Upon looking at her pictures, I was first surprised at the freedom that existed during the 1970s and 80s in Tehran. At this time, Shah Reza Pahlavi was in power; and Iran was just as modern and chic, if not more so, than parts of Europe. Although many picture Iran as a country with an oppressive and strict government, especially in terms of clothing, it was far from that during my mother’s youth.

           Growing up as the middle child in a family of five was one of the pivotal reasons that shaped my mother. Constantly living up to her older sister’s expectations, and dealing with the teasing and quarrels with her older brother, and two younger ones, she sought to be independent. When she was three years old, her father died from cancer, forcing my grandmother to raise five children on her own. Although my mother doesn’t recollect much of her experience and relationship with her father, the one memory she vividly remembers is perhaps the most significant.

           Always eager to be around her father, she accompanied him to the hospital for his chemotherapy treatments. It was there where she discovered what she wanted to be in the future: a nurse. “I remember this one nurse who we often saw there. She was kind, helpful, and always uplifted my father. He knew his life was short, and so did she; but she always put a smile on his face. She undoubtedly gave more life to my father placing hope in his eyes, and I realized she is precisely the type of person I wanted to be,” my mother recalls.

           However, being a nurse in Tehran was a highly competitive and prominent role. Knowing this, my mother set out to accomplish this feat, proving to her siblings and friends that she would be successful. Many of my mother’s friends weren’t concerned with having professional careers, rather wanted to get married early and be stay at home mothers. My mother despised this traditional role, and sought to exceed all expectations, and overcome all barriers in her efforts to become a nurse.

           As a result of her rigorous work ethic, my mother sacrificed and limited her social life. My grandmother laughs, “I would wake up in the middle of the night by the light shining beneath her door into the hallway. I would walk in and see her in a deep sleep, exhausted from studying. I could barely enter her room with all her textbooks and papers scattered and circled around her.” Through her studious nature, my mother was accepted into Tehran University, the most prestigious university in Iran, equivalent to today’s Harvard, where she maintained a 3.8 GPA. While many of her friends were focused on simply enjoying daily things, disregarding work and school, my mother immediately started working as a nurse at Tehran University’s Pahlavi Hospital, one of the biggest and most renowned hospitals in Iran.

           As expected, she chose to work in the Emergency Room, which is arguably the fastest paced and most difficult unit in any hospital. It is there where she encountered people of all ages: children, young adults, the middle-aged, and elderly. While working there she developed many relationships with patients. Their ailments ranged from various types of cancers, tumors, heart attacks, amputated limbs, strokes, HIV/AIDS, viruses, diseases – you name it, she probably met someone who had it or was battling it. In her conversations with them she learned about their lives prior to their sicknesses, families, failed aspirations, regrets, accomplishments, child-hood sweethearts, their unsatisfied and short-lived youth, and every so often their fulfilled and audacious lives. It was through their valuable experiences and wisdom that she instilled it upon herself to live every day as if it was her last, to take risks and advantage of all opportunities that came her way, to pursue a life without inhibitions, and most of all to smile, because there was so much in life to smile about.

           One of her most fulfilling experiences was with a patient named Kamran (or Cameron in English). He was fighting a battle with cancer, and miraculously overcame it. During his stay at the hospital, my mother attended to him with much care and attention. Embodying the qualities of the nurse that helped her father, she sought to do everything she could to help Kamran bear the pain, and persevere against this life-threatening monster. After he was happily cancer-free and released from the hospital, he told my mother that he had bought her a present as a token of his appreciation for her kindness. Though my mother insisted she didn’t want anything, he kept his promise. “Guess what he gave me? You will never get it right – a bottle of ketchup!” At that time, ketchup wasn’t a household item, rather a luxury, and this particular brand of ketchup was manufactured, and mailed from a factory in Abadan, approximately 600 miles southwest of Tehran, the capital. To this day, she still laughs about Kamran’s gift, but in fact he provided a far more priceless gift: his gratitude.

