Umm . . . Spoiler?While I'll been here, I've been thinking a lot about music.  I'm not a musician - I love to sing but I'm not particularly good at it, and I know next to nothing about music.  Whie over time I've developped the ability to objectively evaluate and examine the attributes of a piece of literature or a film, and am slowly developping a vocabulary around the visual art, music remains a mystery to me.  For all my favorite books or films, I can explain at length technical aspects of the work that elevate it above other similar attempts (nd acknowledge moments of Icarus-like failure, when hir astounding ambitions evade the artist's grasp).  But while I do like often enjoy songs that others whose tastes are more mature and educated than mine (friends and/or critics) also appreciate, there are a lot of songs I like that I know are objectively terrible.  Even for the songs that are widely beloved, my ability to analyze them is limited to the lyrics (which is why, I think, I typically struggle to enjoy classical as a genre) and general subjective statements like "her voice just doesn't sound good there."

I've been thinking about this a lot I think because one, I've found music to be the best salve for homesickness, which has often left me pndering why certain songs just signify home to me, and two, I've started going to the opera, which has undoubtedly been the greatest gift Paris has given me.  I'd never seen or heard an opera before coming here, and having taken the opportunity to see several in close proximity to each other has majorly altered my conception of music.  The layers of expression in an opera, (the written text, the acting out of that text, the written score, the live performance of that score by both the orchestra and the singers working in harmony, the incredible costumes and set pieces, and the intellectual challenge of the director to render accessible this incredibly stylized art form,) this enormous effort from all of these people coming together across time to produce this, it's truly awe-inspiring.  To attempt to "sell" his music to the audience, not as a writtn and pre-conceived work, nor even as a choreographed "number" (as Broadway typicaly trades in) but as a spontaneous expression of emotion from the character, requires an almost unbelievable suspension of disbelief from the audience, and yet I have witnessed occasions where, for me atleast, they pulled it off, and I'm still trying to figure out why.

The opera that has been the most successful for me was far-and-away La Boheme, Puccini's seminal classic which I have recently learned is also performed in New York (meaning I can go see it there too!!) As a depiction of Paris, Puccini manages to both evoke a very specific period of history and also give a general sense of the culture and feel of the city.  Having seen the city now at Christmas time, I think the opening scene of Act II where several choruses sing around and among each other while shopping in the cold captures the city in a way Larson's equivalent scene in RENT tries to do but just doesn't quite manage.  The scene that follows in the cafe, if done as well as it was done here, so perfectly mimicks the hustle of paris cafes in the winter when everyone comes in seeking shelter from the cold as much as anything and thus wait to order, go through cup after cup of coffee, and never ask for the check, using the strong sense of Parisian hospitality as an excuse to keep warm.  The characters themselves, it seems to me, are exactly the way Parisians want to see themselves depicted: smart and idealistic, passionate, resourceful, creative, and fun - constantly ready to adapt to any situation to get the most out of life.  But of course, the last scene is the most incredible.  A professor here, showing those who were going clips of a broadcasted version in preparation from the live event, said "Did you get a lump in your throat?"  (I did.)  "That's the cello.  It's a great manipulator; it's the instrument with the closest tone to the human voice.  Composers love to pull it out just for moments like this."

