When I first sat down to put my collage together, I wanted to choose images that represent the way people see me.  Swimming would have been predominant, but beyond that I couldn’t think of anything else to put on it.  After deliberating for a long time, I decided to narrow the focus of my collage to represent things in which I believe.  I figured people see me all the time, but my beliefs are very rarely seen.

The bright orange text that reads, “Change is inevitable.” undoubtedly attracts the viewers attention first.  The strength of the text and its contrast from the background symbolizes very well how strongly I believe in change.  Simply being thrust into a new environment like college, with new people, will cause change in a person.  Even if you can’t feel or see it, the way people act changes you.  The things people say, can change you in the smallest ways.  Even though the Good/Evil meter points to evil, I believe that the person to which it refers can change and make the meter read “Good.”

The next objects that succeed in grabbing the viewer’s attention are probably the numbers 1, 2, 3.  They are deliberately not arranged in a triangle to represent the lack of stability that we face in life.  Everything is uncertain.  Nothing lasts forever.  The numbers 1, 2, and 3 represent the rules by which I live my life: 1. When you make a promise, keep it.  2. Anything at all for the one you love.  3. Don’t ever stop.  These rules, however, are not set in stone and are subject to change.  At any moment, something can happen to change me and I can decide that promises are not important.

The Chinese character is my last name, Wong.  Literally translated, it is the color yellow.  In ancient China, yellow was the imperial color – only the emperor could wear that color.  Now, it’s one of the most common Chinese surnames in the world.  Even the world changes, eventually.

Finally, I placed a series of buildings merging with the top of the forest to represent humanity’s shift from rural villages to urban centers.  The mechanical spider represents humanity’s progress towards a more tech-oriented society.  In the future, I believe that society will be extremely dependent on technology.  Things that we can’t even imagine right now will be possible.  The world will not be the same.  People will not be the same.  Change is inevitable.

For the greater part of the last 18 years, there has been a silent war being waged between me and my brother.  The battles were always brief and indirect.  Clashing in the open just isn’t our style.  All of our bouts and their outcomes were concluded to be illegitimate – SAT scores, school grades, and best times in swimming were all declared void because of the two year age difference.  He took the old school SAT out of 1600 while mine was the new one out of 2400.  He attended Stuyvesant High School, where they don’t give weighted averages for AP classes.  We started swimming at the same time, meaning I had a two year head start on him relative to our ages.  We just didn’t think it was fair to use our separate performances under vastly different conditions to answer the questions that everyone asks: Who’s smarter? Faster? Stronger? Better?  People seem to take pleasure in labeling one of us as superior – some kind of strange amusement in pitting siblings against one another in their minds.  Both of us think otherwise.

It wasn’t until the 2005-2006 PSAL Boy’s swimming season that we were finally forced to race each other head to head.  Throughout the season, we were hitting similar times, and everyone knew that it was going to be Stuyvesant and Midwood swimming for the City Championship.  Everyone knew about the two brothers, both breaststrokers, who had spots on their respective rosters.  Beyond that, I can’t tell you much.  I’ll let my brother speak now:

“‘Oley! Oley, Oley Oley….Oley!’

‘Oooooooh!’

These are the noises ringing through my ears right before I step up on the unsteady white diving block.  ‘JUSTTTTIIINNNN’

‘GO JEFF!’

These are the barbaric noises both teams are screaming.  ‘Hey, you two Wongs, turn around!’  A click and a flash.  A picture to remember this event forever.  A picture to remember the butterflies in my stomach.  A picture to remember the butterflies about to escape along with my chicken salad I had that afternoon.  This was the 2006 PSAL City Finals.  Two teams duking it out for the city title.  But everyone knew Stuy would win, and nothing was going to change that fact.  Midwood didn’t have a chance.

However, the real excitement was coming down to the two brothers racing each other in the 100 yard breaststroke.  This was a joke.  This was merely an exhibition match to show which team had the better Wong.  Brother against brother, Wong against Wong, Justin against Jeffrey.  Was it really necessary to have to see which one of us was the better swimmer? I guess our coaches thought so.  I didn’t.  I really had nothing to prove to anyone, not even myself.  I knew I was faster than my younger brother.  So what really happened during this particular race?