           It was her experience as a nurse that inspired and propelled her to always be independent, and follow her heart, of course within reason. Looking at her many photographs, I saw the magnitude of impact the patients’ words had on her. She constantly traveled all over Iran with her girlfriends going to beaches, parks, skiing, mountain hiking, residing in villas, dressed herself in fashionable clothing, danced the night away at social events, all while maintaining her successful professional career. She did what she wanted, when she wanted, and didn’t let any obstacle or person prevent her from experiencing the world, and making the most of every second of her life. As her patients repeatedly advised, “life is too short, and the future is never certain; so do all that you can in the time you have, for you never know when, or if ever, you will have the opportunity to go back and do it again.” Looking at her mountains of albums filled with her contagious smile and charm, there is no doubt that she took those wise words to heart, and still does today.

           The work goes from scenes of oppression and slavery, spiritual mourning, to celebratory dances, and teasing between the men and women. The scene transitions were unexpected and illogical, making the audience confused and unsure what exactly the performance was trying to portray. This is evident in one of the first scenes where the group of men are rapidly zigzagging on and off stage, following each other in diagonals, coming to a sudden halt, then immediately again dashing across the stage.  Shortly after this chaotic and high-pace bustle, there is a calm, dark, and melancholic spiritual dance and song. A rock is centered in the middle of the stage with a single light shining above it. The man appears to be in a deep spiritual trance, bowing and illustrating signs of respect and praise, dancing around it, and finally sitting on it. This awkward transition leaves viewers thinking “wait, what just happened?!”
           Despite the puzzling and almost absent storyline, the choreography of the dance is impressive. The men and women fervently move their limber arms and legs in unison. All fourteen dancers show their explosive energy and versatility jumping, crouching, lunging, undulating, pouncing, gyrating, stampeding, and leaping across every inch of the stage. The deep percussion drums and music exquisitely compliments the intensity of each dance passage. Perhaps one of the most interesting exchanges is the “dance-off” between the men and women. In this battle of the sexes, each side attempts to flaunt and flash their agility and dexterity. Rapidly, each side takes the stage exhibiting their talent, showcasing an exciting and lively competition of who is the more skilled dancer.
           From a dancing standpoint, Les écailles de la mémoire was a masterful success, enticing the audience with its bold, intricate, dramatic, and well-executed choreography. On the other hand, as a story it was an epic failure. Without reading the playbill, it is almost impossible to accurately guess the storyline as it radically and unreasonably jumps from one contradictory scene to the other. For those who can only withstand an artistic performance with a clear, concise, and concrete plot, save yourself the torture and skip out on Les écailles de la mémoire. However, if you are interested in witnessing flawless energetic dancing for ninety minutes, you should hurry up and purchase your tickets before it’s too late, after all it’s being performed on only three nights of BAM’s 2008 Next Wave Festival.

           After attending his aunt’s funeral, and consequently visiting his mother’s grave the first time in thirty years after her death, Freedman realized that his mother had become a “stranger” to him; “I knew who she became, but not how she became that.” Fascinated by her life as a young Jewish woman in the Bronx, Freedman went on a quest to recover her past, and return to his mother’s “stomping ground.”
           However, it took a long time to come around the subject of his mother’s life. Freedman admits, “I felt shame and remorse for not being more attentive to her [when she was alive],” and writing this book was an act of penance. Freedman writes that she lived vicariously through his life, but he never knew why. Now, after diving into her world, he had a new perspective and understanding of the sacrifices his mother had to make. This includes his grandmother’s disdain and dissatisfaction for Eleanor’s boyfriend, the man she was in love with, who forced her to marry Freedman’s father. Freedman initially put much of the blame on his father for his mother’s unhappiness. Through his painful and precise examinations of pictures, interviews with his mother’s former friends, Freedman realized that his mother’s unhappiness was much deeper. This book allowed him to “finally settle something unsettled within myself,” and give “more compassion for [his] father.” Freedman always saw his grandmother as a villain who denied his mother from following her heart, but realized it was because of her relentless efforts to get out of Europe that he had relatives in Uruguay today. Although she was “bigoted but valiant,” Freedman admired her tremendous efforts and sacrifice for her family.

