Tuesday, April 17, 2007
schools are sanctuaries
This week in April already marked the 12th anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombing and the 8th anniversary of the shootings at Columbine High School in Littleton, CO. More than enough nauseating memories (this week also marks Adolf Hitler's birthday) to haunt us for the rest of our lives, yet before we could even begin to memorialize these atrocities, Monday happened.
I spent the majority of Monday at Fremd, my former high school, working on a project. As news spread about the shooting massacre at Virginia Tech, more and more teachers in the English office sat at the row of computers and watched video newsreel footage on cnn.com. At first I wasn't quite sure what had happened...people were clearly shocked about something, but I wasn't in close enough proximity to eavesdrop.
When I finally got to check my e-mail later in the afternoon, there were three CNN Breaking News updates in my inbox.
"9:31 a.m....one person has been killed and one injured..."
"11:24 a.m....at least 20 people were fatally shot..."
"1:36 p.m....the death toll rises to 31, including the gunman..."
When I was in fourth grade, a sixth-grader named Asher brought a gun to school. I don't remember most of the details, except that my friend Melissa's sister was also a sixth-grader and claimed that he threatened her with the weapon. I think our parents were required to pick us up from school that day. And I'm pretty sure the police reported that Asher's gun hadn't even been loaded. Nevertheless, the event and subsequent arrest caused quite a stir among our normally undisrupted neighborhood. Kids even started inserting his name into Aerosmith's song "Janie's got a gun" (a song, until doing research today, i always thought belonged to Nirvana's repetoire).
The Oklahoma City bombing on April 19, 1995 occurred when I was in sixth grade. By the second half of the school year (early '95), my teacher and I had grown more and more intolerant of each other. One particularly awful day she kicked me out of the classroom for doing nothing. I stomped into the hall carrying with me a Teen magazine. After collapsing to the floor, my jaw clenched in anger, I ripped open the magazine. A story about a girl who took a gunshot to her leg while attempting to protect her classmates from a school shooter stared back at me. I thought about Asher and how different that day could have turned out. And I thought to myself that if someone was to come to my class right then with a gun, I'd probably do the same as the girl in the article--both to protect my friends and to get the h-e-l-l out of sixth grade.
April 20, 1999. I was a sophomore in high school sitting in our auditorium for Writers Week when we collectively heard about the shootings at Columbine. Flashbacks of this abounded as the Virginia Tech shootings reached the eyes and ears of the American public. As Wikipedia states, the shootings at Columbine caused "a moral panic in American high schools." Fremd definitely fell into that category. I don't think there was anyone--student nor staff--who didn't immediately recognize Columbine as a comparable school to Fremd. In P.E. class we had to break into small groups to discuss our fears and feelings. They told us we couldn't judge someone just because they chose to wear all black.
This is what bothered me on Monday. The media immediately turned on Virginia Tech, making the school into a scapegoat. I don't see how this event is in any way the fault of the school. The fault lies within Cho and his mental instability. He snapped and murdered over 30 people. The police even stated that a "lone gunmen out to kill himself is the hardest kind of criminal to catch." I don't think it's fair that the media has been blaming anyone but Cho, himself.
Before Cho's name and personal background were released, the news said they had reason to believe that the gunman was someone here on a student visa from South Korea. But before the details became known the following day, I worried that the repercussions of him being here on a student visa would, in the coming months and years, affect our already ridiculous immigration laws...that it might even affect general international travel. I believe this turned out to be false, that although Cho was a native South Korean, he was also a permanent resident of the U.S. Ironically, a lot of his victims happened to be international relations majors, keen on making the world a better place.
This immigration idea hearkens back to a movie I just watched two weeks ago, Children of Men, where any "alien" caught entering London (in the year 2027) was shoved into a cage and eventually killed or thrown into a ghetto. After watching an hour of news reports Tuesday morning, I made myself turn off the TV and all I could do was close my eyes and go back to sleep. Remnants of that movie, current events and influences from the post-apocolyptic novel I'm reading, The Road, by Cormac McCarthy (which, incidently, won the Pulitzer Prize last week) meshed together...and I had a dream that I was walking around brightly-colored Chicago, and there were bumper to bumper cars lining the streets. And every one of them had a person standing so they were half out of the sun roof. All of them holding different types of guns. I walked with my hands over my head, afraid that at any moment I'd be gunned down. Everyone was shooting at random. And laughing about it. One woman kept putting a pistol to different sides of her head and playing a game of Russian Roulette, except that she was the only player. And every time the gun didn't go off when she pulled the trigger, she'd laugh a haunting laugh.
My dreams the rest of the week proved to be vivid nightmares, one revolving around my family and I somehow surviving a fiery plane crash.
On Tuesday evening I drove Max to his orchestra concert in Hyde Park. Before going to the theater on U of Chicago's campus, I had to drop him off at the front door of his school--the Lab School, a K-12 private school linked with the university--to run inside and get the required sheet music from his locker. He returned 30 seconds later empty-handed.
"Where's the music?" I asked while scarfing down a Potbelly's sandwich.
Max, who gets frequently exasperated with incompetent authority figures (just as I did when I was 12), complained, "The stupid cop wouldn't let me get it because I didn't have my school ID!"
"Do you usually have a school ID?" I asked.
"No! That's why this is so stupid!"
I couldn't help wondering if this extra bit of security had anything to do with what happened the day before in Virginia, briefly recalling how NYU became super-strict about us showing our IDs [as i proof-read this posting i realized i had accidentallytyped "ideas" here, instead of IDs. i thought that was noteworthy. possible freudian slip?] to get in any building post-9/11.
I offered to go in there with him and see if a babysitter's presence could vouch for the kid's good-student status.
Max defiantly said, "No. I'll just go without it. Whatever. They'll have to bring me back if they want me to get it."
"Well alright," I said, pulling away from the curb.
"What does he think i'm going to do??" Max continued, getting more defensive by the second. "I'm twelve! I'm not gonna bomb the school or something if that's what he thinks!"
Before the 7th grade spring concert commenced, the conductor thanked everyone for coming. "Also," she said, her voice dropping to a solemn tone, "we'd like to dedicate this concert to those who lost their lives in Virginia."
As the orchestra played their final piece--"Dia de los Muertos" (Day of the dead)--I thought about what the President had said in his speech at VA Tech earlier that afternoon. How he referred to schools as "sanctuaries." I thought about how back in the day one of the only things that protected someone from being drafted into the war was being enrolled in a school. The school acting as a protective barrier from the barracks. Yet now we have to beware of those wars infiltrating our classrooms.
Friday, April 6, 2007
madrid--day 2
March 17, 2007
My dreams were intricate and realistic--being introduced repeatedly to someone with same name as our waitress at the flamenco restaurant--interrupted several times throughout the night by incredibly loud sirens four stories down on Gran Via.
In the morning, or what I thought was the morning but was actually afternoon, my mom woke my dad and I up, informing us that it was after 12:00. I sat up, startled. With no alarm clock and electric window shades that make it impossible to determine whether it's anything but the middle of the night, I assumed that we were still within the normal sleeping hours. Good ol' jet lag, it'll get you every time.
We didn't leave the hotel room until after 1:00. Our first stop, Zara, a popular Spanish clothing store that sells cheap designer trend knock-offs. Now, I am not a shopper, nor did I feel like I came all the way to Europe to shop, but at the same time, I haven't--in fashion-conscious people's terms--"updated my wardrobe" in quite awhile. I'm not naming years here because I honestly couldn't tell you how long it's been. . My sister huffed and puffed her way out of los probadores to send in my mom after I requested a second opinion. One shirt--zero votes. Other shirt--one (mom) vote. (Votes only received from mom and sister....dad waited outside, but when I later, in the hotel room tried them on for him, his response was as follows: "Well they're not my favorite clothes you own...")Regardless, I bought them both. Correction, my mom bought them both for me. She's been insisting I get new clothes for years, and was so excited that I found something, that she also insisted on paying for it.
Sheri met us at Zara, and from there we headed to her place, stopping first for lunch at a little side-street restaurant called La Tortilla de Mamá, which was true to its name. Ever since I lived with Maria Luisa, I've bragged about how her tortilla was the best in all of Madrid...and I had my fair share of tortilla, seeing as I avoided all things jámon or del mar. But this place was comparable--still not quite up to Maria's standards--but definitely a notch above anywhere else I tried the dish outside of Maria's kitchen. In fact, the whole menu consisted of different kinds of tortillas. My mom and I shared one with cheese and tomato sauce, while my dad and sister shared one with chorizo. My dad marveled at how expensive a miniature bottle of Coke cost. Over 2 Euros for about 30cL.
