newsweek

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

urban surfing

"Far Rockaway, an inner-city, oceanfront commuter town is just a 40 minute "A" train ride from Manhattan, it is also host to a unique culture - urban surfers. 'Submerged' explores this unexpected juxtapostion of NYC's urban lifestyle with the profound relationship that surfers have to the ocean. Inspired by his own experience of discovering this scene in New York, director Jakob Daschek's contemplative camera uses the surfers reflections to narrate this short film."

Sunday, August 23, 2009

and sometimes Y

"In hot climates, A provides a shady arch, O is a siphon through which to suck liquids, U a cool cave or tub to slide into; A stands like a surfer with its legs apart, O hangs like a citrus from a bough, U rolls its hula hips - and I and E mimic the cries of monkeys and jungle birds from which they were derived. Consonants, like fair-skinned men, do not thrive in torrid zones. Vowels are built for southern comfort, consonants for northern speed. But O how the natives do bOOgIE-wOOgIE while the planters WaLTZ."

- Tom Robbins

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

simple creatures

an argument in favor of space travel:

The first men to be created and formed were called the Sorcerer of Fatal Laughter, the Sorcerer of Night, Unkempt, and the Black Sorcerer... They were endowed with intelligence, they succeeded in knowing all that there is in the world. When they looked, instantly they saw all that is around them, and they contemplated in turn the arc of heaven, and the round face of the earth... Then the Creator said: "They know all... what shall we do with them now? Let their sight reach only to that which is near; let them see only a little of the face of the earth!... Are they not by nature simple creatures of our making? Must they also be gods?"

- Popol Vuh, Quiché Maya

Friday, July 17, 2009

O True Believers

She lay in bed trying to picture the tent with the freak walking from side to side but she was too sleepy to figure it out. She was better able to see the faces of the country people watching, the men more solemn then they were in church, and the women stern and polite, with painted-looking eyes, standing as if they were waiting for the first note of the piano to begin the hymn. She could hear the freak saying, "God made me thisaway and I don't dispute hit," and the people saying, "Amen. Amen."

"God done this to me and I praise Him."

"Amen. Amen."

"He could strike you thisaway."

"Amen. Amen."

"But he has not."


"Raise yourself up. A temple of the Holy Ghost. You! You are God's temple, don't you know? Don't you know? God's spirit has a dwelling in you, don't you know?"

"Amen. Amen."

"If anybody desecrates the temple of God, God will bring him to ruin and if you laugh, He may strike you thisaway. A temple of God is a holy thing. Amen. Amen."

"I am a temple of the Holy Ghost."


The people began to slap their hands without making a loud noise and with a regular beat between the Amens, more and more softly, as if they knew there was a child near, half asleep.

- Flannery O'Connor, "A Temple of the Holy Ghost"

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Las Baladas Prohibidas

valient, outlawed songs of love and death among Mexicali's drug cartels.

"The policeman Carlos Pérez said that some of the most famous ballads were about Jesús Malverde, whom he called the patron saint of the narcotraffickers. He lived in Sinaloa. He was Robin Hood. He sold drugs and used the money to help the people. He was killed in a gun battle because he didn't want to give himself up. Some say he was never caught. Some say he died of old age, and others say that he is still alive. Everybody has his own story."

"Even Lupe, who trudged bitterly through life, cheered up when he heard this corrido, which was naturally so loud that he had to shout into my ear for me to apprehend that it dealt with the demure lady friend of a wanted drug lord who happened to be absent when two federales visited their residence, promising her that they wouldn't hurt him, so she told them to sit down and wait if so it pleased them; but while fixing refreshments she overheard their plan to liquidate her lover, so she sweetly invited them to rest just a moment longer, then strode out and blew them away!"

"I've failed to introduce you to the most famous narcotraffickers, whom even the police speak of with respect: Chapo Guzmán and the brothers Arellano Félix from Tijuana; Cárdenas the chief of chiefs, the Valencia brothers...But maybe I have showed you that certain individuals of a daringly decorative bent can paint the walls of hell with words as yellow, hot, and sulphurous as Mexicali at three in the morning."

read the rest of William T. Vollmann's article "Las Baladas Prohibidas" at Mother Jones.