           The most significant aspect of Freedman’s writing is that doesn’t “sanitize the portrait.” Freedman stated that many people asked why he wrote about his mother’s sexuality with such detail, in which he replied, “to omit that would be to omit part of herself…part of her zest of life was the allure of sexuality.” Freedman’s writing makes it easy to picture Eleanor Watkin – an effervescent, graceful, beautiful girl who loved, and loved to be loved. However, her self-destructive behavior ultimately led to her downfall, which Freedman doesn’t hesitate to explicitly include in his book. Freedman emphasizes, “objects get blurry when you’re too far away and too close,” but it’s our obligation to be tough and accurate. The people “we love are the ones we see clearly,” and we must accept the truth. Eleanor was difficult, and “had desires that she desperately wanted to be facts,” which led her to an empty and unsatisfied life.

           Through his adventure in discovering his mother’s past, Freedman concluded that there is a “periodic table of human nature.” Everything in the material world can be broken down to a “finite number of materials: love, hate, ambition, and failure.” These emotions are part of the “constellation of human experience,” and though they may “wax and wane,” they never vanish from the world. Therefore, forcing yourself to write what is universal doesn’t come out “universally.” Instead, if your specific story succeeds on its own terms and is well written, people will automatically bring and find their points of connection.

           When asked what his mother would think of his book if she were alive today, Freedman chuckles, “she would feel vain that her life was worth writing a book about.” Perhaps it’s the “arrogance of a writer to give it form on a page,” but either way, writing this book forced Freedman to finally say what his mother’s life meant to him; “in your mind it floats around, but in writing you come to realization.” Freedman highlighted that you must never deny yourself or others of their “heart’s [emotional, not material] desires.” In his final words Freedman states, “I don’t feel only famous lives are extraordinary, ‘ordinary lives’ are filled with unexpected drama.” Freedman’s own moving personal discovery not only sufficiently fulfills his goal of making up a debt to his mother, but also is arguably just as extraordinary as his mother’s vivacious yet ill-fated life.

           Currently on display at the Special Exhibitions Galleries on the 2^nd floor at the Metropolitan Museum of Art is the exhibition titled, “Art and Love in Renaissance Italy.” The Italian Renaissance was a time of incredibly high achievement. It is during this time that some of the greatest artists were discovered including Michelangelo, Raphael, and Donatello. Italian Renaissance put intense focus and emphasis on love, marriage, and family, which they depicted through very monumental, clear, and beautiful images.  As written in the entrance of the exhibit, the works in this gallery take an “important detour from the path of marriage and family to explore Renaissance artists responses to the sensual aspects of love.”

           Perhaps one of the most interesting works in this exhibition falls under the category of “Profane art and love” in the Renaissance. In these works, artists explored the theme of “illicit, carnal, and erotic love.” In his painting Cupid Carving his Bow (1535), Francesco Parmigianino depicts Cupid as a adolescent, contrary to traditional cherubic and mischievous renditions. Parmigianino positions Cupid backside to viewers, where he seductively gazes out over his shoulder. Cupid appears to be in the midst of carving his bow with a knife which as been linked to “erotic and phallic connotations.” Between Cupid’s legs we see two putti, small children, often naked and having wings, used especially in Renaissance art, playfully teasing each other. Parmigianino’s unique illustration of Cupid creates a sense of eroticism, abruptly grasping the attention of viewers as they peruse the gallery. Parmigianino exposes a profane side of Cupid, revealing a licentiousness personality to the once sweet and seraphic God of erotic love and beauty. This untraditional interpretation is one example of Parmigianino’s mastery in engaging and penetrating viewers and evoking a reaction from them.

