a hipster visits the upper east side

**travy** · 05-28-2009, 12:27 PM

lol

Somehow it happened that in all my years of living in Brooklyn, I'd never been to the Upper East Side. But when I heard that there was a place called "The Metropolitan Museum of Art," I decided it was as good an occasion to venture beyond Houston as any. I loved art. Art was one of my favorite things! I'd loved art ever since I saw a Takeshi Murata video piece on Vimeo, and this noise show at Goodbye Blue Monday last year only made me more excited to visit an entire non-warehouse building full of "art." Little did I know the horrors that awaited me.

So on Thursday night I boarded the L train (heading away from Morgan Ave.) and made my way to socialite-town. But apparently this museum closes at night?! So the following afternoon, after brunch, I tried again.

I'd heard from some kids I knew who went to Bard that the Upper East Side is a charming neighborhood inhabited by ancient, well-appointed relics of a glamorous bygone era, or like a Woody Allen movie maybe, with jazz and tiny dogs. And a park almost twice the size of McCarren Pool. But I'm what you might call a bona fide Brooklynite, in that after I graduated from Hampshire I moved into the McKibben lofts, after the first time but before the second time New York Magazine mentioned them. I've been to Park Slope—how exotic could the Upper East Side really be?

Perhaps my kiffiyeh and bespoke Air Force Ones weren't the best choice for the day, but I overcame the fact that I was a total Park Avenue misfit and hoped my foreigner status wouldn't be glaringly obvious to the natives. (It was.) After narrowly escaping death by dog-walker on the 86th Street subway platform, I made my way to a castle in what felt to me like Connecticut. (It wasn't.) Dozens of signs directed me toward a grand hall that reminded me of nothing so much as that new Trader Joe's on Atlantic Ave, where campus security promptly pawed through my messenger bag and asked to take my BAPE hoodie.

I'd planned on paying, perhaps, an optional five-dollar cover that entitled me to a Bud tall boy or two, since I hadn't brought my usual 40 of OE, but instead I was told the suggested donation was $20—twenty dollars!—and they didn't so much as explain if it went toward the band's gas money to get back to Baltimore or whatever. Fuck Bud, they better have some fucking vodka, I thought, as I handed over the "emergency" AmEx my dad pays for.

I went upstairs and waited for something to happen. I began wandering through labyrinthine rooms looking for the art, but I couldn't find a single found-object installation. Not one collage applied directly to an exposed brick wall, nothing incorporating a cavernous former industrial space, nothing even vaguely graffiti-inspired. It took me an hour to realize that the "art" was the Holiday Inn paintings and Pier 1 sculptures everyone was staring at.

Most of the "art" was on the walls. Not projected on the walls, no, but actually just hanging there, static. Hardly anything looked as if it'd be awesome to stare at while shrooming. None of the artists were even there, as far as I could tell! Without forcing the audience to become an active and integral part of the installation, how would these jokers ever shock me out of the waking dreamstate of late capitalism? With a fucking painting of Jesus that didn't even look like it was made by a schizophrenic homeless dude? No one even touched me! I was flustered beyond belief, but the setting was so impersonal that there was no escaping without seeming totally intolerant and disrespectful.

Jacob van Ruisdael was a Dutch landscape painter, meaning that he drew a bunch of pictures of trees. "Wheat Fields," as the little card warned, is a "monumental" and "ambitious" 1670 oil painting of some wheat fields with a "centralized recession into space." I guess I should've taken it seriously. The painting was more than a yard long, and it made me feel small, and sad. The clouds were kind of scary. It made me want to listen to music that sounded like Arthur Russell programming a Gameboy while watching a light show instead. This was just a big empty landscape of some grains and trees and clouds!

I'm not passing judgment. Really, I'm not. But I couldn't shake the creepy feelings inspired by the massive landscape. It was almost as if I was being encouraged to contemplate an awesome spectacle over which neither I nor any of my socioeconomic peers had any authority or authorship. It seemed absurd that this crazy notion of my own grand unimportance could possibly be sparked by a drawing of some lame trees and grain. Crazy, right?

I have no doubt "Wheat Fields" will appeal to a certain subset of museum-goers, many of whom no doubt will find it illuminating and inspiring. But for the more alt audience member like me: don't be fooled by naked pregnant lady performance pieces or awesome stencils: art is a more unsettling and much more boring experience. (Did I mention that there was no beer?)

I left the giant castle slightly shaken up and eager to get back to The Wreck Room. After this experience, I'm fairly certain that's exactly where I belong.