(videos dug up by and borrowed from utne)

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

silence is golden

i love this minimalist photography by Kim Holtermand.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Saturday, May 2, 2009

away, ghosts

My favorite entry from Matt's old blog:

I saw a note in a garbage bin in the gym that had handwritten instructions: “Meditate or ‘just be’ for 5 minutes, then write a sentence or 2 about your experience.” Underneath the fold was the response, in a different hand, “I forgive you now.”

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Shock Rock

Screamin' Jay Hawkins - "I Put A Spell On You"

"Shock rock is a wide umbrella term for artists who combine rock music with elements of theatrical shock value in live performances.'Shock rock' first appeared as a loose genre term during the early 1970s, referring to glam rock era musicians. The genre's 'weapons of outrage' vary from decade to decade, but generally involve issues of sex and/or violence which are designed to push the current limits of decency.

Screamin' Jay Hawkins was arguably the first shock rocker. After the success of his 1957 hit "I Put a Spell on You", Hawkins began a stage show where he'd emerge from a coffin, sing to a skull and set off smoke bombs, among other gimmicks." (wikipedia)

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Alone with Everybody

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else


Saturday, February 21, 2009


There's something that happens to me late in winter. I begin to anticipate the sweet relief of spring, so much so that I start to believe it’s there before it actually is. I convince myself, confuse myself, confound signals to twist them into what I want. Only to be disappointed in the end.

I woke up this morning to warm sunlight and birds singing, and became filled with that rejuvenated spirit of spring. My body stirred from hibernation, seratonin levels skyrocketed. But then I looked out the window to see the same gray winter sun, deceptively infused with warm tones by my green-gold curtains, and realized the bird sounds were actually from some squeaky diesel trucks merging into BQE traffic. My heart fell a thousand miles.

This happens every year, and I’m always just as crushed. But what happens then, when I realize that more winter is on the way, is that spring comes alive in my mind. Whether I like it or not, I can’t suppress it. It’s as if it needs to sprout there first, before the real spring comes.

I spent a good part of my Saturday listening to early electronic music composers, in a random music binge that consumed me for some reason. Maybe it was the shimmering mood of Steve Reich, or the intuitive sprawl of David Behrman, but I found myself deeply affected by the sounds, and unexpectedly experienced a wellspring of weird, long-forgotten memories that popped up all over the place, out of nowhere. Memories that had a significant emotional meaning, but also all had something atmospherically strange in common – in each of them, there was something about the sun that I’ve never forgotten.

The most prominent memory was from when I first arrived in Xela. In the weeks before, I had quit my job, moved out of my apartment, packed a few belongings in a backpack, and moved to Guatemala for an unknown period of time. I didn’t speak Spanish – but was hoping to remedy that – and didn’t know a single person in the country. I wasn’t looking to find myself, or start over with a clean slate, or to escape anything. I was just looking for something, though I had no idea what, and felt that I had needed to give up most of myself to find it.

However, my first days in the country had been marked by an onslaught of doubt, worry, loneliness, fear. My experience in the capital had been a teeming circus of whistling men, prostitutes on street corners, heavy traffic, diesel fumes, buses I needed to take that no longer existed, boarded up buildings, borrachos harassing me in the street, the constant fear that all I had brought with me would get stolen. My trip to Xela hadn’t been much better. I had held on tightly as my bus screeched around narrow mountain passes, teetering at the edges of cliffs, and blasting reggaeton so loudly that it actually succeeded at drowning out my thoughts as I second-guessed my decision to go there.

But then it all changed in an instant as we arrived in Xela, a haven for me after a nightmare journey. I was living with a family on the east side of the city for the first month, and when I met the mother, Blanca Aragon, we walked through the streets together toward her home. This is where the memory starts.

It was about 5 pm, the sun resting lazily in its seat in the sky, casting long relaxed shadows everywhere. The streets had the quiet feel of a late summer afternoon, despite it being early April. Cobblestone streets were lined on each side by small brightly-colored homes. Children played soccer in a nearby side street. Mountains and volcanoes rose around me, over rooftops. I walked down the middle of the street, no cars around anywhere. Stepping out of a deep blue shadow, I felt the inviting warmth of the sun on my face and stopped for a moment, struck by it. I squinted in the light, over at Blanca as she made her way carefully over the steep curbs. She smiled at me and said something soothing in Spanish. I started to walk again, this time slower. I was in a dream sequence in a movie. Sounds diffusing in the background, sparse, echoing. Warm yellow light everywhere, bathing us. A gentle breeze. Gentle noise. A feeling of familiarity overtook me. I was going home, but to a place I’d never been before. Miles away from everyone and everything I knew, to this place in the sunlight.