After my parents had a tour of Sheri's host family's apartment, we decided to go to the Reina Sofia art museum, which is free on Saturdays. When we got out of the Metro at the Atocha stop, we saw a huge crowd of people taking over a main intersection. It was some sort of peace demonstration. A bunch of people had "PAZ" signs rubberbanded to their foreheads. There was a stage set up, with speakers on either side blasting the sorrowful song, "Mad World" (in English). The stage itself had a handful of photographers taking pictures of the crowd. Seeing the signs posted at bus stops about ending the war in Iraq and posters on sticking poking out of garbage cans that read, "U$A GO HOME" made me consider becoming an ex-patriot.
I'm glad I got to go back to the Reina Sofia, even if we only had an hour and a half to explore before the establishment closed. That place was one of my three favorite art museums I visited while living in Europe--the other two being the Tate Modern in London and the Musée D'Orsay in Paris. The Reina Sofia is famous for housing Picasso's Guernica, a painting found in every Spanish textbook back in the States. My dad approached me as we milled around the masterpiece, "I'll ask you this, since you're the most artistic in the family...How does someone come up with something like this?" I regurgitated the little bit of history I could remember about the destruction of a town in northern Spain by the same name. "I understand that. But how does he [Picasso] decide to paint people looking like that?" I looked over at the balloon-headed, yelping people portrayed in the painting. The only person who could really answer that question is Picasso himself. "It's just how he sees them in his mind," was all I could muster up.
In the temporary exhibition, "First Generation: Art and the Moving Image, 1963-1986," each room had various T.V. installations by several different artists. One room had a bunch of T.V.'s atop pillars, with black & white videos of transportation scenes around New York City filmed in the early 1970's. The installation was called Manhattan As An Island (1974) by Ira Schneider. A few of the videos revolved around the World Trade Center (as viewed from a boat), which at the time, must have been a brand-new, revolutionary addition to the city. I stood and stared at them for a few minutes. I saw those fall, I thought. I am standing in a building right across the street from where Al Qaeda blew up in 2004 the trains at Atocha, while standing here watching 30-some-year-old footage of the towers the same terrorist group demolished in 2001. And I have such strong ties to both cities.
You can read more about the exhibit here.
[reina sofia elevator shaft]
Unfortunately, we only saw a very small portion of the museum before we got ushered out by the museum staff 15 minutes before closing time. I suggested getting dinner at Isla Del Tesoro, a vegetarian restaurant near where I used to live. The hostess told us that unless we had a reservation, we couldn't get a table. So we went next door to some Asian place, where I couldn't really find anything on the menu that I wanted...this being after I attempted to order the vegetable dumplings only to find out they didn't have anymore. I had some sort of mixed vegetable plate instead, but it was of appetizer proportions and not nearly enough to fill me up.
So being the stereotypical fat American, I requested we stop at McDonald's before retreating back to the hotel. All three of us (we parted ways with Sheri underground at the Bilboa station) got chococlate fudge sundaes, and on top of that I also ordered a large patatas deluxe (like potato wedges), something I used to munch on because they're surprisingly tasty and only cost a Euro. Despite being the fast food instigator, I still felt embarrassed as we walked the block back to the hotel holding a McD's bag chock full of junk. I scarfed both foods down and went to sleep not just acting like a fat American, but feeling like one too.
[all of our sundaes]
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
madrid--day 1
March 16, 2007
Ah, el aeropuerto Barajas. Basically my second home when I lived here three years ago. Customs (which only involved getting our passports stamped) took no time at all, retrieving our bags only about 10 minutes. Then we waited outside about 45 minutes for the Hotel Atlantico bus. I put on a blindfold and posed like the pedestrian-crossing sign to humor myself. My dad made friends with a different bus driver while we were waiting for ours to show up. The man apparently said he hates our president, and I recalled my trip to Interlaken--the most peaceful place on Earth--and even there someone had spraypainted "KILL BUSH" on the wall of a building. If there's anything to look forward to politically-speaking, it's that Bush can no longer be re-elected, which is a blessing, seeing as he wasn't even elected in the first place. What a joke.
The ride into the city wasn't familiar because the only time I didn't take the Metro to/from the airport was the first day I arrived. And I was so jet lagged and overwhelmed at the time, I didn't take visual note of my surroundings.
Once we got into the city limits, though, and drove past el Parque Retiro and the Cibeles fountain and then down Gran Via, I felt like I had never left. My dad turned to me and asked in a mocking tone, "Did you learn any Spanish while you were here?" after I temporarily couldn't remember how to say "good morning" (buenos dias). I immediately became defensive and declared it preposterous that he would even ask that. In fact, I feel like as soon as I was once again immersed in the language, everything came rushing back to me.
Our room needed 40 minutes, so the concierge took our bags and directed us to the first floors (all ground floors in Spain are "0" not "1") to use the teléfono. We took the elevator one flight one flight up to call Sheri but got distracted by the complimentary breakfast. Desayuno ----> this way. When my mom and sister visited me they stayed in this same hotel, and I met them here every morning to take advantage of the free food.
My first cup of café con leche on 3 years! Amazing. The yogurt is better here. Freshly-squeezed orange juice doesn't cost extra. God, I love Spain. We filled our bellies (once again) until our room was ready. #414, right across the street from the same cine as the last time. It's a charming little room. We each have our own twin-sized bed, mine is up a step and in an alcove-type area. Love it.
I took about a three-hour nap, dozing in and out of real sleep. I woke up when I heard my parents talking about leaving to go to the tourist office at Plaza Mayor. They left. I took a long shower, and what a powerful one! I was just about to leave to walk around for a little bit when there was a knock at the door--Sheri! She said she had to go back to her place to call the restaurant to confirm our dinner reservation, so I went with her.
We passed la Plaza de España, where I used to sit by myself and read and once wrote a poem about pigeons on the back of a postcard...
2/28/04
For no reason an army of pigeons landed on Plaza de España
In rows they faced the fickle sun in a sleeping position--
heads held back, bodies inflated
When a gust of February wind intruded upon their siesta
They rotated in unison, a quarter turn
Resumed resting
Then one by one,
As though voices called them home
They took flight over the fountain
...and a travel agency I swore I'd been in before. She lives cerca del Parque del Oeste, though, which I'm pretty sure I never saw in the four months I lived here. The setup of her building's lobby--c/ Urquijo, 43--was similar to what mine had been. An old-time cage-looking elevator and an old doorman, named Juan, to match.
I understood most of what he said to my sister in his native tongue, except I thought he said "luna" (moon), when he actually said "lunes" (Monday). I kind of wish I hadn't so confidently replied because it ruined how poetic I thought he'd been. I thought he said, "The weather is going to change with the change of the moon (cambia a la luna), but in actuality he said "cambia a lunes" (change on Monday)...so when I said , "más frío mañana," they both looked at me strangely--
Sheri: No, Monday.
Juan: No, el lunes.
The elevator buttons lit up neon in a circular ring around the floor numbers. I commented how that was way more advanced, if not futuristic, than Maria's elevator buttons. The "apartment" she lives in is HUGE! I mean I guess it makes sense--2 parents, 4 kids, 1 dog. I met the 21-year-old sister, Fatima, and the 23-year-old brother, Yago. I had a hard time understanding both of them but did notice they were "atractivos" (I may have made up that word). I wanted the older brother, Eugenio (29), to be there, as he's all I ever hear about. No such luck. But of course their small black dog, Capri, took an instant liking to me and my lap. I succumbed to checking my e-mail--so much for giving up cell phones and computers for 10 days. Well, at least my phone doesn't work here.
Sheri gathered her change of clothes and we walked back to the hotel. Ran into one of her friends from her internship (at Club de Madrid) and her boyfriend on the street. I don't remember her name, but she seemed like a very happy person. Back at the hotel Sheri and the parents reunited, and we had about 15 minutes to get ready for dinner. Sheri wore a new dress, a silky thing that was probably meant to be a shirt. And no underwear. Ok, a thong doesn't count. This comes into play later.
We met Jordi, Alex, and Vicki beside the statue in front of the Palacio Real and walked from there to the flamenco place--Corral de la Moreria. We sat at a table for 8 (for the 7 of us) perpendicularly touching the front of the stage. We shared a pitcher of Sangria--ah, it's good to be back in Spain--and treated ourselves to fat American amounts of food. This confused our waitress (who's name, by the way, was Alina. Dad: Alyse meet Alina, Alina, Alyse.") because she kept telling us we were ordering too much.
The food was delicious--my favorite parts: my goat cheese salad and Sheri's dessert, which consisted of honey ice cream with chocolate dribbled on top. The flamenco dancers and singers danced and sang with an intensity you can't find in most performances. They leave you wanting to know what caused the pain behind their eyes and stomp the ground like the wooden floorboards killed their children. I remembered my señora, Maria Luisa, telling me that I would look "preciosa" in a flamenco dress. A giant bobby pin landed on my sister's empty dinner plate. Must have flown off one of the female dancers' heads. Then there was the one male dancer. He sweat so much that when he spun in circles the perspiration spiraled across our entire table, landing both on our desserts and our faces. Yummy.
