The Arts in New York City

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In the cemetery that is Madison Square Park, one will find an abundance of naked trees scattered between black fencing. Faded and rusty bars imprison these tall unfortunate creatures who stand there frozen and stunned. A harsh wind blows and their scrawny branches quiver, their rattling slightly smothered by the howling gust. Little movement can be found for happy birds and friendly squirrels are hiding from the frosty cold that has immersed itself over everything. However, in the midst of this wintry grave, strong silver beings stand unrelentingly against biting winds. They glow like fire against the night lamps and warm eyes watering from the stinging chill.

I always look forward to taking the 6 down to Union Square. Not only because it signifies the end of the school day, but also because I often come upon the familiar sound of fast beating drums. Actually, the drummers beat on white and green buckets splattered with specks of paint. The duo consists of a man with diesel ebony rocks for arms and a very well toned, thin woman. The man’s silver chained crucifix shakes violently as he drums with superhuman speed so that the sticks are only blurs. I feel the beats like they come from my own racing heart making me want to join the dancing stranger who has already succumbed to the overwhelming flood of high spirits.

Remembering our awesome class trip to Chelsea to tour a number of galleries intriguing to our curating minds, I decide to pay the galleries another visit.  Ambling around the area, I notice the couple of studios that we visited, but peering through the glass walls, they seem to be exhibiting the same displays.  So I move on, eventually stopping myself at a quaint little entrance on the corner of W20th Street and 11th Avenue.  What immediately draws my attention is its pink and red-brown colored building in a gray and desolate street.  Upon exploring the venue, I find that it creates a very comfortable gallery to enjoy various canvas works and paintings. (more…)

            The small woman wearing purple puffy short-sleeves stroked the strings of her small violin with the slender red hairs of her bow.  She reached onto the tips of her toes as she smoothly elongated a high A.  Her wrist shook with vibrato and slowed as the note dwindled into softness and she rested steadily on her feet.  Her face was the image of satisfaction and serenity as she continued among the orchestra that played from her squat little radio.  Again, she rose like she was breathing for the first time.  Her eyes were shut, remembering an enchanting dream, and again she settled onto her feet, swaying with her notes.  The silky voice of the violin was striking against the ceaseless grumble of trains and the robotic female overhead that cautioned travelers about safety.  The small woman with her small violin stood out as a tiny persistent ray in a bustling underground world.

In search of alluring or thought-provoking artworks to delight in? Look no further than the transit system from which you use to traverse to museums in order to find such creativity and ingenuity. One station in particular houses its own remarkable collection, the 8th Avenue station where the L and the A/C/E trains meet. The artisan behind the life of each inanimate being goes by the name of Tom Otterness. He effectively colors the routine momentum of our lives between lives as we venture from one place to the next. (more…)

I settled myself in Union Square Park among the many white collar workers taking a short lunch from the insipid routines of life as employed adults. From my stone seat, my feet dangled half a foot from the ground, and the statue of George Washington on a horse loomed overhead. The first things I noticed were the animal’s strong flared nostrils, strained veins on its cheek, and its blank grey eyes. Washington sat firmly in the saddle with a powerful sword sheathed on his left flank. His gaze was fixed forward and his right arm reached, his fingers searching. For what, who knows? Perhaps he was reaching for something unreachable or feeling the cool breeze between his fingers on that hot sunny day. Maybe he was commanding his army of squirrels that resided in the garden or demanding the strange dancer before him to cease his jig. As I started to leave, I took a final glance at the frozen man and his pet and came to the conclusion that the steed was a stallion and not a mare, if you know what I mean o_O

      Every week, the public is invited to the American Folk Art Museum to enjoy live music on Free Music Fridays. Now, most museums feature their displays in dimly lit rooms where smooth shadows easily creep across strange stone faces and dance with little men clad in animal skin. This museum was no different in that respect. However, the shadows and frozen figures were all neatly assembled into a much, much smaller space. (more…)

yo ;]