Maybe spring is like going home again for me. And I struggle with being so close, but still not there. But the moment of finally reaching it is so deeply enthralling that it makes this long winter necessary. Guess I'll just have to wait it out.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

nest houses

oh how i'd love to live in one of these.

See more of Patrick Dougherty's 150 twig art installations here. Curator Linda Johnson says: “Dougherty’s works allude to nests, cocoons, hives, and lairs built by animals, as well as the manmade forms of huts, haystacks, and baskets, created by interweaving branches and twigs together. Many of his works look ‘found’ rather than made, as if they were created by the natural force of a tornado sweeping across the landscape. He intentionally tries for this effortless effect, as if his creations just fell or grew up naturally in their settings.”

nyc alleys at night

images by phatwalrus

Friday, January 16, 2009


While waiting what seemed like hours for my plane to unload on the runway, I noticed this NYC-bound plane next to us, parked at Gate 13 and marked with "666". I immediately deemed it the Unluckiest Plane Ever, and joked to my seat neighbors that it was a bad omen for my return trip to New York in a few days.

Less than 24 hours later, a plane crashed into the Hudson River, proving my hyperbolic blanket statement wrong, and also making me think twice about poking fun at omens.

I never thought it possible for people to survive a plane crash. I hardly pay attention to the safety talks at the beginning of flights, shrugging it off as unnecessary - I figure if we're going down, none of us really stand a chance anyway. But after the incredible emergency plane landing on the Hudson River yesterday and the rescue that salvaged everyone's lives (except for the geese caught up in the engines), my mind is blown.

Matt's office is located near the site of the crash, and he and fellow coworkers watched the scene from their office window:


150 people owe their lives to the pilot, who I understand did a masterful job of landing the plane with its nose elevated, which kept it afloat long enough for everyone to be pulled from the passenger cabin. Pilots are said to have a job defined by excruciatingly long stretches of boredom followed by moments of sheer terror. Thankfully, this guy worked brilliantly under pressure and deserves all of the acclaim that is currently rattling through the media.

We New Yorkers are quite familiar with our own personal terrors of low-flying planes. After more than seven years, my heart still leaps out of my chest every time I hear the rumble of a loud jet engine, so I'm doubly glad that this time resulted in something we can all cheer about. But regardless, I'll be bringing my parachute, drysuit, and superhero cape with me in my carry-on luggage on Sunday. JUST IN CASE.

And here is a view of what passengers onboard flight 1549 missed - early twilight over the Hudson Valley, exactly 24 hours before, sans birds:

Friday, January 9, 2009

skeleton dance

morbid anatomy

The National Museum of Health and Medicine has been uploading pictures to flickr since September 2006 that portray the human struggle with disease. Photos span almost the entire 20th century, showcasing rare diseases, epidemics, iron lungs, war injuries, and astounding medical procedures (such as the replacement of a nose with a finger).

The archivists have created several flickr pages, which can be seen here, here, and here.

p.s. The Library of Congress has been doing the same.

man on wire

"On August 7th 1974, a young Frenchman named Philippe Petit stepped out on a wire illegally rigged between New York's twin towers, then the world's tallest buildings. After nearly an hour dancing on the wire, he was arrested, taken for psychological evaluation, and brought to jail before he was finally released. Following six and a half years of dreaming of the towers, Petit spent eight months in New York City planning the execution of the coup. Aided by a team of friends and accomplices, Petit was faced with numerous extraordinary challenges: he had to find a way to bypass the WTC's security; smuggle the heavy steel cable and rigging equipment into the towers; pass the wire between the two rooftops; anchor the wire and tension it to withstand the winds and the swaying of the buildings. The rigging was done by night in complete secrecy. At 7:15 AM, Philippe took his first step on the high wire 1,350 feet above the sidewalks of Manhattan."