We left during an intermission, as we were all getting pretty sleepy, the clock approaching midnight. As soon as we stepped outside the wind blew up Sheri's shirt/dress, causing her to inadvertently flash the sleazy Spanish men lingering around the front of the restaurant. I flew at her, my coat held open, and threw it over her shoulders, hugging her to me. "Next time, wear underwear," I advised.
We said goodbye to our dinner buddies, laughing about how it took coming to Madrid to meet up with our neighbors from back home. My family got in a cab, first dropping Sheri off at her apartment and then to the Hotel Atlantico for me and my parents.
I took some photos in the hotel bathroom because my dress looked like it was supposed to be part of the decor. Then I got ready for bed.
"Dad, can I use your floss?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Well cause it starts and ends with my vitamins. 100 of each."
"Alyse," mom interjected, "just use it without asking him."
I decided against flossing, despite how gross my teeth felt. Before I fell asleep I thought about how there was no phone to set an alarm on and no last-minute e-mails to check...I could get used to this, I thought.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
en route to spain
March 15, 2007
The two headlines on the front page of this morning's paper:
1) Sept. 11 Suspect said to confess: Sears Tower a target, too, Pentagon says
2) Flying toward disaster? Near collision shows hazard in skies around O'Hare
This only seemed appropriate seeing as my last awake thought last night included falling out the tail end of an exploded plane. Out of superstition I wore a sold blue t-shirt I've owned since 7th grade, chosen because it's the same shirt I wore on my first ever solo flight, just three weeks after September 11 (2001), when I flew from NYC home to Chicago to surprise my dad for his 50th birthday. At the time I decided that if I made it to my destination sans terrorist action, I would always wear this shirt on future flights.
When we got to O'Hare a swipe of my dad's credit card wasn't enough to bring up our itinerary on the do-it-yourself computer screen. Of course he knew the record locator number by heart: Q...4...LBJ? And my parents already argued about something dumb, to which the Delta employee responded, "She's always right--haven't you learned that by now?" To which my dad responded, "A billion seconds."
"Sorry?"
"We've been married a billion seconds."
"And what does that translate to?" he asked.
"31 years and 8 months."
"Well congratulations!"
"Thanks!"
As the man weighed each suitcase individually, my dad bent over and peered under the counter, announcing, "and this one should be...." The man remarked how groups of retired men will turn this into a betting game--who can guess the closest to the actual weight.
"Times have changed," my dad said with a chuckle as he attached identity tags to each suitcase handle. "Cell phone and e-mail it asks for!"
Just past security my mom spotted the book she left at home with only 15 remaining pages to read. So she stood beside the kiosk and quickly skimmed the final chapter. The woman selling the books directed us to the Starbucks a few feet away and said they were giving away free cups of coffee. I had vowed I wouldn't drink anything, especially coffee, but I couldn't resist "free" (I've subsequently peed, I think, 6 times since then). In line we overheard the woman in front of us say she had both triplets and twins (actually 2 sets of triplets, but she "lost one"). So we started talking to her and we had to play the age-guessing game. She guessed "high" with 18, and her mouth dropped when I said 24. Before this, she had walked past and brushed her hand along my hair and said in passing, "Love the curls!" She, herself, had tightly-wound light brown ringlets.
We took a small plane to NYC's JFK airport and sat in 3 consecutive window seats. 9-11. Those numbers. Again. There are those brief moments where I hold my breath and assume we'll suddenly plummet or crash into a building. Instead the flight was fast and uneventful. The girl next to me read a thick book that I assumed was written in Polish. I might be the only person in the world who simultaneously reads The New Yorker followed by the fourth book of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants series. I started with a fascinating article about spiders and reminisced about my former aspirations of "When I grow up, I want to be a/an.....ENTOMOLOGIST." And the Pants book obviously reminds me of my friends--the "Septembers" standing in for the Unit.
[my dad watching us ascend]
I waited to eat anything until we arrived at JFK. We went to a place called the Sam Adams Restaurant, and I ordered quesadillas. Safe bet, right? Wrong. I hardly ever have complaints about food, but that was one of the worst meals I've ever eaten. But I didn't want to be wasteful, so I at it all anyway. Afterwards we sat at gate 8 for about an hour. My dad sat next to me reading about Madrid. "I can't find anything about Franco, but he died November, '75...five months after we got married. Ha! So he's almost been dead a billion seconds."
Boarded the flight to Madrid. My parents shared row 36 A&B. I had been assigned 37A, a window seat, which was already being occupied.
"Do you want the window?" the man asked, tilting the cell phone away from his mouth.
"I don't care," I replied, as I carefully lifted my backpack into the overhead compartment.
"To the girl sitting down," the man said into the phone. "I don't know. She's a young girl."..."My girlfriend," he mouthed to me and pointed at "her" in the phone. I half-smiled politely.
"HOW OLD DO YOU THINK SHE IS?" my dad dared him in a loud voice.
"18."
"Ha! Just like the woman at O'Hare!" my dad laughed. "She's 40."
"This is a really fun game," my input dripping with sarcasm. "I'm 24," I said to the man.
"No way."
"Way."
"No you're not. Are you serious?"
"I'm serious." Why is this always a topic of conversation?
My mom turned around in her seat then and looked over the headrest--"And how old do you think I am?" she asked, her voice gleeful.
People always tell me I'll appreciate the young guesses when I'm older. Apparently my mom has reached that age. People usually express doubt that she's old enough to have not one, but two daughters in their 20's. She loves every second of it.
Another disappointing meal. I don't know what I was expecting being airplane food. Plus, the quesadillas are still taking up occupancy in my stomach. Now the salty pasta, wilted salad and two cans of Coke are piled on top of the gross lunch.
I was reading a good amount of the Pants book (there are at least 2 other girls reading the same one on this flight), and this baby has been persistently WAILING for almost an hour. Her dad keeps pacing up and down the two aisles trying to gently console her. I finally couldn't take it anymore--hence the journal continuation and the Amelie soundtrack blasting in my ears. I think I might attempt sleeping a little...they're showing Rocky Balboa, even though before take-off they announced it'd be Dreamgirls, which I actually would have watched. My dad is sitting in front of me whistling the Rocky theme for the third time, my mom just scolded him for the second time. At one point he punched both arms into the air in a forceful "V for Victory" motion.
NOTE TO SELF: IF YOU EVER HAVE KIDS, AND THAT'S A BIG IF, DO NOT TAKE THEM ON AN OVERSEAS FLIGHT UNTIL THEY'RE OLD ENOUGH TO KNOW NOT TO CRY UNRELENTLESSLY IN A PLANE FULL OF EXHAUSTED TRAVELERS!
Sleeping was virtually impossible. I had to incessantly crack my toes, and there was just no comfortable way to position myself. I maybe dozed off for an hour.
[photo taken by Mom]
We began our descent just as the sun began rising over Madrid. Topographical vocabulary started permeating my brain. That is a plateau boys and girls. As we touched down and pulled up to the jetway, music began playing overhead. Gipsy Kings? David Bisbal? Mána? Nope. A rousing sax-filled rendition of the theme song from Cheers. We landed over four hours ago, and I'm still whistling, "Where everybody knows your name...."
Thursday, March 15, 2007
hiatus note
i am leaving today for a 10-day trip to spain to visit my sister. i will be gone march 15-25. not that i've been too diligent about updating lately, anyway, but just in case you're wondering where the updates are.....they will hopefully materialize in my journals overseas....i'll be back with a vengeance.
until then...
Friday, March 9, 2007
my first gallery
"I don't know, Amy, it's looking grim," I said to my best friend on the phone, as I headed east down North Avenue, less than a block away from Coldstone Creamery. "Oh...oh...oh--there is definitely someone buying ice cream!" I screeched into Amy's ear. I grabbed the door handle, expecting my eternal bad timing to render me ice cream-less outside a locked door. But no. Nothing could ruin this evening. Absolutely nothing! I thought as I effortlessly pulled open the door.
"Are you guys still open??" I yelled, excitedly.
The two employees looked at each other, then back at me. The older one said, "We sure are."
I threw my arms up into the air. "You just made my NIGHT!"
Amy laughed in my ear, and I suddenly realized I was in public and not in a delicious dream. Yet, I was not embarrassed. In fact, I proceeded to approach the counter and say, well first to Amy--"Can I call you back after I get my ice cream?" and then to the boy, "Can I just tell you why you made my night?" He looked just like my friend Christopher back in New York, and Christopher is one of the only people in my life who would actually care to hear a follow-up to that somewhat rhetorical question. Therefore, I felt the look-alike would have similar sentiments. "Tell me," he said. "Ok, here's what happened," I started. "I just came from the opening of my first ever art show in a gallery down the street. And I'm driving down North Avenue, and all I want is some ice cream. I pass your store and see people inside and get excited that I will be able to fulfill my craving. But there's no parking anywhere. I don't live too far away, so I drive home to ditch the car, run upstairs to check your hours on the website. It says 10:30. It was 10:37. Well, I was so stir-crazy, that I told my friend on the phone I was just going to walk here anyway and see if by any chance you'd serve me. And sure enough, you're open!!"