Neither of us performed our best.  I know I certainly didn’t.  A 1:09 low for the last meet of the season is something I definitely shouldn’t be proud of, nor is a 1:08 high for my brother.  ‘Quiet please. Quiet please.  This is the 100 yard breaststroke.  Each swimmer will swim four lengths of the pool breaststroke.  Swimmers, take your mark.’ BANG! I can hear everyone scream, ‘GOOO!’ just as I leave the blocks.

Diving a bit deep is never a good start for a race.  This is especially true if the side you’re starting on is four feet deep.  I barely missed scraping my face against the tiled bottom.  ‘Awesome, I didn’t break my face, but I’m still half a body length behind.’  As I try to catch up to my brother, my stroke count skyrockets up.  Not good; at this rate I’ll be dead by the last lap.  I manage to pull half a body length ahead on the third lap.  I glance to the right with my peripherals.  I only have a quarter of a body length now.  We hit the turn; I slip.  Nice, my streamline also breaks.  I pop up back to the surface about halfway before I usually do.

Now my brother is half a body length ahead.  Time to speed it up.  I take twelve strokes on the last twenty five as opposed to my usual eight.  Also, do you remember at the beginning when I said I was going to be dead tired? Guess what, I was.  We hit the finish.  I take a look over my shoulder at the clock.  Lane 4: 1:09.1, Lane 3: 1:08.9.  Touched out.  I let him win.

There’s a silence for five long minutes, my brother has a smirk on his face.  I look at him, he looks at me.  I smile and tell him to watch out tonight; he’s going to wake up with two broken legs.  Just kidding.”

He wrote that for his own IDC class.  I found it, read it, and forgot about it until this project came along.  I knew that I had to tell this story to set the record straight.  I could only use his story because I don’t remember any details from that day – it’s all a blur to me.  I see how self assured he was that day in direct contrast to me, a boy of 15 years, struggling and fighting to escape his brother’s shadow.  I didn’t believe it at the time, but I think he really did let me win.  In our first public battle, he played the older brother and helped me find my confidence.  He let me win so that I would believe in myself and work hard to get even faster in the years to come.  To this day, my parents refuse to admit who they were cheering for.  I don’t blame them.

He began by explaining his reasons for delving into his mother’s individual life, stating that he regretted “not being more attentive while she was sick,” naming it a “posthumous reconciliation.”  Next, he explained what he called the “Periodic Table of Human Nature,” stemming from his belief that everything in human existence breaks down to the same basic elements.  From there, he opened up the Q&A session, imploring us to feel free to ask anything we want.  I admired the transparency that he was able to maintain while discussing a delicate subject such as his mother’s life and subsequent demise, and his feelings of resentment towards his grandmother.  Although he is a journalist by trade, the way he set aside his emotions to complete the research for Who She Was really showed his aptitude as a historian, trying to accurately chronicle the life his mother lived, and how she became the person he knew.

I also admired the honesty with which he answered all of our questions.  Throughout the entire session, there were no questions where I thought he might be holding something back from us.  In regards to our final projects, he offered his opinion, and one piece of advice.  “I think that ‘ordinary’ lives are filled with extraordinary drama…Any life, if researched well enough, can be dramatic.”

I made my way around the one-room gallery, starting with the photograph labeled number one.  There were no captions for these photos, only small black pins with tiny white numbers placed at the corner of each photo.  Even though the 1960s are famous, or maybe infamous, for the Vietnam War, these photos painted a much different picture – one that showed people not only coming together in an attempt to end the Vietnam war, but also to try to change the society in which they lived.  There were photographs depicting protests for women’s suffrage and civil rights, sky writers writing the “peace” sign, and even a sign nominating Franz Kafka for President.

The theme of the gallery was apparent from the incredible variety of messages being shown in the photographs – freedom of speech.  A photo of a man wearing a pig mask behind a police officer reflected slang of the time, and the man crossing his arms in front of “Patria O Muerte” on a brick wall showed off his patriotism.  The simple design of the gallery and the content of the photos made it the truest expression of free speech that I have ever seen.