Thursday, January 8, 2009


Last night, Matt and I made it through the full 4 hours of Che, which is playing in its entirety (both halves with intermission) as part of the Special Roadshow Edition at IFC. We preceded the epic with a che-lebration of Cuban sandwiches and mojitos at Casa Havana:

The movie picks up well after The Motorcycle Diaries left off, as Che meets Fidel Castro in Mexico City and leaves shortly thereafter on a boat for Cuba. It portrays his rise to power during the revolution’s conquest of Havana, and then follows as he leaves Fidel’s Cuba for Bolivia and toward his demise.

While we don’t see too much blood and gore, we see more of the man behind the icon that’s forever imprinted onto our memories like a brand - though we are still prevented from getting too close. Soderbergh only hints at Che’s personal life and uses it as a distant backdrop to the time spent in the jungle, in the mountains, and in combat. The communist principles that Fidel’s revolution brought with it to the Cuban government had to work their way up through the ranks too, and we see this come through again and again as Guevara points out to his troops the mistakes they make that exhibit individuality over the benefit of the entire group. He comes across as someone whose principles determine every action he makes, and color every situation in which he finds himself.

However, during his rise and fall, his principles resound with different notes. We see his defiant slogan “homeland or death” serve both as a rallying cry behind which Cubans push their revolutionary front all the way to the capital, and the heavy weight that pulls a doomed Bolivian resistance down to its end. In the final moments of the movie, we watch his death through his own eyes, notably absent of the vision of a revolution and instead staring at a pair of boots and a dirt floor. I was reminded of Che’s famous (reported) last words: “Shoot, coward, you are only going to kill a man”. While to me, those words always meant that the revolution would never die with the death of just one man, I felt in the final moments how much of “just one man” he really was, alone amidst a failed insurrection, dying in the way that icons are not supposed to.

While watching the movie, I couldn’t help wonder what certain others would think of it. Back in 2007 while I was in Guatemala, I met several former guerrilleros, and for most of the movie, I thought of Amaro. I climbed Tajumulco – the tallest peak in Central America - with him and his 70-year-old father Pedro Cifuentes. Amaro, or Ronaldo as he also went by, had returned to Guatemala to join the guerrilla movement after his family’s exile to Mexico during Guatemala's civil war. He had gained an education in Mexico due to some intervention on behalf of the guerilla, and so he felt a need to repay the movement by returning to fight for them. He later spent eight years living and fighting on Tajumulco as a guerrillero.

I climbed the volcano with them in a day and a half, carrying one night’s worth of equipment and food, and still view it as the most difficult physical exertion I’ve ever experienced. For Amaro, it was nothing. Those who lived on the volcano had to make the trip often in one day, carrying up to 60 pounds of food and supplies on their backs, while sometimes under military fire. They often went without food, due to the difficulty of transporting it. The nights up there are also frigid - and many didn't have tents. But they played a crucial role in the war - they had set up a radio station in the volcano’s crater, sending off radio broadcasts to the highlands of Guatemala that informed campesinos of the activities of both the military and the guerrilla, information that Rios Montt would rather have had suppressed. The army searched for years for the source of the broadcasts, even going as far as Mexico and El Salvador, but never thought to look in the most obvious place - the overpowering peak that loomed over them at every moment.

As I sat on the summit early in the morning on the second day, with the sunrise casting a fragile light over the lip of the crater and onto its empty contents, I began to realize for the first time the utter size of the movement, how so many people adapted their lives to living on the brink of death. I couldn’t imagine spending 8 years there, the long sprawling days, idle hours of sitting up there and looking down on a land filled with war and turmoil, with Rios Montt’s bloodthirsty army (backed by US interests) lurking behind every tree.

I remember the strange quietness up there, an effect of the ridiculously thin air. As we ascended the volcano, I had heard voices echoing from somewhere. Disorienting voices that sounded like they were coming from behind me, next to me, below me. As the clouds parted, I followed the direction of the voices and found their source – there were people climbing a peak from across a ravine, yet I could hear their entire conversation. I stopped in my tracks for a few moments, wondering what it would have been like to live there, each day hearing sounds from near or far, never knowing if i was hearing the sound of a stick breaking across the ravine, or the sound of a gun safety being clicked off just behind my ear.