"You lucked out," he said. "This is the first night we stayed open late since October."
"Really?? Wow, this night keeps getting better and better!" Order your ice cream and stop talking, my brain said. "Oh ok so I'll have sweet cream ice cream with a brownie and, do you have blackberries?" I hadn't had Coldstone in two years, but I still remembered my favored concoction.
"We have black cherries...but that's not really the same thing."
"What about raspberries?"
"Those we have."
"Awesome I'll have those too. Thanks."
While "Christopher" smashed up my order, a bunch of people came in, one boy declaring, "It smells like 10th grade in here!" I laughed because I think I was in the same grade when the first Coldstone opened near my high school.
As "Christopher" rang up my order, he asked how my art show went.
"It went wonderfully! Thank you!"
Thursday night I went to the gallery at 6:30 p.m. to hang my photographs. I anticipated this only taking about 30 minutes. At 7:50 I was still pacing back and forth, once in awhile pausing to stare at the big blank white wall. I didn't know we were all hanging our own work, so I didn't bring any of my own tools (not that I have any...), and the only ladder in the place was being occupied. Pamela, one of the other artists, saw me getting flustered and offered to help. She held my first frame "eye-level" while I attempted measuring from the floor with Tifanie's tape measurer. Once one was officially on the wall I felt a little more confident about finishing in a decent amount of time. The second picture ended up several inches lower than where I had imagined its placing in relation to the first one. I don't have the patience for perfection, so once that I happened, I decided to do things the Alyse way...whereever I hammered the next seven nails, as haphazard as they appeared, that's where the pictures were going. My way worked! I only had to slightly alter one of them. Even Collin, the owner, didn't mind how it looked, so I left relieved and ready for the next two nights.
My horoscope in Time Out Chicago read, "On Fri 9, you feel confident about your intellectual and creative abilities, but you also feel your domestic life needs improvement." I couldn't believe it! I mean not that I read my horoscope (Sagitarrius) religiously, if even more than 5x a year, but sister and I used to have a running joke about how mine were always so depressing--your best friend is stabbing you in the back, today you might get run over by a bus, the person you love is actually cheating on you....stuff like that. Even with the "but" attachment to this prediction, my horoscope finally said something not only positive, but in direct correlation with this evening's events.
After running some errands Friday morning, I stayed indoors the rest of the day, mostly to prevent any accident-prone events and to let my hair dry without submersing it in any kind of inclimate weather conditions. At 5:00 I ran out in sweats to pick up my Thai dinner down the street. Down came the rain. Bye bye protected hair. But, I wouldn't let myself dwell on that because although it was raining, it was WARM, and when I got up to the counter at Penny's, I noticed someone had put a pile of promotional postcards for our show right in front of the register! Part of me wanted to say, "I'm in that show!" to the girl working there, but I kept it to myself and walked out silently satisfied.
I shoveled down my spicy noodles with a remaining 13 minutes to fix my hair, put on some makeup, slip into my new dress, and drive to the gallery (which, luckily, is only 2-3 minutes away, depending on the one stoplight). I walked into the Blake Palmer Gallery, and the first thing I noticed: my name on the wall!! From that moment on, I don't think I stopped smiling until Sunday. Two minutes after I walked in, someone I knew came by to see the show, and after him, there was someone I knew visiting me in the gallery for the next four hours!! Friend's parents and siblings, former teachers, some artists I met at Around the Coyote a month ago, as well as a bunch of my friends...about 25 the first night. Not bad, not bad at all.
I didn't think Saturday could possibly get any better, but from start to finish, I had possibly one of the best days of my entire life. Possibly it had something to do with the fact that I straightened my hair and wore my second new outfit of the weekend, and for those who know me, this was a big deal...i don't even remember the last time i updated my wardrobe. Again, there was a HUGE turn-out! 32 people came, including Amy's 3-month-old niece, Ella. . My parents brought me flowers, which I hadn't received since my final dance recital in 2001, and the Josephs gave me an "I read banned books" bracelet, which is awesome. My namesake came (read two posts back about that story), a bunch of friends from high school who I hadn't seen in years showed up, and they even had a guy in the gallery playing the drums! I was elated, just soaking it all in.
Several people this evening approached me and asked if I was a dancer...my reply: in a past life...but secretly wished I could just say, yes. One man said, "You know how I knew? Because of your very large calves."...gee, thanks..."No, but I think defined calf muscles are very attractive on a woman." Great.
In regards to my art, I got a lot of praise, which felt wonderful, but I also got berated by a lot of people for not being a business-minded, money-hungry capitalist. "How much are you selling these for?" Oh, I don't know. "Did you sell anything yet?" I have no idea. The sellability of my work or how much money I was or wasn't making didn't even cross my mind, and I felt uncomfortable when people asked me questions regarding that. I honestly didn't care. All I cared about was that by the end of the second and final opening on Saturday night, there had been almost 60 people there who came all the way out to support me. That is what mattered.
After Amy and I hung up (after talking for 90 minutes!) that night, I thought about how ironic it was that after all the excitement, as usual, the night ended with just me and a bowl of ice cream. I couldn't get anyone to stick around, despite my energetic pleas. If any of the Unit had been there, I thought, I know they would have stayed, but, alas, we no longer live close enough to each other for them to even come. Every other artist and every other visitor those nights showed up with either a wife/husband/boyfriend/girlfriend by their side, which I found humorous. I was so high on life that that didn't even bother me, and instead I was proud that I could do something like this all on my own.
Bias aside, I honestly have never seen a strong and cohesive group show. I loved every artists' work, and that never happens. And I feel honored to be showing alongside such talented people.
"The New Breed" show at the Blake Palmer Gallery (1656 N. Bosworth) will be on display until April 27.
MORE GALLERY PHOTOS
"Are you guys still open??" I yelled, excitedly.
The two employees looked at each other, then back at me. The older one said, "We sure are."
I threw my arms up into the air. "You just made my NIGHT!"
Amy laughed in my ear, and I suddenly realized I was in public and not in a delicious dream. Yet, I was not embarrassed. In fact, I proceeded to approach the counter and say, well first to Amy--"Can I call you back after I get my ice cream?" and then to the boy, "Can I just tell you why you made my night?" He looked just like my friend Christopher back in New York, and Christopher is one of the only people in my life who would actually care to hear a follow-up to that somewhat rhetorical question. Therefore, I felt the look-alike would have similar sentiments. "Tell me," he said. "Ok, here's what happened," I started. "I just came from the opening of my first ever art show in a gallery down the street. And I'm driving down North Avenue, and all I want is some ice cream. I pass your store and see people inside and get excited that I will be able to fulfill my craving. But there's no parking anywhere. I don't live too far away, so I drive home to ditch the car, run upstairs to check your hours on the website. It says 10:30. It was 10:37. Well, I was so stir-crazy, that I told my friend on the phone I was just going to walk here anyway and see if by any chance you'd serve me. And sure enough, you're open!!"
"You lucked out," he said. "This is the first night we stayed open late since October."
"Really?? Wow, this night keeps getting better and better!" Order your ice cream and stop talking, my brain said. "Oh ok so I'll have sweet cream ice cream with a brownie and, do you have blackberries?" I hadn't had Coldstone in two years, but I still remembered my favored concoction.
"We have black cherries...but that's not really the same thing."
"What about raspberries?"
"Those we have."
"Awesome I'll have those too. Thanks."
While "Christopher" smashed up my order, a bunch of people came in, one boy declaring, "It smells like 10th grade in here!" I laughed because I think I was in the same grade when the first Coldstone opened near my high school.
As "Christopher" rang up my order, he asked how my art show went.
"It went wonderfully! Thank you!"
Thursday night I went to the gallery at 6:30 p.m. to hang my photographs. I anticipated this only taking about 30 minutes. At 7:50 I was still pacing back and forth, once in awhile pausing to stare at the big blank white wall. I didn't know we were all hanging our own work, so I didn't bring any of my own tools (not that I have any...), and the only ladder in the place was being occupied. Pamela, one of the other artists, saw me getting flustered and offered to help. She held my first frame "eye-level" while I attempted measuring from the floor with Tifanie's tape measurer. Once one was officially on the wall I felt a little more confident about finishing in a decent amount of time. The second picture ended up several inches lower than where I had imagined its placing in relation to the first one. I don't have the patience for perfection, so once that I happened, I decided to do things the Alyse way...whereever I hammered the next seven nails, as haphazard as they appeared, that's where the pictures were going. My way worked! I only had to slightly alter one of them. Even Collin, the owner, didn't mind how it looked, so I left relieved and ready for the next two nights.