**djfunq** · 05-28-2009, 12:35 PM

**Bill Blake** · 05-28-2009, 12:39 PM

Ha ha ha, and if you thought it was over the top: http://www.vanityfair.com/online/cul...tml#entry-more

**Armento** · 05-28-2009, 12:51 PM

where's my beer

**Bill Blake** · 05-28-2009, 12:57 PM

Brooklyn Virgin Discovers Naked Dancing
by Kate AhlbornApril 3, 2009, 4:57 PM

Somehow it happened that in all the years I’ve lived in New York City, I’d never been to Brooklyn. But when I heard that choreographer Noémie Lafrance had a new show opening in Williamsburg, I decided it was as good an occasion as any to venture beyond Manhattan for the first time. I loved the music video she choreographed for Feist’s “1234” in 2007, and “Rapture”—her piece for aerialists staged on the side of a Frank Gehry building at Bard College—was undeniably awesome. So on Tuesday night, I boarded the L train (heading away from the West Village) and made my way to hipsterville. I’d heard from my more global friends that Brooklyn is a charming borough inhabited by cool young families, gourmet cheese shops, and creative intellectuals. It has parks! And trees! And slow walkers aren’t mowed down on the sidewalk! But I’m what you might call a bona fide Manhattanite. Or, to be more precise, a bona fide Upper East Sider. I’ve traveled the world, I said to myself—how exotic could Brooklyn really be?

Perhaps my tweed J. Crew jacket and Tory Burch ballet flats weren’t the best wardrobe choice for that day, but I overcame the fact that I was a total Williamsburg misfit and hoped my foreigner status wouldn’t be glaringly obvious to the natives. (It was.) After narrowly escaping death by skateboard on the Bedford subway platform, I made my way to a rickety building in what felt to me like Brooklyn’s outer banks. (It wasn’t.) A sign instructed people heading to Lafrance’s performance to go up to the second floor, where I was warmly greeted, asked to surrender my coat and bag, and told to wash my hands.

The actual performance, entitled Home: The Body as Place, began the moment the audience was herded en masse into the theater. And to be clear, the "theater" was a room in the Sens Productions headquarters with a long table surrounded by roughly two-dozen chairs; the perimeter of the room was furnished with various home amenities like bookcases and bureaus and lamps. As we entered the space, Lafrance was laying on the table, barely clothed, 8-months pregnant, and wearing deer antlers on her head. Displayed down her leg was a miniature wilderness scene made of moss and tiny plastic animals. We all took a seat at the table and waited for something to happen. I was flustered beyond belief, but the setting was so intimate that there was no escaping without seeming totally intolerant and disrespectful.

Noémie LaFrance is a site-specific choreographer, meaning that the space in which she performs is central to the work. “Home,” as the press release forewarned, is “a site-specific performance using the body as the site.” I guess I should have taken that disclosure more literally. Indeed, the body was the site—in all its nude, pregnant glory. Lafrance and her co-performer, Mare Hieronimus, encouraged our participation—“Draw on my naked body with wet crayons!” “Mummify my naked body in paper maché!” “Sit still while I stand on the table and spit a mouthful of toothpaste into a bowl right in front of you.” They served us tea, whispered in our ears, and even touched our faces.

Home: the Body as Place. A site-specific performance (using the body as the site) by Noemie Lafrance. Documentation by Ayelen Liberona.

I’m not passing judgment. Really, I’m not. When I talked to Lafrance after the performance, her explanations of the piece make it clear that this isn’t just an erotic showcase or an opportunity to do bizarre things in the nude with a participating audience. “I wanted to challenge myself to do something where the site wasn’t outside of my own body,” she said. “And I’m very interested in the audience’s participation and opportunity to create and also change the course of the work to some extent.” When I mentioned how stunned I was when I entered the room, she replied, “My goal was definitely not to shock people. I feel like the image of the beginning has a little bit of fantasy in it. It’s very beautiful, but it’s also strange.” O.K., but what about the scene during which Hieronimus transforms from a sexy flirt—strutting on the table in heels and a mini-skirt, tickling the audience with a feather duster—to a heaving deer with antlers, a tail, and not much else? “We’re part of the animal kingdom, and its important to remember that our body has animal instincts,” Lafrance says. And the tooth brushing scene? “I see it as a moment of intimacy. We have to take care of this body and we maintain it every day by doing these various things to clean it. But personal cleaning can be disgusting to others and I think it’s kind of amazing how brushing teeth is really gross to other people.” Point well taken.