The first room is filled with betrothal gifts from the Italian Renaissance.  The pieces are mostly bowls, cups, vases, and plates that were probably parts of various dowries.  The objects all had very elaborate and colorful patterns, showing the amount of time and effort put into the creation of the objects, although it is unclear whether the newlyweds would use these objects in everyday life or keep them on display as a symbol of status.

The other two main sections of the exhibit are titled “Childbirth/Family,” and “Love/Erotic Art.”  The childbirth exhibit has frescoes, painting, and ceramics, all celebrating healthy newborns.  The danger of childbirth to both mother and child during the Renaissance made successful births very important occasions to be celebrated.  The Love/Erotic Art exhibit is mostly Roman pieces.  “Some are unabashedly vulgar and lurid in their portrayals of licentiousness; others examine erotic subject matter with learned erudition.”

Overall, the exhibit shows that Renaissance art is not just the big names like Masaccio and Donatello.  The works showed that people lived like regular people, and were not completely consumed by religion as the big names would have you believe.  They lived and loved, celebrated and mourned, and were people just like us.

The music and choreography worked together very well to express the struggle of Africans and African Americans.  I enjoyed the way the choreography used movements that felt more tribal to represent Africans, while they used more modern moves to represent African Americans.  One scene that struck me as particularly powerful was when all the performers gathered under a single spotlight, struggling for a glimpse of light and a breath of fresh air.

One thing I didn’t understand was why the audience began clapping at some points of the performance.  Some performers had dance solos, but perhaps I’m simply not familiar enough with dance to understand why or how the solos warranted spontaneous applause.  The final scene, however, seemed to be symbolic of a future that both dance troupes wish to see.  The way that all the performers gathered together to take a deep breath in unison, then utter “J’accepte.  I accept” was very clear that the two troupes desire for all Africans and African Americans to accept the past, and by doing so, look to the future.

After receiving a digital point and shoot camera for Christmas last year, I’ve slowly improved my photography skills. I am by no means even close to being considered a good photographer, but I have learned through trial and error about how to use my camera and how to manipulate basic shots. This street photography project is actually an extension of a variation on the Traveling Gnome that I did while on family vacation over the summer. I took pictures featuring a small, plush 1-Up mushroom that was given to me by someone very important to me, as a way of having her symbolically accompany me on vacation.

The first picture I decided to take was at the train station where I get on the Q train to go pretty much anywhere. I thought that it would be fitting for my project to begin in the same place where many of my adventures begin – at the train station. I actually missed the first train that arrived because it was about to leave when I got on the platform and I decided to get the photo first. This coincidentally led me to my image of the train arriving. I was wondering if anyone would give me trouble about taking pictures without their consent or something but nobody seemed to mind. I found a seat on the train and took a nap.

Luckily for me, the Q train was running along the R line between DeKalb Ave. and Canal St. because of construction on the Manhattan Bridge. I didn’t have to transfer to the R train to go to City Hall and it let me nap a little bit longer. I wanted to take a picture on Broadway between Duane St. and Reade St., where the first Duane Reade was, but it’s no longer there. There’s a Duane Reade on the corner of Duane St. and Broadway and another one on the corner of Broadway and Chambers St., but I guess their rent in the original building was too high and they moved.

From there, I made my way over to the Brooklyn Bridge. I spotted a tourist taking a picture of the Woolworth Building and decided to copy her, plus a 1-Up mushroom. After that I wanted to take a picture of the Brooklyn Bridge and started walking towards the middle of the bridge. Right about where the cables start to rise up to the tower, I realized that it would be difficult to get a picture of the bridge while on the bridge so I felt stupid and turned around to take the train to the South Street Seaport. On the way I noticed that the pedestrian symbol on one side of the walkway had its hand held out like it could be holding something. I waited for a break in the tourist swarms, quickly plopped my mushroom down in position, and stood up to snap a picture.

Determined to get a picture of the Brooklyn Bridge, an icon of New York City, before the sun went down, I hurried over to South Street Seaport and tried several times without flash. My mushroom was dark because I was in the shade so I turned on flash and tried again. This time the picture came out to be satisfactory and I was grateful that we can review pictures instantly on digital cameras. By now, the sun was approaching the horizon and I speed-walked over to the south side of Manhattan, by the Bowling Green train station, to get a picture of the sunset. It was too cloudy to get a nice shot of the sun but I managed to capture the lambent clouds. I spotted a weird statue on my way back to the train station and thought it looked interesting, so I took a picture of it as well.