My horoscope in Time Out Chicago read, "On Fri 9, you feel confident about your intellectual and creative abilities, but you also feel your domestic life needs improvement." I couldn't believe it! I mean not that I read my horoscope (Sagitarrius) religiously, if even more than 5x a year, but sister and I used to have a running joke about how mine were always so depressing--your best friend is stabbing you in the back, today you might get run over by a bus, the person you love is actually cheating on you....stuff like that. Even with the "but" attachment to this prediction, my horoscope finally said something not only positive, but in direct correlation with this evening's events.
After running some errands Friday morning, I stayed indoors the rest of the day, mostly to prevent any accident-prone events and to let my hair dry without submersing it in any kind of inclimate weather conditions. At 5:00 I ran out in sweats to pick up my Thai dinner down the street. Down came the rain. Bye bye protected hair. But, I wouldn't let myself dwell on that because although it was raining, it was WARM, and when I got up to the counter at Penny's, I noticed someone had put a pile of promotional postcards for our show right in front of the register! Part of me wanted to say, "I'm in that show!" to the girl working there, but I kept it to myself and walked out silently satisfied.
I shoveled down my spicy noodles with a remaining 13 minutes to fix my hair, put on some makeup, slip into my new dress, and drive to the gallery (which, luckily, is only 2-3 minutes away, depending on the one stoplight). I walked into the Blake Palmer Gallery, and the first thing I noticed: my name on the wall!! From that moment on, I don't think I stopped smiling until Sunday. Two minutes after I walked in, someone I knew came by to see the show, and after him, there was someone I knew visiting me in the gallery for the next four hours!! Friend's parents and siblings, former teachers, some artists I met at Around the Coyote a month ago, as well as a bunch of my friends...about 25 the first night. Not bad, not bad at all.
I didn't think Saturday could possibly get any better, but from start to finish, I had possibly one of the best days of my entire life. Possibly it had something to do with the fact that I straightened my hair and wore my second new outfit of the weekend, and for those who know me, this was a big deal...i don't even remember the last time i updated my wardrobe. Again, there was a HUGE turn-out! 32 people came, including Amy's 3-month-old niece, Ella. . My parents brought me flowers, which I hadn't received since my final dance recital in 2001, and the Josephs gave me an "I read banned books" bracelet, which is awesome. My namesake came (read two posts back about that story), a bunch of friends from high school who I hadn't seen in years showed up, and they even had a guy in the gallery playing the drums! I was elated, just soaking it all in.
Several people this evening approached me and asked if I was a dancer...my reply: in a past life...but secretly wished I could just say, yes. One man said, "You know how I knew? Because of your very large calves."...gee, thanks..."No, but I think defined calf muscles are very attractive on a woman." Great.
In regards to my art, I got a lot of praise, which felt wonderful, but I also got berated by a lot of people for not being a business-minded, money-hungry capitalist. "How much are you selling these for?" Oh, I don't know. "Did you sell anything yet?" I have no idea. The sellability of my work or how much money I was or wasn't making didn't even cross my mind, and I felt uncomfortable when people asked me questions regarding that. I honestly didn't care. All I cared about was that by the end of the second and final opening on Saturday night, there had been almost 60 people there who came all the way out to support me. That is what mattered.
After Amy and I hung up (after talking for 90 minutes!) that night, I thought about how ironic it was that after all the excitement, as usual, the night ended with just me and a bowl of ice cream. I couldn't get anyone to stick around, despite my energetic pleas. If any of the Unit had been there, I thought, I know they would have stayed, but, alas, we no longer live close enough to each other for them to even come. Every other artist and every other visitor those nights showed up with either a wife/husband/boyfriend/girlfriend by their side, which I found humorous. I was so high on life that that didn't even bother me, and instead I was proud that I could do something like this all on my own.
Bias aside, I honestly have never seen a strong and cohesive group show. I loved every artists' work, and that never happens. And I feel honored to be showing alongside such talented people.
"The New Breed" show at the Blake Palmer Gallery (1656 N. Bosworth) will be on display until April 27.
MORE GALLERY PHOTOS
Thursday, March 1, 2007
revival of the writers week junky...again
Even though Writers Week is about words, I've decided to do another photo/video essay instead. (You can read my original posting about WW in the archives) My sincere thanks to the teachers who continue to bring this event to life...and who always let me camp out on the floor to soak it all in.
Brewner laughing in the wings
Sampson writing
Admiring Ted Kooser
Abby and Grace
Lounging Ted
Life Lessons
Writers are rockstars too.
The tribute.
The three retirees.
Paparazzi
Sampson's exit.
Teachers and students.
Big Boy in the center.
A true viking.
More WWXIII photos
Here is the preview or trailer, whatever you want to call it, for my documentary about Wyman, Sampson, and Brewner retiring at the end of this year. (The quality--both visually and audibly--aren't great compared to the DVD, but I think it's worth sharing.) Let it "buffer" a minute before letting it play.
Brewner laughing in the wings
Sampson writing
Admiring Ted Kooser
Abby and Grace
Lounging Ted
Life Lessons
Writers are rockstars too.
The tribute.
The three retirees.
Paparazzi
Sampson's exit.
Teachers and students.
Big Boy in the center.
A true viking.
More WWXIII photos
Here is the preview or trailer, whatever you want to call it, for my documentary about Wyman, Sampson, and Brewner retiring at the end of this year. (The quality--both visually and audibly--aren't great compared to the DVD, but I think it's worth sharing.) Let it "buffer" a minute before letting it play.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
what's in a name
Two Sundays ago my parents called me in the remaining hour of my art show. My mom said they'd be passing through the city and asked if I needed help taking all my pictures down. An hour later they showed up and dutifully helped me not only take down the photos, but carry everything down a flight of stairs and out to the van parked a block away.
"I found a coupon for an Ecuadorian restaurant on Milwaukee," my mom said. "Want to go to dinner with us?" This surprised me--not the invitation to dinner but the fact that she's not usually the one to suggest "ethnic cuisine." God bless the coupon book--expanding minds and appetites all over the Chicagoland area.
We drove several miles north on Milwaukee until we found La Peña. As we crossed the street, the three of us joked about how it appeared we would be the only patrons in the restaurant that evening. But as we opened the first set of two doors, my dad said, "Oh look--there's one other family. I guess people do eat here." The hostess led us to the table almost adjoining the other family's.
My mom hadn't even sat all the way down in her chair when the woman at the table next to ours asked, "Is your first name Randy?" My mom sat down and looked in the direction of the question. "No..." she answered, confused. "But I know you," the other woman insisted. "You went to Sullivan High School." "Yeah I did. Who are you?" "Alyse [insert last name]." If there was ever an appropriate time for jaw-dropping moments, here it was. My mom pointed at me, her daughter, sitting across the table. "She's named after you."
* * *
Growing up I was always aware that my name was unique. Not only is Alyse not that common of a name, but to spell it with an "A" is pretty much unheard of. People with my name typically spell it with an "E"--Elise or in a few cases, Elyse. I've met one other girl who spelled it with an "A," and that was when I was 9 years old in the Mammoth Cave gift shop on a family vacation to Kentucky. For some reason this digression from the regular way of spelling my name really throws people for a loop. Every year in school I'd have to correct the new teacher on the pronunciation; every substitute teacher we'd have during the year--same deal. I even had a dance teacher one year who only called me Alice. I've been called everything from Alice to Alis to Alicia to Alisha to Allison.
It's Jewish custom/tradition to honor deceased relatives by using the first letter of their first name when naming a newborn. I got the "A" from my maternal great-grandmother, Anne. Originally, my mom wanted to name me Alana, but that was shot down by her mother, who refused to let her granddaughter don the same name as a woman she claimed to have unresolvable issues with at the office. So my mom was forced to choose a different "A" name. Runner up was Abby, which my dad vetoed out of fear that people would only associate his daughter with the columnist, "Dear Abby." My mom gave up sharing her name choices and single-handedly settled on Alyse.
Over the course of my lifetime I have heard the story of my namesake probably 100 times. People would say to my mom, "I love the spelling of your daughter's name--where did you come up with it?" And my mom would reply, "Well I grew up with a girl named Alyse, and I always loved her name and how it was spelled. So that's what I decided on when I knew she'd have an 'A' name."
Not that impressive of a story, I know. It's just one of those things you hear over and over but never think much about. I mean my own best friends (before this night) didn't even know the origin of my name. And they know (almost) everything about me.
* * *
I looked back at my mom, then at the woman sitting next to me. "What the hell is going on??" I asked.
"Yo!" my dad exclaimed. "Heck," he corrected me. He doesn't like when I "swear."
"Have you guys been here before?" Alyse's husband asked us.
"No!" we all said simultaneously.
"We haven't either!" they said. "We just found this coupon and thought we'd try it out."
My dad picked up an identical coupon off our table. "So did we!"
(Did I already say God bless the coupon book?)