But the sounds weren’t the eeriest part - it was the clouds. After setting up camp toward the end of the first day, I wandered through the trees, taking in what had been both the home and dying place of many rebel fighters. Since we were in the middle of Guatemalan rainy season, the afternoon cloud cover was growing thick and the rain would soon start below us. I stood holding onto trees at the edge of a steep drop-off and watched the wall of clouds roll toward me. They moved past me and over me until they surrounded me, and the effect was disorienting. It was like a sea, with waves ebbing and flowing, the momentary relief at seeing my surroundings again and the vague panic when everything disappeared again. Sometimes I caught a glimpse of movement next to me, yet when I spun around thinking someone was there, I would see nothing, a shadow quickly lost in the white. As I turned to leave, I noticed how the clouds all rolled with me through the trees, moving swiftly, steadily, silently, and I walked as if accompanied by an army of ghosts, back to the camp that Amaro had set up.

Maybe it was because of this experience that I found myself consumed by the scenes where Che and his troops moved steadily through the jungles and the mountains. In order to live such a life, you would need to voluntarily give up all of your comforts, live under deplorable circumstances, and face death in the form of a thousand possibilities each day. As Che put it, you need to live as if you were already dead. How many of us would be willing to do something so drastic for something we believe in? To give up everything, even our names, and accept a rifle? While the image of Che Guevara can take on the nature of either a superhero or murderer, depending on whom you ask, I think back to those I met who had fought similarly in the mountains of Guatemala – everyday people, the jokes they told, their favorite foods, the longterm injuries they sustained but took in stride – and I begin to suspect that most of us have it in us to do such things. We’ll just never know it.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009



(via matt and fffound)

through the gates of the sleepy silver door

I'm used to taking pictures of the industrial world by day, but the other night, I found myself walking the streets of Bushwick with my camera in hand. Midnight is apparently the hour at which the colors start creeping out of the cracks.

Saturday, January 3, 2009

theremins and dio RAMAS!

Last night, Matt and I went to see world-famous thereminist Pamelia Kurstin play at the Issue Project Room. I was expecting a night of spooky ghostlike sounds in a, well, spooky ghostlike setting, since the show was located in the Old American Can Factory, a 19th century complex at the Gowanus Canal. To add atmosphere to an already strange night, the sky was filled with backlit clouds, and as we wandered around the desolate area past empty condemned buildings and construction sites lit unnaturally by fluorescent lights, even Matt agreed the night had a creepy feel to it.

Was the show everything I expected? Not quite. When Pamelia first came out, she approached the mike and spoke as if she were playing a recording of her voice in fast-forward high speed motion. Something about a party in another room and a vodka cranberry. Hmm. She first played a lengthy set of what she described as a “work in progress”, a tapestry of complexly woven sounds, deep bass lines sliced out through the air with her right hand, and her left gesturing in a unique sign language as she arranged the pitch. Notes whirred and wavered like ghosts, and vibratos echoed like sounds you would only hear from a 1950s B-movie spaceship. The piece was dark, heavy, theatrical, yet moved freely through the air. I liked it a lot. Though we soon realized that this part of the night was only the beginning. There was lots more in store for us.

Before intermission, Pamelia invited 2 friends onstage to perform a comedy act (huh?!). Neither turned out to be comedians, as they both admitted and which was also readily apparent. After trying out a few jokes on the crowd and being met with a cold response, the girl brought out her friend Cecil, an old vaudeville ventriloquist dummy that she had bought for $300. Cecil promptly announced that he hated the theremin, and proceeded to repeatedly hiss and whisper to the crowd “You’re all dead!!” and “There’s poison in the wine! Mwahahaha!” Since I love scary homicidal dummies, I thought it was hilarious and immediately found in Cecil a new best friend, but the rest of the crowd seemed slightly more hesitant at meeting his acquaintance. Especially when he told a 9/11 joke and a terrible Sarah Palin joke that even I (as in myself) didn’t find funny. Even Cecil was straining at this point.

We had 20 minutes of much-needed respite, during which we recovered, slightly. Matt and I wanted to give Cecil the benefit of a doubt and sample the poisoned wine, but we decided that we should probably not put ourselves to sleep if we wanted to make it through the second half. At the end of intermission, Pamelia announced that she was going to have more friends (more friends??!!) come onstage and play with her for the rest of the show. Enter: Stian Westerhus (Norwegian avant-garde guitarist), Seb Rochford (giant-haired British drummer), and Shelley Hirsch (Brooklynite and human sound-effects machine). Cool.