On the train going to Chinatown I asked a man if I could take a picture of him with my mushroom next to him for my project but he rudely refused. Instead, I took a picture of my mushroom sitting on one of the platform benches. Once I got to Chinatown I asked a street vendor if I could take a picture and I ended up with one of my favorite pictures of the night. His pose was quite unexpected.

I walked up to SoHo to the Uniqlo store to take a picture. Uniqlo and Nintendo are both Japanese companies so I thought it was a fitting representation of a cultural encounter – two foreign businesses brought together in New York City. I trekked back to Chinatown to meet a friend and get dinner in a noodle shop where I eat often. On the way, I spotted a pair of lion statues and vaguely remembered that the Chinese believed that they would guard the entrances where they sat from evil spirits or demons. Finally, I took a picture of my mushroom at the dinner table. Everybody needs to eat some time.

She is currently covering the conflict in Kurdistan, which is a region that encompasses northern Iraq, eastern Turkey, northwestern Iran, and northern parts of Syria and Armenia.  One of the photographs on display has the caption “Families return to the ruins of their homes after the Iraqi army forced them to leave in 1989, Qala Diza, Northern Iraq, 1991.”  What struck me about this photograph was how flat everything was.  Was there really anything to return to? Or maybe the families were returning to the site of their homes after the Iraqi army forced them to leave.  After two years, nothing was left but rubble and dust.  Did they hope to find something from the lives they left behind in the ruins of their homes?

Another photograph on display had the caption “Widow at mass grave, Koreme, Northern Iraq. June 1992.”  Once again, rubble dominated the photograph, with skulls and shoes poking out of the sand.  The woman standing over the mass grave actually looked like she could have been posed, but perhaps her body was simply frozen with grief.  The woman standing over the mass grave actually looked like she could have been posed, but perhaps her body was simply frozen with grief.

Like Cornell Capa, Susan Meiselas is obviously a “concerned photographer.”  It is painfully clear that she intends to show the world what is happening right under its nose, and is completely committed to the task.  It is also clear that her strong opinion on documentary practice was formed not through study, but through experience.

One of the photographs on display was titled “Dock workers loading bananas for United Fruit Company” and was taken in Puerto Barrios, Guatemala.  It made it very clear that the dock workers are poor – they still use old fashioned pulley systems rather than cranes or other heavy machinery to lift the masses of bananas.  The roofs of the houses are thatched, rather than shingles, and the workers themselves are dressed in raggedy clothing.

Another photograph being displayed was titled “Dock workers leaving a lunch time,” also taken at Puerto Barrios, Guatemala.  This photograph must have been taken at a different part of the city because the roofs of the buildings have shingles instead of being thatched like in the other photograph.  Although things look more modern, the photograph still shows that the dock workers are poor.  Even though this part of the city seems to be more acclimated to foreign trade, indicated by the bilingual signs, the workers are still dressed in very dirty clothing.

The photographs on display show, more than anything, why Cornell Capa is “concerned.”  They show the conditions that people live through in other parts of the world, and really do act as a “believable mirror of the human condition.”

The music and rhymes featured in Clay were all written and performed by one man – Matt Sax, and for the most part he does a very good job of flipping back and forth between characters.  The way he used different facial expressions and certain mannerisms to represent each character worked well for the most part, although sometimes I did find myself confused about which character was speaking.  Another cool thing about Clay is that it encompasses several aspects of hip-hop – not just rapping, but also beat-boxing.  Clay also explores the reasons why one would begin rapping rather than just using rap as a different medium for telling the story.

Some parts of Clay, however, were not as enjoyable.  There were some aspects of the performance that, while getting the point across, where quite over the top and maybe even unnecessary.  One example of unnecessary portions is when he came into the audience and began grinding up on female members of the audience while he lamented his unrequited love.  This was unexpected, to say the least, not to mention just plain awkward.