"This is just wild!" I said, and I almost started to cry because I wasn't really sure how else to react.
What are the chances that my namesake and her family (husband, daughter, and daughter's fiancee) A) chose Ecuadorian food in the first place B) picked the same Ecuadorian restaurant as us and C) on the same night at the same time. And all because of a silly coupon in the Entertainment book.
Of course I insisted on taking a picture.
I'd say that meeting Alyse is about as close as I'll ever get to meeting Anne (the "A" sake), but with the weird games the universe has been playing on me lately, I might not be shocked if we end up face to face the next time I'm in a coffee shop. Or maybe I should check the Jewish deli...
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
around the coyote
(this conversation happened online the week before the show when i had the flu)
Mom: You're spending a fortune on this show.
Me: Yeah...about $500
Mom: Alyse, you don't have that kind of money!
Me: Yeah it's a good thing i was sick this week, huh? I didn't have to eat.
Mom: That's not even funny.
Me: Sure it is.
I found out about the Around the Coyote winter arts festival two days before the application was due in December. I decided to throw together the necessary components and press my luck, hardly telling anyone that I applied because I had my doubts of whether I'd get accepted. About a month later I found out that I had officially been admitted as an artist.
When I lived in NYC I showed my photos in several shows, but all of them had some sort of NYU tie...as in I was just automatically a part of it because I was part of the class. (Well except for the Gallatin Arts Festival, which I did have to apply to, but even that was still school-related.) Because of this, I never really considered myself an "artist." It was time to "test the waters," as they say, and see if I could prove myself otherwise.
I had about a month to get everything together. I had the prints made with about two weeks to spare, but then I saved the framing until the morning of. Part of the delay I blame on my unwillingness to sit down and sign my name at the bottom of the photos. I had what one might consider a meltdown the night before the opening. My dad unfortunately had to witness this. Nothing was ready. Nothing was good enough. And I thought writing "A.Liebovich" as my signature could be mistaken for "a liebovich," like I am "a Liebovich" instead of "I am A(lyse).Liebovich." I know that sounds ridiculous, but it got to the point where I almost e-mailed everyone I had told about the show to tell them not to bother coming. My dad came with me to paint my wall space before the kick-off party. I wanted to look like a normal human being for once, so I changed out of my usual sweatpants attire and put on my one pair of jeans sans holes. I had only bought a tiny can of white paint, which apparently wasn't enough, which in my mind just added to why I wanted Thursday to end already. So I started haphazardly rolling paint, not realizing that the excess had been flying of the wall and covering my hair, my face, my hands, my jeans...I gave up on trying to make my wall a cohesive white. "I don't have the patience to be perfect," I told my dad. And with that we left to go across the street to the party. My dad was bummed because it cost him $20 to get in and because of my breakdown we were an hour late and therefore there was no food left. So, while I stood by myself with a plate of chips and guacamole, self-consciously trying to eat with my paint-covered hands, he continued double-fisting margaritas. After maybe an hour I finally initiated our exit. All I could think about was how I didn't fit in with the pretentious art crowd and how much work I still had waiting for me back home.
Friday morning my dad and I worked like a machine. He decided to skip the auto show, his motivation for spending the night in the city, just to help me, which was awesome and much-appreciated. I put the matted photos into the frames (the mattes by the way were all cut by my former high school photo teacher/current friend, Colleen Duncan, who I owe a lot of thanks to), begrudgingly more than once in some cases because there'd be specks of dirt caught behind the glass. Then he'd put the wire hangers on the backings. As soon as we finished the final one, Jenny got down here. Between the three of us we loaded up the car and headed to the Bongo Room for brunch before hanging the photos. We had an overly-huge meal and then carried all the frames and tools two blocks and up a long flight of stairs. Once there, we jumped right in. Jenny helped me figure out what height we should hang everything, and then my dad hammered in the nails. As soon as we hung the first one I was nothing but smiles and bursting with positive energy. That's all it took...seeing that it was all coming together.
It was a long (22 total hours) weekend of sitting on my folding chair watching people walk by. I actually brought four books along with me, thinking I would get a lot of reading done. I read one one page. What I loved most were the people who glanced at my work and looked like they were going to pass it by...I imagined their thoughts--oh they're just photos...and then some of them would stop in their tracks and turn back around and start studying what I had displayed. Something they saw drew them in, and just seeing that was valuable.
I found it interesting how the consensus seemed to be that I somehow managed to digitally enhance/manipulate/create almost all of my photos. People seemed shocked when I told them that first of all, all 15 images were shot with 35mm film, and second of all, I barely know how to use Photoshop, so even if I wanted to make the pictures look better, I wouldn't know how.
The comments/questions I got on my "love shadows" picture alone:
* "Now, you staged that, right?" No.
* Someone thought it was a building with two fire hhydrants sticking out of the wall and people standing on them...?
* "I don't get how you took that. Were you flying, or what??" Haha, I wish.
* "Is that photo famous? Or did you take it?" I looked at him, confused. He thought that I had just framed a "famous photo" I liked and put it in my show. I told him I took it, as I had taken the rest of the ones hanging around me, and that as far as I know, it's not a famous image.
* "Now you transposed those shadows onto the wall, right?" Well first of all, that's the street, not a wall. Second of all, I don't even know how to transpose things.
Then there was the woman representing a gallery that was showing work in the festival. "How did you get those seats [on the ferry] red?" she asked. Again, I was confused. "That's the color they were...?" I said. "Really? Wow. See, I thought you went in and colored them." "Nope. I just saw what I saw and pushed the button."
Someone asked if i set up Sol's apartment before snapping his portrait. Not only did I not set it up, the reason I love that particular image so much is that how he is and how his apartment is (even down to where he hung my coat in his doorway every time I went there) and the angle I shot him at were exactly how everything looked from my point of view during all of our conversations. If you look closely, you can just barely see my shadow in the reflection of the T.V. Someone else examining that photo said, "It's rare you can see into a person's soul, but I feel like I can look right into his in this [photo]." Maybe I am doing something right, I thought.
If people asked, I shared the stories behind the photos, especially with the 9.11 accidental double exposure (which I had to repeat several times was truly an accident and had nothing to do with Photoshop tricks) and portrait of Sol. Who is he? What's his story?
One man walked by, looked briefly and said, "You've got beautiful compositions." And another man, who I later learned was a commericial photographer, complimented my "eye for natural light" after I told him that all of them were shot with available light. "I hate using artificial lights," I admitted. "Well, if you can use natural light that well, you don't ever need to use the artficial ones." I smiled.
And then finally someone got it, pin-pointed the quality I like in my own work. He rounded the corner (my wall space was on an end of row of zig-zagged wall spaces), took a look, and said, "Now someone just told me there was no realisism in this show...here it is!" I said, "Well I like to show life as it is. I appreciate people who do abstract work or manipulate images to make them 'prettier,' but I'm a straight-forward kind of person, and I think that attitude manifests itself in my photography as well."
A woman asked me to "teach her how to have an artistic eye." I told her I'm not sure that that's something that can be taught because everyone sees things differently. She saw the photo I took of my aunt's torso, which I titled "Funeral Gloves," and asked, "Like how do you find the courage to only take a picture of someone's torso? To just cut their head off like that..." I said, "I guess it's just that I don't think you necessarily need to see someone's face to understand their emotion. You can get just as much information from someone's body language or how they dress. It's rare that I do take such close-up pictures of people like that, but if I see someone standing a certain way, it's like I have to capture it because if I walk away, intimidated, I will regret never having taken the photo."
She stood silent for a few moments, flipping through my tray of unframed photos. Then she held out my "red bike" image. "I just don't get it. How do I teach myself to look at things like you do? For instance, with this one, why not keep the whole bike in the frame?" I had to think about it for a minute...I'm not used to attaching words to my art, I'm used to them speaking for themselves. "Well..." I started. "I guess it can be more interesting to look at only part of the bike because it leaves room for mystery or room to form a story. Maybe the front tire was flat and that's why the person is standing next to it. You just never know, so the possibilities surrounding the frame and what's outside the frame are endless."
I didn't think anyone was coming by on Sunday. One second I had my nose in a book, and the next hour or two I was overwhelmed with visitors--mostly former high school teachers. It was so wonderful for all of them to come out, and as most teachers do, they tried to make me make the most of my situation. I got scolded for not placing a price on my photos, told that there's no reason to apologize for telling someone how much my work costs, that if if I want this to be a career as opposed to a hobby, I need to start respecting my work. The thing is, if i thought my work was crap, i wouldn't have hung it in the show. I do like my "eye" and that I can transcribe how I see the world into a photograph. But I don't think I will ever be comfortable dealing with the business side of art. I hate money...that's what it comes down to.