I was completely astounded.  Can you believe that humans can listen to a piece of music, and the tones in it that mimick a human voice will actuall cause an emotional reaction?  And, on top of that, some people were able to figure that out and harnass that power in great art?  Thinking about that, I asked a friend of mine, an actress who plays music as a hobby, what art form she found the most emotinally impactful.  She answered music right away.  I said I thought I agreed, but that I felt awkward saying so; my mode of expression, the one I depend on and through which I hope to influence others, is writing.  But I have to admit, even though as a writer I think I'm more attuned to the written word than most, I am not frequently profoundly moved by a book.  I have never wept over a piece of visual art, very rarely over live theater, and only occasionally over a film.  But there are some songs which, no matter how many times I hear them, I tear up.  My friend pointed out that the progression of musichas been toward an increasingly individual experience, going from public concerts to the radio, to records where most families only ad one record player that was shared, to CD's by which point parents and kids could have their own, to Walkmans and eventually Ipods, where the music of your choice can play alongside you all day, through all your highs and lows, in your head sundtracking your every thought and emotion.  No other medium is as accessible and personal, she said.  And thinking about it, I think I agree with her; I think one of the most significant questions to our generation is what music do you like?  (Anyone besides me willing to 'fess to having dismissed someone as a friend-option because of an abiding love of, for example, pop-country?)  You would think, though, that acting wuld be stronger since you're seeing a fellow human being, right in front of you, undergo an experience.  But somehow I think knowing it's fake allows us to disassociate, whereas some part of us still believes in the singer-songwriter tradition and sees singing a song you wrote for someone else as the most pure expression of inner feeling.  That's definitely how I felt watching the end of La Boheme; whether it's beautiful or terrifying or a bit of both that the human voice has the power to affect us that way, outside of any sort of logic or reason, is something I think we each decide for ourselves.

Replica of David: Not the real David, but we weren't allowed to take pics of him in the Accademia. So here's a replica standing in the Piazzale Michelangelo.Florence, birthplace of the Renaissance.

Before arriving in Italy, I knew that art was a pretty big deal in Florence but I must admit to my lack of culture and say I had no idea to what extent. Now that I’m here and have experienced a number of museums in the city, I am nothing but a sponge; simply absorbing all that I see and experience.

My most cliché encounter with Florence’s most celebrated piece was the day I finally went to the Accademia Gallery, home of Michelangelo’s David. It was one of those moments that had been completely hyped up before I even left New York so I was a little wary of being disappointed when I actually saw it (a moment I’ve had with the Mona Lisa in Paris years ago). Friends had told me that no matter the cost of admission, I had to go see it, making my expectations for it that much greater and it was the only piece of art that everyone, art fanatic or not, seemed to know.

Once I found out that it was actually free to enter the museum if you were an NYU student, I knew the time had finally come to visit David. The anticipation was a little bizarre; after all, it’s just a statue, right? Why did I suddenly feel as though I was entering sacred grounds? And I swear I felt a weird energy in the air as though everyone’s one objective for entering the Accademia that day was to see David. With no idea where David actually was, I walked around with my friends, half expecting to suddenly see this form around every corner. Then when I least expected it, I rounded a corner, and there he was. Totally unprepared because the statues leading up to David were half finished pieces that weren’t exactly the most impressive, I had to admit, I was stunned.

So that’s what all the fuss had been about. Granted, I was a bit disbelieving up to the moment I actually saw him. But as I drew closer and could see the immensity and the precision of this glorious form, I was awestruck. And I had a moment of contemplation as I looked at this naked statue of a man when I realized the beauty of the human body that was flawlessly replicated by the great Michelangelo, could never truly capture the actual intricacies of the flesh and blood of a person. In that moment I was reminded of the power of art as a medium that causes one to consider, ponder, and enjoy the majesties of which the cosmos offers.

"Cristaux," Sylvie Fleury. Nuit Blanche in Notre Dame cathedral.In Paris, the first Saturday of October this year was Nuit Blanche, which translates as White Night. It’s a sort of all-night, city-wide arts festival: there are indoor and outdoor installations throughout three areas of the city (the Marais, the Latin Quarter, and Buttes Chaumont), two of the metro lines stay open all night (a luxury outside New York), and people wander around Paris searching for something strange and beautiful and ephemeral, works of art to see, and sometimes touch, before they disappear the next day.

At four in the morning, we found ourselves outside Notre Dame, amid crowds of young Parisians talking and drinking in the big stone square. A few small fights broke out; there were lines at the all-night creperies. Inside, the cathedral was dark, and glowing neon sculptures, like green and pink and yellow crystals, sprung from the floor of the little chapels that line the apse and transepts. The effect was strange, even eerie, though it became less so with repetition: every chapel had another neon geode, another sharp bright light protruding from the staid stone of Notre Dame.