When Shelley came to the mike, she said she was first going to tell us a story about Pamelia, and much in the spirit of Cecil, she began to tell us something we weren’t exactly expecting. Apparently, when Pamelia was 15 or 16, she was staying with a family on a farm somewhere in the midwest. Pamelia wanted to milk a goat, but chose one that wasn’t pregnant. The goat got a little PO’d when she started yanking on its nether regions, and so it began to pee... sideways. Pamelia laughed hysterically at this story, in her one-of-a-kind high-pitched laugh that always seems to take a while to get out of her system. This was, if anything, a dark foreshadowing to the awkwardness that would follow at the end of the show. We just didn’t know it yet. (Don’t worry, we didn’t witness any sideways peeing).

The second set was pretty cool, actually. Since it was going to be an improvised set and Stian was the only one onstage with whom Pamelia had never performed before, she made him begin. There were a few awkward moments as he began to set up when she pointed out how nervous he must be, and he began to laugh uncomfortably, and she began to laugh her chipmunk laugh again. We all followed suit in an effort to break the tension, looking around to find solace in other audience members.

But then he started playing and we momentarily forgot the strange events that were unfolding. His guitar was set to play a number of effects, and later, he figured out a way to echo the ethereal whirs of the theremin. I was a fan. Seb, short for Sebastian, was good too, altering the intensity and speed of his drumming to match the mood. Shelley, at first, was hard for me to get a hold of – her performance fell somewhere between scat and schizophrenia, but her humor and skill got the better of me. Matt and I even found ourselves laughing out loud at points when she cleverly worked in references to the goat story, masterful rhymes (pajamas! Dioramas! camARas!), and even facebook.

However, the minutes began to really drag after a certain point, and several times, everyone onstage except for Pamelia seemed ready to end the show and go home. Around this time, I began to take notice of the amount of wine Pamelia was drinking, as evidenced by her purple-stained lips and teeth, and I started to think “omg! is she going to stop tonight? Will we be here forever? OMG!!” I learned the hard way that those fidgeting, seat-shifting trapped-at-a-show moments are far worse than having your life threatened by lifeless wooden objects. When would it end?

It finally did, or so we thought. The music stopped, at least. Pamelia came to the mike to say what we all hoped would be a thank-you-good-night. But she, instead, talked about pee again. She announced she wanted to play another set after everyone went out to the bathroom to pee. Shelley saw the opportunity and made a mad dash out the door, as we all wondered “Is she coming back? Are they really gonna play another set? Is there really poison in the wine?? We’ll never leave! NOOOO!!” Not wanting to leave the stage or mike unattended, Pamelia continued with her pee talk, asking random audience members what we thought Shelley was doing in the bathroom – number 1 or number 2? This led to a monologue of her thoughts on “taking massive shits” and people’s need to just announce it already instead of covering it up by saying they were just to have a “tinkle”. The fidgeting and seat shifting continued. At this point, we were silently willing the comedy duo to take the stage again, anything but this.

But at last, Shelley returned, unaware of the dissertation on her bathroom activities that had developed during her absence. And an audience member volunteered to get Pamelia more wine so she would stop talking about it (Noooo!!! Don’t do it!!!). Pamelia had promised the set would only last 2-3 minutes, and after a few moments of loud blasting heavy-bass jamming, Shelley made sure she stuck to it (thank you!!).

As the music came to its final descent, Matt and I made a mad dash for our coats, scarves, hats, gloves, why did we bring so many things for christs sake, but it was too late. Pamelia took the mike again. And again, she talked about pee. “I would like to thank the audience members who held their pee long enough to stay tonight. If you all get bladder infections as a result, don’t blame me. Cuz you know, that’s the thing with bladder infections…” and she went on and on. However, much to the rejoicing of all, the guy who helps run the issue project room took over the mike and said good night. We were all free to go into the night, shivering, but not from the cold.

Pamelia was brilliant on the theremin, but I don’t know what got into her last night. Matt says she’s quirky like that. I think it must have been something in the wine after all.

Damn, we should have had some.