My friend Matt jokingly, but astutely pointed out, "This is like a petting zoo for artists." I laughed, but then I thought, he's pretty much right. People display their work in festivals like this to, in essence, search for validation from the commonfolk that they are worthy of calling themselves artist. The ATC people sent out a survey via e-mail yesterday asking how we think they can improve the festival, etc. One of the questions asked: "Did you sell any work? If not, would you still consider the weekend a success?" I did, in fact, sell some work--one framed and three unframed, which is way more than I expected. But even if I hadn't sold anything (which is what I expected), I still would have considered the weekend a success. I met a lot of great artists on my floor--(such as, John Kowalcyzk [another Fremd grad], Shawn Stucky, Damien James, Gabriel Mejia, Tifanie O'Riley, Nichole Chandler, and Michael Jackson--a girl so obsessed with the pop star, he's the sole subject of her paintings and she even adopted his name for the show...you can view all their work by clicking on the link at the bottom), had lots of interesting conversations with people, a lot of friends and family showed up to support me, and I feel one step closer to feeling comfortable about labeling myself an actual "artist."
MORE ATC PHOTOS
Mom: You're spending a fortune on this show.
Me: Yeah...about $500
Mom: Alyse, you don't have that kind of money!
Me: Yeah it's a good thing i was sick this week, huh? I didn't have to eat.
Mom: That's not even funny.
Me: Sure it is.
I found out about the Around the Coyote winter arts festival two days before the application was due in December. I decided to throw together the necessary components and press my luck, hardly telling anyone that I applied because I had my doubts of whether I'd get accepted. About a month later I found out that I had officially been admitted as an artist.
When I lived in NYC I showed my photos in several shows, but all of them had some sort of NYU tie...as in I was just automatically a part of it because I was part of the class. (Well except for the Gallatin Arts Festival, which I did have to apply to, but even that was still school-related.) Because of this, I never really considered myself an "artist." It was time to "test the waters," as they say, and see if I could prove myself otherwise.
I had about a month to get everything together. I had the prints made with about two weeks to spare, but then I saved the framing until the morning of. Part of the delay I blame on my unwillingness to sit down and sign my name at the bottom of the photos. I had what one might consider a meltdown the night before the opening. My dad unfortunately had to witness this. Nothing was ready. Nothing was good enough. And I thought writing "A.Liebovich" as my signature could be mistaken for "a liebovich," like I am "a Liebovich" instead of "I am A(lyse).Liebovich." I know that sounds ridiculous, but it got to the point where I almost e-mailed everyone I had told about the show to tell them not to bother coming. My dad came with me to paint my wall space before the kick-off party. I wanted to look like a normal human being for once, so I changed out of my usual sweatpants attire and put on my one pair of jeans sans holes. I had only bought a tiny can of white paint, which apparently wasn't enough, which in my mind just added to why I wanted Thursday to end already. So I started haphazardly rolling paint, not realizing that the excess had been flying of the wall and covering my hair, my face, my hands, my jeans...I gave up on trying to make my wall a cohesive white. "I don't have the patience to be perfect," I told my dad. And with that we left to go across the street to the party. My dad was bummed because it cost him $20 to get in and because of my breakdown we were an hour late and therefore there was no food left. So, while I stood by myself with a plate of chips and guacamole, self-consciously trying to eat with my paint-covered hands, he continued double-fisting margaritas. After maybe an hour I finally initiated our exit. All I could think about was how I didn't fit in with the pretentious art crowd and how much work I still had waiting for me back home.
Friday morning my dad and I worked like a machine. He decided to skip the auto show, his motivation for spending the night in the city, just to help me, which was awesome and much-appreciated. I put the matted photos into the frames (the mattes by the way were all cut by my former high school photo teacher/current friend, Colleen Duncan, who I owe a lot of thanks to), begrudgingly more than once in some cases because there'd be specks of dirt caught behind the glass. Then he'd put the wire hangers on the backings. As soon as we finished the final one, Jenny got down here. Between the three of us we loaded up the car and headed to the Bongo Room for brunch before hanging the photos. We had an overly-huge meal and then carried all the frames and tools two blocks and up a long flight of stairs. Once there, we jumped right in. Jenny helped me figure out what height we should hang everything, and then my dad hammered in the nails. As soon as we hung the first one I was nothing but smiles and bursting with positive energy. That's all it took...seeing that it was all coming together.
It was a long (22 total hours) weekend of sitting on my folding chair watching people walk by. I actually brought four books along with me, thinking I would get a lot of reading done. I read one one page. What I loved most were the people who glanced at my work and looked like they were going to pass it by...I imagined their thoughts--oh they're just photos...and then some of them would stop in their tracks and turn back around and start studying what I had displayed. Something they saw drew them in, and just seeing that was valuable.
I found it interesting how the consensus seemed to be that I somehow managed to digitally enhance/manipulate/create almost all of my photos. People seemed shocked when I told them that first of all, all 15 images were shot with 35mm film, and second of all, I barely know how to use Photoshop, so even if I wanted to make the pictures look better, I wouldn't know how.
The comments/questions I got on my "love shadows" picture alone:
* "Now, you staged that, right?" No.
* Someone thought it was a building with two fire hhydrants sticking out of the wall and people standing on them...?
* "I don't get how you took that. Were you flying, or what??" Haha, I wish.
* "Is that photo famous? Or did you take it?" I looked at him, confused. He thought that I had just framed a "famous photo" I liked and put it in my show. I told him I took it, as I had taken the rest of the ones hanging around me, and that as far as I know, it's not a famous image.
* "Now you transposed those shadows onto the wall, right?" Well first of all, that's the street, not a wall. Second of all, I don't even know how to transpose things.
Then there was the woman representing a gallery that was showing work in the festival. "How did you get those seats [on the ferry] red?" she asked. Again, I was confused. "That's the color they were...?" I said. "Really? Wow. See, I thought you went in and colored them." "Nope. I just saw what I saw and pushed the button."
Someone asked if i set up Sol's apartment before snapping his portrait. Not only did I not set it up, the reason I love that particular image so much is that how he is and how his apartment is (even down to where he hung my coat in his doorway every time I went there) and the angle I shot him at were exactly how everything looked from my point of view during all of our conversations. If you look closely, you can just barely see my shadow in the reflection of the T.V. Someone else examining that photo said, "It's rare you can see into a person's soul, but I feel like I can look right into his in this [photo]." Maybe I am doing something right, I thought.
If people asked, I shared the stories behind the photos, especially with the 9.11 accidental double exposure (which I had to repeat several times was truly an accident and had nothing to do with Photoshop tricks) and portrait of Sol. Who is he? What's his story?
One man walked by, looked briefly and said, "You've got beautiful compositions." And another man, who I later learned was a commericial photographer, complimented my "eye for natural light" after I told him that all of them were shot with available light. "I hate using artificial lights," I admitted. "Well, if you can use natural light that well, you don't ever need to use the artficial ones." I smiled.
And then finally someone got it, pin-pointed the quality I like in my own work. He rounded the corner (my wall space was on an end of row of zig-zagged wall spaces), took a look, and said, "Now someone just told me there was no realisism in this show...here it is!" I said, "Well I like to show life as it is. I appreciate people who do abstract work or manipulate images to make them 'prettier,' but I'm a straight-forward kind of person, and I think that attitude manifests itself in my photography as well."
A woman asked me to "teach her how to have an artistic eye." I told her I'm not sure that that's something that can be taught because everyone sees things differently. She saw the photo I took of my aunt's torso, which I titled "Funeral Gloves," and asked, "Like how do you find the courage to only take a picture of someone's torso? To just cut their head off like that..." I said, "I guess it's just that I don't think you necessarily need to see someone's face to understand their emotion. You can get just as much information from someone's body language or how they dress. It's rare that I do take such close-up pictures of people like that, but if I see someone standing a certain way, it's like I have to capture it because if I walk away, intimidated, I will regret never having taken the photo."
She stood silent for a few moments, flipping through my tray of unframed photos. Then she held out my "red bike" image. "I just don't get it. How do I teach myself to look at things like you do? For instance, with this one, why not keep the whole bike in the frame?" I had to think about it for a minute...I'm not used to attaching words to my art, I'm used to them speaking for themselves. "Well..." I started. "I guess it can be more interesting to look at only part of the bike because it leaves room for mystery or room to form a story. Maybe the front tire was flat and that's why the person is standing next to it. You just never know, so the possibilities surrounding the frame and what's outside the frame are endless."
I didn't think anyone was coming by on Sunday. One second I had my nose in a book, and the next hour or two I was overwhelmed with visitors--mostly former high school teachers. It was so wonderful for all of them to come out, and as most teachers do, they tried to make me make the most of my situation. I got scolded for not placing a price on my photos, told that there's no reason to apologize for telling someone how much my work costs, that if if I want this to be a career as opposed to a hobby, I need to start respecting my work. The thing is, if i thought my work was crap, i wouldn't have hung it in the show. I do like my "eye" and that I can transcribe how I see the world into a photograph. But I don't think I will ever be comfortable dealing with the business side of art. I hate money...that's what it comes down to.