We had come from Buttes Chaumont, a large park in the 19th arrondissement; constructed by Haussmann under Napoleon III, with steep hills and cliffs, and a waterfall, the landscape never feels exactly Parisian. For Nuit Blanche, though, Buttes Chaumont was open all night, and it became even more unfamiliar, and more magical. The waterfall was lit red, and it spilled down into a stream which, like the nearby lake, danced with blinking colored lights floating beneath the surface. Some of the lawns were blanketed with golden cardboard circles, like sequins. People leaned over the fence to pick up a sequin and then drop it back: individually, they were just shiny cardboard cut-outs, but the cumulative effect of them all laid down across the lawn was incredible. Other lawns in the park were covered with open red umbrellas. The entire Buttes Chaumont became a sort of fantasy land, what children might imagine happens after they go to sleep at night. Paris is beautiful so often and so easily that, living here, it’s sometimes easy to forget or overlook that beauty. By temporarily opening up a crystal-filled cathedral all night or coating a park lawn with golden sequins, Nuit Blanche drew our attention back to the beauty and the strangeness of Paris.

"Paris Street, Rainy Weather," Caillebotte"Parc Monceau," Monet (my favorite spot to walk/run!)

Being in Paris for only the autumn means that there is a premium on time spent outdoors: the prime window of time suitable for strolls in a park and sampling sidewalk cafés is coming to an inevitable close. For that reason, when faced with any unencumbered blocks of time, I have asked myself the question, what can I do or see outdoors? Though I love art museums (and have visited several since I arrived), I’m saving my full exploration of them for the colder weather.

I have spent time in the Jardin de Luxembourg, the Jardin des Tuileries, and especially the Parc Monceau, just a few blocks from my apartment. But I have also found myself lingering by a particularly nice fountain, or walking, contrary to form, with only a vague idea of where I’m going. As I love to bike, I have gotten familiar with parts of the city I’m not like to walk to. And everywhere I go, my thought is the same: Paris might be the only city I know of that visually lives up to its reputation. Quite simply, Paris is a work of art. Thanks in large part to many major European painters who once called Paris home, representations of Parisian streets, people, homes, and outdoor spaces are abundant. In addition to the plethora of films—“Sabrina” and “Amélie” are two favorites—set in Paris and made popular in the US, many of have come to know Paris through the galleries of our own art museums. Perhaps the most famous Parisian street scene, for example, lives in Chicago’s Art Institute: Gustave Caillebotte’s “Rue de Paris, temps de pluie” (“Paris Street, Rainy Weather,” 1877).

But unlike historical depictions of New York, which so rarely evoke the city I know, the Paris of the paintings really IS the Paris around me. The intricate building facades, with sculpted cornices and old world shutters (that require precarious leaning out the window to close) are not just in a carefully demarcated, “Historical Quarter.” They are everywhere, mixed in with Thai restaurants and Monoprix, and somehow it’s all so sensibly scaled that the mélange works. Though modernity has made its way in, the height and styling of the building has, for the most part, been kept congruous: amazingly, the streets of Caillebotte or Monet match quite closely those I walk down every day. Unlike walking by the East River or Hudson, a stroll along the quais of the Seine (maybe even past the Eiffel Tower, à la Dana!) makes it possible to imagine Sunday promenades of the 1800s, women in petticoats, and elegant black umbrellas.

For me, the idea that Paris has retained so much of its visual identity is tied to a larger theme here: the French have historically put a huge effort into preserving their culture. And it’s not just a question of cornices: The Académie Française is dedicated to making sure annoying English words don’t overtake French vocabulary (“faire mon planning,” a phrase I hear frequently for “work out my schedule” would probably make them cringe.) The government mandates that 40% of music on the radio must be sung in French. The attitudes towards immigration… well that’s another blog post! In any case, there are plusses and minuses to France’s determination to keep the Paris we see in galleries, in literature, and in films impeccably preserved. But when I’m walking back from dinner across the Pont Neuf and taking in the splendidly lit, old buildings around me, I’ve got to admire their efforts.