           Similarly, Venetian artist Lorenzo Lotto’s painting Venus and Cupid, exhibits a playful and evocative rendition of the Gods of love. Known for representing allegorical subjects, Venus and Cupid (late 1520s), is the visual equivalent of “a poetic epithalamium, or marriage poem.” In Lotto’s image we see Venus lying in an inviting and provocative position in her bower completely nude, covered only by a few petals. Lotto conveys the intimacy of the setting with the elaborate drapery in the background and blue blanket under Venus. These poems were usually performed “at weddings and often began with verses in which Venus was roused from her bower to bless the bride and groom.” Lotto creatively visualizes this by dressing Venus in an ornate bridal tiara. To her left, we see a cherubic and cheerful Cupid deliberately urinating on Venus. Although at first this may seem like a repulsive and inappropriate action, their facial expressions signify that it is not. Instead, the urination symbolizes fertility. This is evident in both Venus’ subtle yet smiling face, and Cupid’s mischievous and giggling reaction. Furthermore, we see that Venus is neither retaliating nor disturbed by Cupid’s actions. Instead, she appears to embrace it; she playfully holds the string containing a circle in which Cupid is aiming to urinate through.

           Renowned Renaissance artists, Francesco Parmigianino and Lorenzo Lotto, both successfully paint images showing highly respected and admired figures of Roman mythology in unconventional poses and settings. Their decision to illuminate the profane and provocative aspect of art and love makes their works two of the most interesting and attention-grabbing pieces in the whole gallery. Although both of these paintings were made for private consumption, viewers have the ability to share and admire their genius in creating “licentious subject matter with learned erudition.”

           Home to fashionistas, bookworms, figure skaters, weddings, or passionate moviegoers, Bryant Park is a melting plot attracting people of all ages, interests, nationalities, and countries.            During the first two weeks of September, paparazzi, journalists, and publicists all crowd around the famous white tents trying to get a glimpse of the celebrities and fashion icons attending New York Fashion Week, one of the four major fashion weeks in the fashion industry. Fans and tourists swarm the white tents awe hoping to get a glance of prestigious fashion designers in this highly coveted and exclusive by invitation only event. Several weeks later, these block long tents are removed, and almost magically an ice rink appears where children and adults fill the rink, skating uniformly in a counter-clock-wise direction. Visit during the summer months, and you won’t see an inch of the great lawn as spectators enjoy a nice picnic while watching musical performances or the favorite, HBO/Bryant Park Summer Film Festival. As a result, it seemed only fitting to take all my pictures at Bryant Park; not only one of my favorite places in New York City, but also a dynamic place full of excitement, diversity, literally evolving with each season.

           I was very frustrated when it came to picking a theme for our photography project. I had no idea what or who to take pictures of, nor did I know how I could include the theme of cultural encounter. However, my adventure to Bryant Park, as always, surpassed my expectations.

           As I walked to Bryant Park, I realized it was the perfect place for my project. I first took a lap around the block, marveling and observing everything and everyone around me. I then walked across the New York Public Library, and went to the ice rink at the center of the park, where I allocated an ample amount of time. Following Jeff Mermelstein’s advice, I started snapping images of bystanders, figure skaters, newsstands, trees, and buildings – everything that I encountered in my path. At the ice rink I studied the various people tripping, skating, pretending to skate but really gripping the side of the rink, laughing, and twisting into odd positions as they braced their falls. I surveyed their faces and noticed that each individual had a different reaction and facial expression. Instantly, I realized my theme would be “one block, one park, many personalities.”