My friend Matt jokingly, but astutely pointed out, "This is like a petting zoo for artists." I laughed, but then I thought, he's pretty much right. People display their work in festivals like this to, in essence, search for validation from the commonfolk that they are worthy of calling themselves artist. The ATC people sent out a survey via e-mail yesterday asking how we think they can improve the festival, etc. One of the questions asked: "Did you sell any work? If not, would you still consider the weekend a success?" I did, in fact, sell some work--one framed and three unframed, which is way more than I expected. But even if I hadn't sold anything (which is what I expected), I still would have considered the weekend a success. I met a lot of great artists on my floor--(such as, John Kowalcyzk [another Fremd grad], Shawn Stucky, Damien James, Gabriel Mejia, Tifanie O'Riley, Nichole Chandler, and Michael Jackson--a girl so obsessed with the pop star, he's the sole subject of her paintings and she even adopted his name for the show...you can view all their work by clicking on the link at the bottom), had lots of interesting conversations with people, a lot of friends and family showed up to support me, and I feel one step closer to feeling comfortable about labeling myself an actual "artist."
MORE ATC PHOTOS
Saturday, February 3, 2007
all you need is lovie
Even though our beloved Bears lost the SuperBowl, it is still worth mentioning this grandiose piece of hometown history. Everyone knows the Chicago Bears won SuperBowl XX in 1986 and haven't been back since. Growing up with a dad who die-hardedly supported the Green Bay Packers (and the New York Yankees), the love of the pigskin was never really ingrained in me. Well no sport was really, but if I was going to invest any time in taking sides, it was going to be with Chicago. I figured if you're not going to root root root for the home team, then why bother rooting at all.
On May 28, 1991, Thomas Jefferson Elementary School--incidentally where I was ending my year as a second grader--held a school-wide surprise assembly. All six grades crammed into the lunch room and sat row by row, cross-legged, facing the stage. The surprise: none other than famed Chicago Bears linebacker, Mike Singletary. And he was there to hand out "E" (excellence) Awards to 60 students--2 from each class in all six grades. As far as I can recall, I'm pretty sure I had no prior knowledge that I was going to be a recipient of one of these awards (Amy can confirm this because she, of course, won one too), but sure enough they called my name. It was a year of recognition, as at age 8 I also won my first photo contest. I was a shy kid, and I'm sure I felt some anxiety about going up in front of the whole school and anticipating shaking the hand of this huge football player. That handshake ended up being reproduced photographically the following day in Chicago's Daily Herald newspaper.
Even though I went to school in NYC to get away from the confines of suburban Chicago, I couldn't hide my roots. Almost every day someone asked if I was from Minnesota because of my "accent," and I had a boss who told me I wasn't "in Kansas anymore" because I didn't find it necessary to run around the coffee shop like a disinterested maniac. I decided to embrace my "midwestern-ism" and this included representing Chicago's sports teams. While I was working at SNL in 2005, Patriot's quarterback, Tom Brady, hosted the show. For his photo shoot I wore my worn-in "vintage" Bears shirt (a prized ebay purchase).
The following day I found out we were shooting some photos for one of the sketches. A spinoff of VH1's Behind the Music series about The Superbowl Shuffle, with Tom playing Jim McMahon and a bunch of extras playing the rest of the 1985 Chicago Bears team. I was bummed out that I had just worn my Bears shirt the day before because what I really wanted to do was stand amidst all of them as the only real Chicagoan. No such luck. But I did convince the props people to let me try on one of the helmets and my boss snapped a few photos of that moment.
Twenty-one years after Superbowl XX, the Bears headed to Miami to take on the Indiana Colts. Despite the sub-zero temperatures, Chicago embraced football fever in all ways possible...
On Friday the Oldies station announced that the Mayor had thousands of Lovie Smith masks on sticks made and anyone interested could pick one up at the Millenium Park ice rink.
Several radio stations held contests for listeners to submit their own rendition of popular songs, changing the lyrics to revolve around the Bears going to the SuperBowl. Saturday night I was driving home from a play, listening to 97.9 the Loop, Chicago's classic rock station. Someone called in to request a song and the DJ said only if you say "Go Bears!" before the request. He had no problem doing that, especially because his request was the SuperBowl Shuffle.
I got in just in time for the start of SNL. But before that came on, I caught the end of the channel 5 10:00 news, which showed footage of the Lyric Opera singing "Bear Down Chicago Bears" and donning Bears paraphernalia. Surprisingly I couldn't find a video on youtube.com, but I did find these two.
I haven't been able to make it through a full-length SNL for awhile now because I get too tired and fall asleep, but I made myself stay awake for Saturday's episode, anticipating the return of the Superfans sketch. Sadly, Bill Swersky did not grace the screen. But there was a sketch about Donatella Versace (Maya Rudolph) hosting a SuperBowl party, in which Horatio Sanz guest-starred as Elton John decked out in an Urlacher jersey with the "54" filled in with silver sparkles. She at one point says to the half-naked men surrounding her: "You guys are so boring. If you were a football team, you'd be called--Da BOARS!" Hahaha.
SuperBowl Sunday I spent about an hour driving around downtown to do a mini photo documentary to show how Chicago had gone Bear-crazy. First stop--the Picasso statue at the Daley Center plaza. What would the famed artist think about a Bears hat sitting atop his masterpiece?
Next up, the lions guarding the Art Institute. Turns out I wasn't the only insane person freezing my ass off. The right lane of Michigan Avenue had a line of cars flashing their hazards, waiting for their turn to get closer to the entrance. I decided the most efficient thing to do, since I didn't have a passenger with me, was to leave my car running, put on my hazards, and run around like a nut snapping as many photos as I could before jumping back in my car.
Orrrr getting verbally reprimanded by one of "Chicago's finest."
"Whose vehicle is this??" she yelled.
Luckily, I was done taking pictures and was standing right next to the car trying to take a picture of two tourists at their request.
"You can't leave your vehicle unattended like that!"
"Ok..." I started.
[commence stare down]
"They asked me to take their picture, so I'm trying to help out."
"EXCUSE me?! I don't care WHOSE picture you're taking! You can not leave your vehicle unattended!"
I apologized to the boys and handed back their camera and glared at the cop before stepping off the curb and getting back in my car. She proceeded to start in with her exaggerated "EXCUSE ME?!" with one of the tourist boys when he asked her to take the picture instead. He is my new hero. I snapped a photo of them arguing as I pulled away. I love using my camera as a weapon.
That woman needs to take a freaking chill pill, I said out loud to myself as I headed towards Lake Shore Drive. A few minutes later I drove past Soldier Field as I winded my way through the "Museum Campus" en route to the Field Museum. Final stop--the dinosaur wearing a giant orange Urlacher jersey. I am not kidding you. The temperature was -1 without the windchill. With the windchill it was -22!!! And I left my gloves in the car. Smart move. I ran in my moon boots to the dinosaur and snapped as many pictures as I could before I literally thought my hands were going to fall off. It got to the point where I was watching my finger on top of the shutter-release button, and my brain was telling the finger to "push down" and it just wasn't functioning. I forced a few more shots, then haphazardly ran/stumbled back to the warmth of my car...all the while clenching my fingers into fists and spreading them wide to try and get some sort of circulation flowing.
From there I drove to the burbs to meet up with my dad before heading to Glenview to watch the game at the Joseph's house. Since my dad refuses to root for the Bears, I decided to propose a bet. He told me to name my price but warned, "Remember--you never bet more than you have." I decided on $25. Whoever lost would be responsible for doubling the $25 donation I already planned on making to an organization for a friend's birthday gift.
I don't even know how the game of football is played. It's so stop and go that I find it quite boring and even during the most important game of the year, zoning out. Physically, my eyes were looking at the TV, but nothing was registering. Of course in the beginning I was into it, even jumped up and yelled, "Go go go!" at one point, but the later it got, the more of my body became one with the couch. I did pay attention to the commercials, and despite the high rate of violence and suicide, managed to pick my top three favorites.
1) Bud Light's Rock, Paper, Scissors
2) Bud Light's (?) where the dog ends up a fake dalmation
3) Taco Bell's lions trying to pronounce "carrrrrrne"
My dad wore a Packers sweatshirt and a Yankees hat, yet ended up pulling for the Bears halfway through so he could win his "square pool" at his office. My mom joined us after she was done at work, and we took a picture for Sheri (who's currently studying abroad in Spain) wearing "los osos" shirts created/left in the mailbox Sunday morning by David Sampson and holding a paper plate on which I wrote "We miss you Sheri." Now that I think about it, I should have written that in Spanish tambíen. Packers sandwich.
Bears lost 17 to the Colt's 29.
I displayed my sadness with Jello helmets.
Oh well, there's always next year. All you need is Lovie...
MORE SUPERBOWL PHOTOS
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