Chez Suzy

There certainly exists a commonly held, preconceived notion of what Paris is like. It’s romantic and beautiful and accordion players set the soundtrack to your perfect evening. While Paris may not exactly fit that description, it lives up to its reputation as one of the most dynamic and charming cities in the world. However, it’s easy to forget that what we experience as tourists and visitors is not exactly reality. Just like New York, Paris has its shadier locales. I was reminded of this while researching Paris photography looking for inspiration for my own photographs. I came upon the images of Brassai, a Romanian immigrant who came to Paris, and made a name for himself through his romantic images of Paris at night. I had seen these images before, but they had never struck me as particularly groundbreaking or visually interesting. Yet, as I was looking through his images, I came upon a different set of photographs, which depicted a darker and moodier Paris.

Chez Suzy (1932) is an image in a larger portfolio of photos that depict quotidian scenes of a brothel. Three half naked and visibly exhausted prostitutes lay sprawled across the room, displaying an intimacy between one another that seems both incomprehensible and sisterly. At first, this image seemed erotic in nature, but after a closer examination it proved to be a true portrait of the post-coital lives of prostitutes. I found it almost uncomfortable to look at. It seemed like an intrusion.

De Botton spoke about how the art depicting a place can shape our image of it, especially after we have already judged it. While I did not dislike Paris as De Botton disliked Provence, I had unknowingly assumed that Paris was just another bourgeois city. However, Paris has a deep and varied history and Chez Suzy reminded me of that. Even now, issues such as drug and sex trafficking trouble Paris. Without even realizing it, I had a very idealized view of what Paris is and was. After looking at these photographs, I feel as though I have a richer understanding of contemporary Paris and its origins.

“If art survives, the so too does the nation.” ~ Jan MladekDon Quixote: By Otto Gutfreund, Czech artist, 1911 Every aspect of life in Prague is political. It’s a concept that I as an American find somewhat hard to deal with mentally, but continues to stare me in the face. The Museum Kampa is an art museum for Central and Eastern European contemporary art. It was opened by Mrs. Mladek, the Czech wife of a banker who spent most of the time Czechoslovakia was a communist state in Washington D.C. Her husband did well for himself, and she amassed an extensive collection of art from her homeland and those surrounding it during the communist era, sometimes as the sole support for artists who were often targeted by the regime. In 2000, the old mill building currently housing her art was rebuilt and renovated as a gallery space and Mrs. Mladek donated her entire collection for the basis of Museum Kampa.

Every time I looked at a piece of art the day I visited the museum, I was forced to view it through the lens of this past. Often, this is not hard. For instance, one of the more striking pieces is a sculpture arrangement of women’s clothing, picked up by the artist after a demonstration in Poland and papier mached into their shapes as if these women were still standing in a group outside a government building. You are struck immediately by the way that these clothes, often severe, but sometimes elegant, and definitely feminine, tell the story of these women by their very emptiness. In a way it is saying, art lives, art remembers, art and culture cannot be shoved aside even under oppression. In another way it is saying, we are all dust. The emptiness calls to you almost as much as the clothing does. Art is politics, I know this from John Berger, I know this from John Lennon, I know this even from those anti-drug campaigns on television that are often surprisingly evocative.

But I don’t know this in the forefront of my mind every time I visit a museum. Here, I know it immediately. Even the pieces that aren’t blatantly political, such as the bust of Don Quixote I pictured above, a Spanish symbol, a literary symbol, are suddenly made to do with the Czech people and politics, and I found myself thinking that Otto Gutfreund’s version of Quixote was a wonderful, sad expression of the Czech sense of humor, a humor distilled in the last century when there was little to laugh about here. In the Museum Kampa, you know that he was collected by Mrs. Mladek, that these pieces were her own fight against the regime, even from far off D.C., and you know that it is a political act that she brought the art back to her people, put it in the heart of her capital city, crying out to the world, “Art has survived! The nation survives!”