           Despite shooting figures of all shapes, sizes, ages, and nationalities, I found that my most interesting figures were children and young adults. They weren’t afraid to expose their naïveté and curiosity, and I strived to capture them in their uninhibited essence. By catching them in the midst of their actions, I was able to get candid pictures, where each figure’s true personality shone through. For example, in the image titled, “Narcissus, is that you?” we see a little boy fascinated and fixated on a fountain pond. While a murky and brown tinted pond overflowing with discolored autumn leaves is an ugly sight to many, the boy’s intense focus and engagement seems to indicate that he is looking at something beautiful, deserving of all his attention. Although there were hundreds of people in the park, he wasn’t distracted or interested in anything else. Despite standing a few feet away from him, I felt invisible as he completely disregarded my presence. Thus, his interest and curiosity overpowered everything else in the park, and that is what I wanted to capture.

           Another one of Jeff Mermelstein’s suggestions that I found very useful was taking pictures without looking through the viewfinder. In the image titled “Patiently Waiting and Watching,” I held my Sony Cybershot digital camera at my knees and clicked on the shutter. After uploading all my pictures, I realized that by luck I had snapped the two figures sitting in the middle of the sidewalk centered in the frame. I also wanted the focus to be on those two figures, since the pedestrians, car, garbage bags, and even leaves in the frame appear to be in motion and slightly blurry. Seeing these two figures static in such a dynamic scene captured my interest, and made me wonder why they were sitting there. I also tried to illustrate images in various and unconventional angles, which is seen in the image “Holding on for Dear Life.” To achieve this angle, I sneakily put my arm completely over the edge of the rink stretching my arm as close as I could to the ice. As a result, I was level with this three-foot boy, who was struggling to stand upright like a newborn deer stumbling over its first steps. My favorite image was perhaps the one I captured with pure luck. Looking out onto the rink, laughing at both adults and children discombobulated on the fresh ice, I couldn’t help but notice the young girl next to me. Like energetic toddlers, she was laughing and talking three-year old jibberish as her parents were conversing. I was fixated on her jubilant and adorable character, and wanted to take a picture of her. However, her parents were standing a few feet away, and I didn’t want to blatantly photograph her in fear of their reaction. Therefore, I put the camera under my right elbow and looked up at the surrounding buildings to my left. I attempted to give the illusion that I was simply holding my camera, while I was actually pressing the shutter several times. When I came home, I discovered I had captured her in two very distinct and contradicting poses. In one she is innocently staring out into the ice, while in the next she is grabbing her older brother’s face with a devious smile. This put a smile on my face as she exposed her unpredictable personality and power, bravely unlocking her seat belt and profoundly standing on her carriage.

           Soon after, I wasn’t worried about what others were thinking, and casually took pictures of random people on the rink. Whenever someone was staring at me, as if I were caught red handed, I would simply turn in another direction taking pictures of other objects like a typical tourist. Perhaps the best part of New York City is that nothing is weird, nothing is out of the ordinary. In some places, people would aggressively attack you verbally and possibly physically. However, I felt free and comfortable, which was evident as I took over three hundred pictures in a span of two hours. I was the artist, my camera was my brush, and Bryant Park was my muse.

           Finally, I decided to put all my images in black and white; some of the colors were very distracting and took the attention away from my message. The black and white color added an increased intensity and deeper meaning to my images.

           After browsing through my images later that night I was satisfied with the result. In a 9.603-acre park stretching a full block, I was able to encompass a diverse crowd exhibiting an entire spectrum of emotions. Perhaps there are only a few places where you can capture people in their true vulnerable states, and Bryant Park was just the place. Whether they are struggling but determined to stand upright, or laughing at their clumsiness, as they lay sprawled out on the cold ice, there was a beauty in each figure’s face and reaction, and that is exactly what I wanted to showcase.

           My collage, titled “The Division of Values,” represents the disparity of values and morals in the eastern and western world. To best illustrate this contrast of ideals, I focused on using images from recent events, including the economic turmoil in the United States, and images from the catastrophe in Mumbai, and workers in India, China, and third world nations. All of my images were taken from two magazines that I subscribe to Cosmopolitan, and BusinessWeek.