I have no doubt that Home will appeal to a certain subset of performance-goers, many of whom will find it illuminating and inspiring. But for the more mainstream audience member like me: don’t be fooled by her carefree Feist video or her incredible stairwell dance (“Descent,” choreographed in 2003). This is a much more intimate, much more erotic, and much more intense experience. (Did I mention that she touched my face?)

I left the rickety building slightly shaken up and eager to get back to Manhattan. After this experience, I’m fairly certain that’s exactly where I belong.

**travy** · 05-28-2009, 01:04 PM

hard to tell the spoof...

**mhd** · 05-28-2009, 01:05 PM

Originally Posted by travy

lol

Somehow it happened that in all my years of living in Brooklyn, I'd never been to the Upper East Side. But when I heard that there was a place called "The Metropolitan Museum of Art," I decided it was as good an occasion to venture beyond Houston as any. I loved art. Art was one of my favorite things! I'd loved art ever since I saw a Takeshi Murata video piece on Vimeo, and this noise show at Goodbye Blue Monday last year only made me more excited to visit an entire non-warehouse building full of "art." Little did I know the horrors that awaited me.

So on Thursday night I boarded the L train (heading away from Morgan Ave.) and made my way to socialite-town. But apparently this museum closes at night?! So the following afternoon, after brunch, I tried again.

I'd heard from some kids I knew who went to Bard that the Upper East Side is a charming neighborhood inhabited by ancient, well-appointed relics of a glamorous bygone era, or like a Woody Allen movie maybe, with jazz and tiny dogs. And a park almost twice the size of McCarren Pool. But I'm what you might call a bona fide Brooklynite, in that after I graduated from Hampshire I moved into the McKibben lofts, after the first time but before the second time New York Magazine mentioned them. I've been to Park Slope—how exotic could the Upper East Side really be?

Perhaps my kiffiyeh and bespoke Air Force Ones weren't the best choice for the day, but I overcame the fact that I was a total Park Avenue misfit and hoped my foreigner status wouldn't be glaringly obvious to the natives. (It was.) After narrowly escaping death by dog-walker on the 86th Street subway platform, I made my way to a castle in what felt to me like Connecticut. (It wasn't.) Dozens of signs directed me toward a grand hall that reminded me of nothing so much as that new Trader Joe's on Atlantic Ave, where campus security promptly pawed through my messenger bag and asked to take my BAPE hoodie.

I'd planned on paying, perhaps, an optional five-dollar cover that entitled me to a Bud tall boy or two, since I hadn't brought my usual 40 of OE, but instead I was told the suggested donation was $20—twenty dollars!—and they didn't so much as explain if it went toward the band's gas money to get back to Baltimore or whatever. Fuck Bud, they better have some fucking vodka, I thought, as I handed over the "emergency" AmEx my dad pays for.

I went upstairs and waited for something to happen. I began wandering through labyrinthine rooms looking for the art, but I couldn't find a single found-object installation. Not one collage applied directly to an exposed brick wall, nothing incorporating a cavernous former industrial space, nothing even vaguely graffiti-inspired. It took me an hour to realize that the "art" was the Holiday Inn paintings and Pier 1 sculptures everyone was staring at.

Most of the "art" was on the walls. Not projected on the walls, no, but actually just hanging there, static. Hardly anything looked as if it'd be awesome to stare at while shrooming. None of the artists were even there, as far as I could tell! Without forcing the audience to become an active and integral part of the installation, how would these jokers ever shock me out of the waking dreamstate of late capitalism? With a fucking painting of Jesus that didn't even look like it was made by a schizophrenic homeless dude? No one even touched me! I was flustered beyond belief, but the setting was so impersonal that there was no escaping without seeming totally intolerant and disrespectful.

Jacob van Ruisdael was a Dutch landscape painter, meaning that he drew a bunch of pictures of trees. "Wheat Fields," as the little card warned, is a "monumental" and "ambitious" 1670 oil painting of some wheat fields with a "centralized recession into space." I guess I should've taken it seriously. The painting was more than a yard long, and it made me feel small, and sad. The clouds were kind of scary. It made me want to listen to music that sounded like Arthur Russell programming a Gameboy while watching a light show instead. This was just a big empty landscape of some grains and trees and clouds!

I'm not passing judgment. Really, I'm not. But I couldn't shake the creepy feelings inspired by the massive landscape. It was almost as if I was being encouraged to contemplate an awesome spectacle over which neither I nor any of my socioeconomic peers had any authority or authorship. It seemed absurd that this crazy notion of my own grand unimportance could possibly be sparked by a drawing of some lame trees and grain. Crazy, right?