Solar´s unique boardgame: PanajedrezOne of my first days in Buenos Aires, I visited the Museo Xul Solar. For those of you who don´t know (and I´d imagine it´s almost all of you) Xul Solar was a true boss. A close friend of the great Argentine writer Jorge Luis Borges, Solar was not just on, but was the cutting edge in 1930s Buenos Aires. He was a painter, philosopher, writer, inventor, and all around baller. The museum, which lies just a few blocks away from the NYU campus, is actually in part of his old apartment building. While small and relatively unknown among the city´s main museums, the Museo Xul Solar is actually quite fascinating. Comprised of completely of his paintings, writings, and inventions, one can truly get a sense of what kind of a man Xul Solar was. For example, many of his paintings´ titles are in a language that he invented called "neocriollo", which is basically a mix of Spanish, Latin, Portuguese, and some other strange words. Additionally, there is the one and only "Panajedrez" set, a chess-like boardgame ("Pan" meaning worldly and "ajedrez" meaning chess) that Solar invented. It´s complex pieces and board, consisting of many different numbers, leters, and zodiac symbols, looks like something truly out of this world. What´s more is that he not only created to board and pieces, but he actually invented a complex set of rules for the game. It´s known to have involved knowledge of philosophy, astronomy, and some other fields, but since he was the only one who knew all the rules, it´s not exactly known how to be played today. Along with his invented boardgame, he also created an organ type instrument, in which the keys were replaced by different colored pieces of wood, and Solar created his own way of writing music according to the colored keys. In short, this guy basically lived in his own world.

Studying his work and looking back on his importance is incredibly awesome. The museum is set up in such a way that I truly felt like a was getting a look into the life of Solar and into the intellectual scene of Buenos Aires in the first few decades of the 20th century. While it might not be for everyone, especially if you´ve only got a little bit of time in Buenos Aires and you want to check out a bigger museum like the MALBA, I would highly recommend Museo Xul Solar for anyone who wants to check out the work of an amazingly unique individual.

The Persistence of Memory: Painting by Dali ImageMany highly acclaimed artists came from Spain. Therefore, it is no surprise that Madrid houses three great art museums. As you walk down the Paseo del Prado you find first the Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, you keep going and se the newer Centro Del Arte Reina Sofia. Last, but not least you see the Museo Del Prado. As a part of our Spanish acculturation, the school required us to go to the later two, suggesting we go to the first as well if we were interested. I walked around both museums not really knowing how to appreciate what I was looking at. I knew to be amazed when I saw Picasso’s massive “Guernica,” but I didn’t feel like I really knew what was so astounding about it. We saw more of Picasso’s works and several more by Dali. Though not housed in Spain, I feel like Dali’s “La persistencia de la memoria” speaks a great deal to the culture in Madrid, and quite possibly the rest of the country. Time seems to pass differently in Spain—it seems to move slower, each day seeming to last twice as long as its American counterpart. Though I don’t know the first thing about art history, I can’t help but wonder if Dali’s painting is a statement on the malleable nature of time. Dali once said, “Surrealism is destructive, but it destroys only what it considers to be shackles limiting our vision.” I think, in this way, his concept of time, as shown in the painting, breaks the universally held notion of time as a rectilinear entity (in much the same way Einstien had, mere decades earlier with his theories of special relativity). I have a couple of theories as to why this is: first of all, the people here simply move at such a slower speed. Whether it be walking on the street to ringing up items at the grocery store, it honestly baffles me how anything gets done here. To that end, Spain has a nationalized midday naptime. When siesta rolls around at about two in the afternoon, most of the city shuts down. It is absolutely impossible to get anything accomplished between 2:30, when I get out of class, and 5ish (…not to mention Sundays when everything in the city is closed…). I think the midday nap makes it feel like one day takes up the length of two back home. [image source]

artThe other week I visited Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires also known as the MALBA. My favorite piece of work was Antonio Berni's Manifestacion. It is a piece that I feel personifies Buenos Aires in many ways. First of all, it depicts many people on the street. Buenos Aires is known for protesting on the street. The most famous example of people protesting is the mother's of Plaza de Mayo who protest once a week here in Buenos Aires. In 2001, people took to the streets for months protesting the banking laws passed by the government. After Del Potro won the U.S Open this year, there was yet another protest here in Buenos Aires, albeit a happy one.