           I knew from the start that I wanted to divide my collage in half to illustrate the separation of values, representing the eastern and western world. I chose to attach my images to a green piece of poster board. While green is the most restful color for the human eye, and symbolizes growth, harmony, stability, and endurance, it is also associated with greed, corruption, and envy. I thought this parallel of interpretation fit well with my theme, since green represents infidelity in China, and green which if often associated with greed in the United States, is a form of infidelity.

           Dividing the collage are two words: “risk” and “frugality.” I think that it is interesting how the eastern world has often been criticized for their frugal and “cheap” nature, and how they had always been weary of taking massive and harmful risks. Instead they focused on savings and stability, two values that the western world had mocked, but now is starting to practice. While these two values have divided the east and the west, they simultaneously bridge them together as the western world begins to carry out and observe these values.

           On the bottom left, I included an image of soccer players standing behind each other, with the quote “you have to be a team” written on one of their legs. Below, there are images of Chinese men working together to assemble railroad tracks, part of China’s ongoing broad railway extension project. Next to that image, there is a group of older men eating and sharing their rations together. In the eastern world, there has always been a tremendous emphasis on hard work, teamwork, and personal sacrifice for the benefit of the group. On the top left, I have inserted an image of an Indian man attempting to help a young injured child breath after the terrorist attacks in Mumbai. Without any supplies and resources, he has placed a tiny mask on the child’s face. On the far left, there is an image of a young boy drinking water from a puddle, and a brutally injured man being carried by his fellow friends. Again, I wanted to illustrate how people of these cultures make the most of what little they have and how they emphasize brotherhood. Lastly, I included an image of a woman holding stacks of money, to contrast the right side of the collage with the image of a malicious wolf with money atop his nose. The woman is actually holding her entire life savings, with the hope of using that money to start her own store. As illuminated in the word “Gone” above her, many of these people have been stripped of all their materialistic possessions, but still maintain a determined and strong willpower.

           On the right side of my collage, I included images that depict the selfishness and desire for personal satisfaction that has been dominant on in the United States. I included the image of the wolf to symbolize the money-hungry and unsatisfied nature of the western world. Furthermore, we seem to live in this bubble, as we are more concentrated on materialistic things, such as the decline in gifts this holiday season, rather than focusing on the harsh conditions people across the world must endure. This is seen in the skull on the left side of the collage made up of pills and tablets, signifying how many malnourished people must rely on vitamins to barely survive. In addition, I have included phrases that personal and individual “wants.” In most of the other images, the figures in them are falling into this abyss, or trying to flee from and avoid reality, by gaining outsmarting others, gaining their share, and running away from problems. As a result, I included a “blame-o-meter,” which perhaps best summarizes the corrupted western values. The fact that this image merely exists, exemplifies how there is a blame game, where no one takes responsibility. Instead there is an ignorant focus on individual and personal satisfaction.

           While these two parts of the world contain divided views on values, recent global events have caused people to merge and unite. Although risk, frugality, teamwork, and sacrifice have often been ignored, it is clear that the western world has realized the significance of these virtues and has started to adapt them.

           The International Center of Photography, one of the world’s premier exhibitors of photographic art, currently contains works from renowned photographer Susan Meiselas. Best known for her coverage of political conflicts in Central America, Meseilas explored “issues of nationalism and identity.” Organized by Kristen Lubben, Susan Meiselas: In History includes three of her main projects: Carnival Strippers (1972-76); Nicaragua (1978-present); and Kurdistan (1991-present). Meiselas sets herself apart through her exceptional ability to encompass her photographs with “larger contexts and deeper histories.” Her desire to capture and reveal the truths of the world places her as a “leading voice in the debate on contemporary documentary practice.”

           Walking down the stairs, we are immediately struck by an array of vibrant and powerful colors in Meiselas’ images. Although each project has a beauty and meaning of its own, Nicaragua, is perhaps her most controversial, gruesome, and disturbing work.              Meiselas succeeds in illuminating the horrors during the Sandinista Revolution. During this time, the Somaza family, a dictatorship, ruled the country in unscrupulous ways. The corrupt dynasty was overthrown when the revolutionary group, “Sandinista National Liberation Front” (Frente Sandinista de Liberación Nacional -FSLN), was born. Meiselas’ photographs capture the distress and gritty realism during this period of aggression, social distress, and chaos.