I have no doubt "Wheat Fields" will appeal to a certain subset of museum-goers, many of whom no doubt will find it illuminating and inspiring. But for the more alt audience member like me: don't be fooled by naked pregnant lady performance pieces or awesome stencils: art is a more unsettling and much more boring experience. (Did I mention that there was no beer?)

I left the giant castle slightly shaken up and eager to get back to The Wreck Room. After this experience, I'm fairly certain that's exactly where I belong.

lol, indeed, shit had me giggling like a mug, somebody's gonna hurt these guys one day, on the other hand, some of that shit was so on point! how ironic!

**Moksha** · 05-28-2009, 01:16 PM

Vanity Fair's online content sucks

**travy** · 05-28-2009, 01:21 PM

Originally Posted by Moksha

Vanity Fair's online content sucks

i like wolcott's blog

**travy** · 05-28-2009, 01:23 PM

was going to give this its own thread but it somewhat fits here. let it run until the 1 min mark at least:

**D J 1 3 8** · 05-28-2009, 01:31 PM

Originally Posted by travy

was going to give this its own thread but it somewhat fits here. let it run until the 1 min mark at least:

this is amazing

**mhd** · 05-28-2009, 01:38 PM

Originally Posted by travy

was going to give this its own thread but it somewhat fits here. let it run until the 1 min mark at least:

post of the year

**Bill Blake** · 05-28-2009, 01:54 PM

Originally Posted by Moksha

Vanity Fair's online content sucks

That dumb bitch went to Harvard.

**travy** · 05-28-2009, 01:54 PM

Originally Posted by D J 1 3 8

this is amazing

his other videos are just as off the wall.

**Bill Blake** · 05-28-2009, 01:54 PM

Originally Posted by travy

i like wolcott's blog

But not better than Vice's Do's and Don'ts?

**El Mayimbe** · 05-29-2009, 02:07 AM

Originally Posted by mhd

lol, indeed, shit had me giggling like a mug, somebody's gonna hurt these guys one day, on the other hand, some of that shit was so on point! how ironic!

my sarcasm meter is broken cause Im not sure of you're joking or not.......this pretentious douchebag is the reason why we actually h8 nerdy foreigners to the city.

Ive been to the MET several times either sober or on "something" and found it to be one of the most interesting places that NYC has to offer.

If "hipster" genius could've taken a minute & utilize his iphone to proper use & found out what the museum has on display instead of twittering about his little adventure then he'd instead start off on the 1st floor and head to his right where you begin with the egyptian art and eventually end up on the other side with the Etruscan displays THEN you head upstairs...there are reasons why curators place the art in a certain manner

**Pang** · 05-29-2009, 09:28 AM

hmmmmmm. . . OK, I read the other link in vanity fair.

**Moksha** · 05-29-2009, 10:01 AM

Originally Posted by El Mayimbe

my sarcasm meter is broken cause Im not sure of you're joking or not.......this pretentious douchebag is the reason why we actually h8 nerdy foreigners to the city.

Ive been to the MET several times either sober or on "something" and found it to be one of the most interesting places that NYC has to offer.

If "hipster" genius could've taken a minute & utilize his iphone to proper use & found out what the museum has on display instead of twittering about his little adventure then he'd instead start off on the 1st floor and head to his right where you begin with the egyptian art and eventually end up on the other side with the Etruscan displays THEN you head upstairs...there are reasons why curators place the art in a certain manner

Did you even read the thread? You are missing the jokes on all levels...

**2legit2quit** · 05-29-2009, 10:49 AM

:

:

If this thread isn't full of elitisim, I don't know what else is...You're not any different than those in the Upper East Side than you think you are. Although, unlike you, they actually have the money to buy the art.

There's a joy in discovering classics, if it weren't for them you wouldn't have the artists you rave about who make art from beer cans and spoil their earnings at some shooting gallery on the Lower East Side.

**Monny JcIntosh** · 05-29-2009, 10:59 AM

Originally Posted by 2legit2quit

:

:

If this thread isn't full of elitisim, I don't know what else is...You're not any different than those in the Upper East Side than you think you are. Although, unlike you, they actually have the money to buy the art.

There's a joy in discovering classics, if it weren't for them you wouldn't have the artists you rave about who make art from beer cans and spoil their earnings at some shooting gallery on the Lower East Side.

TX. Where the buffalo roam and the deer and the antelope play.