The people in the photograph are also very diverse just like the population of Buenos Aires. In the photograph one can see men, women, children, white, black, and mixed peoples. Buenos Aires, according to reference.com, has a racial make up of 88.9% White, 7% Mestizo, 2.1% Asian and 2% Black. This may seem lopsidedly white, but one must take into account that the white population can be broken down into different subsets. For example, there is a big difference in Buenos Aires between European immigrants and American immigrants to the country, both groups would consider themselves White but different shades if you will. Therefore, this photo reflects accurately the eclecticism of race in Buenos Aires.

The buildings in the background clearly depict the array of different architecture in Buenos Aires. The picture conveys the sense that there is both grand and small beautiful buildings in Buenos Aires. There are never ending skyscrapers and modest two room houses both equally unique. Buenos Aires's architecture borrows from everywhere and everyone. There are colonial seventeenth century British copy cats and sixteenth century French Henry II look a likes. Everywhere you look in Buenos Aires there is a different style of architecture happening.

The wall in the picture is also very important. There are many class divides both literally and figuratively in Buenos Aires. There are many gated communities to prevent the poor from getting into the rich neighborhoods. There is an ever expanding poverty gap in Buenos Aires with the middle class shrinking everyday. The amount of poor people in Buenos Aires has increased in the past five years and shows no signs of slowing down. The wall in the picture could be a literal boundary separating the unseen community behind the wall, or a figurative boundary about the people feeling stuck. Either way, the wall is an important piece of the picture.

All of these traits combined are the reasons I feel that this photograph is a very fitting tribute to Buenos Aires.

la manana verde

La manana verde

As an avid art lover and maker, I do my best to go to an art museum everywhere I go. I have always loved seeing how the art changes each place I go, yet how some traits always carry over. Art is loyal to history. It tracks and represents different periods of time. Art tells personal and historical stories. It sends messages. But most importantly, it leaves impressions. Through art, the viewer escapes his own realm and goes into the world of the artist. But the world of the artist is up to the eye of the viewer. To each his own in the world of art. Every person perceives art differently, and that is the beauty of it. Landscape paintings are introductions into another place. Just as de Botton states, “Insofar as we travel in search of beauty, works of art in small ways start to influence where we would like to travel to.” Before I came to South America, I had a whole perception of the place in my head based upon the art that I had seen before. For some reason, Caribbean art stuck in my head with Latin America. The bright colors and funky designs always reminded me of down here (even though I had never been here before). Once I arrived, it wasn’t anything like I had pictured. Probably because Jamaica and Argentina are not the same! But hey, a few paintings from there made me want to come here.

It wasn’t until I had seen a few museums in Argentina that I was really introduced to Latin American artists. I fell in love. I absolutely love the art here. It kind of reminds me of me own. I feel like I haven’t seen many detailed paintings. Instead, they all have an abstractness to them, some more than others. Everything is so colorful and bold. There are so many designs and oddities to most of the art. It always seems that something is a little off from reality in the art, which kind of reflects how I feel about Latin America- it has its own beat.

My favorite museum so far was the Museo De Arte in Tigre, Argentina. I was awestruck by just about every painting. There were paintings of so many types of art, yet they all seemed similar in this “South American sense.” Every painting seemed to have a sense of adventure in which the artist made a bold decision to do something against the rules. The museum in Tigre was so beautiful. The building was big and white, right by the river with a balcony stretching to the water’s side. It was a perfect building for what it held inside. My favorite artist that was featured in the museum was Carlos Ripamonte (unfortunately I cant find the painting I liked online to post as a picture). He reminded me of an Argentine Van Gogh. I hope to find more of his paintings in the other museums that I visit while I am here. I can’t wait to go home and start painting. I have definitely found a lot of great influences down here.