           The image, “NICARAGUA. Managua. 1979. Children rescued from a house destroyed by 1,000-pound bomb dropped in Managua. They died shortly after,” will surely make viewers shudder. Sprawled across a soot covered and blood stained checkered floor, we are overwhelmed with the grotesque image of two young boys on the verge of death. The boy on the left looks as though he is taking his last breath, as an adult’s hand is placed over the stomach apparently checking for vital signs. The drips of blood on every inch of his body, and his lifeless hands further diminish any hopes of his survival. While the boy on the left is taking his last gasps of air, the boy on the lower right is fixated on him. His enlarged pupils and lack of expression indicate that he knows the fate of his friend. The smears, streaks, and pool of blood from under his arm make it hard to look at the image before growing uneasy and disgusted. The discoloration, bruises, cuts, gashes, and dirt enveloped on their youthful bodies causes a feeling of utter disdain for those responsible for dropping the 1,000 lb. bomb; a bomb that cheated and snatched the innocent lives and futures away from these two young boys. The title blatantly states that they boys die shortly afterwards, further erupting a rush of repugnance and antipathy for the ruthless killers of the Somoza dictatorship.

           In the image “Cuesta del Plomo,” we are confronted with a seemingly lush hillside, with a beautiful skyline and lake in the background. The beautiful setting presents a stark contrast to the painful and eerie mood evoked by the lower half of a human body on the grass. It almost looks like an abandoned pair of jeans on the ground, or even half of a mannequin. However, Cuesta del Plomo is actually a “well known site for many assassinations carried out by the National Guard,” where people “search daily for missing persons.” Here we see a human spine sticking out from the corpse, surrounded by pieces of bones. Perhaps the most disturbing question is how this murder occurred, how it is possible to have completely mauled the upper body with the exception of the spine, while leaving the legs and jeans intact. Again, Meiselas highlights the suffering caused by the war through her raw depiction of the grim environment and reality of the Sandinista Revolution.

           Through her travels to Central America, Susan Meiselas provides a moving and rare glimpse into the daily conflicts and violence Nicaraguans in the 1970s and 1980s experienced. Meiselas states, “the problem for the photographer remains: how to create images and a sequence that’s sustaining and engaging, but asks people to wait, to not think they know, but to be suspended and uncertain along with those pictured whose lives are unpredictable and unraveling.” However, this problem was nonexistent in her work; while the majority of these thought-provoking images illustrate brutal and unsettling events and subjects, she effortlessly grasps the focus and attention of her viewers. Meiselas craftily creates a dilemma in her project Nicaragua; viewers are repulsed while simultaneously unable to take their eyes off of her images.

           Beginning with a career in the corporate world, Richey saw that she lacked fulfillment and satisfaction in her life. This led her to volunteer at a hospice, where her relationships with patients brought her closer to “the reality of her mortality.” Business writing is permeated with “proposals, reports…you’re always making a case and asking for something. However, with poetry, “I could do something I love.”

           Like any concerned and loving mother, Frances Richey and her son, Ben, went through an emotional rollercoaster prior to his deployment to Iraq. Confounded by her son’s decisions to enlist in the army, Richey admits, “I didn’t understand why he was making the choices he was making.” Richey explained that writing was an “attempt to talk to [Ben] and express my feelings, things I couldn’t say to him in person.”

           Richey’s struggle but determination to understand her son’s rationale is illuminated in the poem “His Gun.” Richey “became a student;” observing and comprehending while her son showed her the gear he was gathering before deployment. She describes her urge to learn as “an irresistible pull like gravity or love.” She especially notes the first time she saw Ben with his gun; “the side he hides from me, the dark beauty.”

           Her reading of “Kill School,” about a training camp where soldiers’ physical and mental toughness in the face of death are tested, opened the window to her soul. Richey vivid imagery is felt as Ben describes the “[rabbit's] softness of fur, another pulse against his chest.” He rocked the rabbit like a “baby in his arms, faster and faster, until every sinew surrendered and he smashed its head into a tree.” My stomach dropped as I pictured his momentary fictitious gentle caressing, then the crushing of its bones. Ben tells his mother, “they make a little squeaking sound, they cry.” Richey writes emphasizes the tension between mother and son while “biting off the skin from my lips.”

           After her reading, Richey explained that Ben “took it personal” when they spoke politics, he thought that “I didn’t approve of what he was doing,” thus causing friction in their relationship. However, through her writing Richey asserts, “you can heal relationships through your art.” Her genuine desire to better their relationship is clear rather than seek the approval of readers is evident; “I wrote poems my son can understand and that’s what I really care about.” Accepting that there will forever be unanswered questions, Richey exclaims the best news that her son completed his service and is back home, and that they have rekindled their relationship: mission accomplished.

            Behind the red velvet curtains draping the stage, a man who calls himself Sir John begins to rattle the crowd anticipating the arrival of acclaimed hip-hop superstar Clay. While the audience awaits the entrance of Clay, Sir John like a chameleon morphs into Clifford. Though Clifford’s face is hidden under the hood of his sweater, the audience’s eyes are curiously fixated on the blood smeared all over his face. This is just the start of the intoxicating performance where we are introduced to the protagonist Clifford, his obnoxious and callous father, emotionally distressed mother, his pedophilic stepmother, and hip-hop mentor Sir John.

            Clay captures Clifford’s internal struggle as he experiences the raw and painful realities of his parent’s divorce. Stuck with a jet-setting and absentee father and mother who only acknowledges his presence with a yearly call on Christmas, Clifford uses hip-hop as the medium to articulate his conflicted emotions. Seeking to learn how to rap, Clifford escapes from his home in Westchester and wanders into Sir John’s bookstore in Brooklyn. Matt Sax exhibits his vocal talent in a sequence of beat boxing where Sir John quizzes Clifford on his knowledge of popular sounds from Michael Jackson and the Wu Tang Clan. The theater explodes with laughter at Clifford’s pathetic and futile attempts to mimic his mentor’s beats.

            Perhaps Sax’s versatility is best exposed in his successful transition among the five characters. Sax masterfully goes from depicting a naïve and vulnerable young boy, to contorting his face illuminating Clifford’s father’s snarl and condescending demeanor, topping it off with his excruciating and whiny voice. With the rapid covering and retracting of his hood over his head and facial expressions, Sax illustrates the exchanges between father and son effortlessly. Sax also brings to life the image of Clifford’s helpless mother; visualized in her obsessively tapping legs, fidgety hands that appear to be solving an invisible rubix cube, and the exchange of her cigarette, animated by the microphone, between her hands like a hot potato. Sax’s absurdly funny and somewhat disturbing rendition of his stepmother undressing is so convincing, it literally looks like a woman taking off her underclothes and leggings.  There are arguably six characters as Sax’s single prop, the microphone, holds a world of its own representing a cigarette, gun, telephone, gavel, razor blade, and even a woman’s mouth.

            Sax successfully entertains the crowd with his gestures, facial expressions, witty rhymes, and makes you squirm with his jaw-dropping and awkward erotic encounter with his stepmother. However, the compelling and harsh story of an alienated boy eaten alive by his insecurities searching for his identity reveals a deeper meaning. Clifford’s rap ballads connect with spectators, as Clay, Clifford’s stage name, repeatedly emphasizes, “we define ourselves through rhymes…it only comes out truthful if it’s from a truthful place.” Like Clifford, Matt Sax’s authenticity shines through making Clay a delightfully amusing yet inspiring performance.