Followed, NYC

The minute you enter the vast dark space of "Hansel and Gretel" at the Park Avenue Armory, you have that creepy back-of-your-neck feeling that somebody or something is watching you. Indeed, somebody is. You are being surveilled by overhead night vision cameras and flying drones, and your image is being live-streamed not only to an exhibition room at the front of the Armory, but also to the Internet public here. Above, I'm taking a photo of myself surveilled taking a photo. My image is being captured from above in total darkness and projected in ghostly white onto the armory's floor.

The unsettling installation was conceived and designed by artist/activist Ai Weiwei and starchitects Jacques Herzog and Pierre de Meuron to raise questions about the amount of surveillance used not only in war, but in our public spaces. I saw the exhibit the morning after I saw a theater version of George Orwell's "1984" at the Hudson Theater. It was a double helping of art-induced paranoia, courtesy of Big Brother.

It made me wonder who else is watching us, and where? Alexa? Your iPhone? The hobbyist's drone outside your apartment window (yes, this really happened to a friend of mine). The bugged guest room of your host's art-filled glass house (in Elizabeth Strout's new novel, Anything is Possible)? Can we have dignity without privacy? Does spying erode empathy? Let's ask and answer these essential questions before anything becomes possible.

Still Life, NYC

I was walking in the park when I passed this stock-still bench sitter. If he were a sculpture, I'd call him "The Meditator."  The idea of art imitating life is as old as Aristotle, but what I saw here flipped it on its back: Life was imitating art. The meditator's softly rounded back and relaxed, still presence reminded me of the lifelike sculptures of Duane Hanson, or in this case, a happier younger version of Hanson's  "Man on Bench". I wondered what the artist, who died in 1996, could have created in the past 15 years if he had lived into the iPhone era. I think he would have fun with tourists and the selfie-stick. Suddenly I started seeing contemporary flesh and blood Hansons everywhere. I saw one in the stationary young woman huddled over a tripod taking a photo of the grass. In the inert, wall-leaning texter hunched over his iPhone. In the becalmed children absorbed by an iPad game on the subway. And then I realized that portable phones and screens turn us into frozen statues more often than we know.  Technology has a Midas touch. A quiet tech-free meditation in the park may be the perfect antidote.

All Stars

My heart goes out to Betty. She was a mild-mannered saleswoman with a halo of grey curls who rang up a few houseware items for me. I was stunned to get this request to rate her a day later by email. I had to struggle to remember her. I guess our  interaction was fairly "seamless," though I did have to wait in line and fish out a credit card. I certainly wouldn't rank it "world-class"–not Betty's fault. So what would that make my rating? A three? A two?

Who said knockout interactions should be the goal, anyway? Sometimes I don't want anything more than a three-star interaction. Perky and relentless five-star pleasantries can be downright exhausting. Take the passive-aggressive "have a nice day!" or the too-friendly waitress who interrupts every story just as you're getting to the punch line. Someone's five is another's three. Trust me, the needs of the general public are varied and unreliable. The general public should not have rating power.

I fantasize that when Betty was growing up in Oklahoma, she learned if you didn't have something nice to say about somebody, you didn't say it at all.  It seems to me like living hell that every retail interaction she now has in later life is rated. 

Worse than video surveillance, this is attitude surveillance. It is soulless and blood-sucking and has got to stop. Nobody should have to be excellent all the time.

Yet the bottomless maw of voracious big data must be fed. Hotels, restaurants, college reunions, airport security, and Uber drivers all beg for ratings via button, app and email. In fact, some services, like Uber, are rude enough to rate you behind your back. You, the customer! Who knows what other sneaky secret ratings are going on. Did you smile and say thank you as you picked up your latte? Did you make a good shoe statement at that trendy restaurant? Maybe you are actually a three as a customer. Or a two. How does that make you feel?  

I can tolerate annoying surveys about places and experiences, but I draw the line at rating humans. It's inhuman. Fight back by giving everyone and everything all stars. Betty, here's five for you. 

On Guards

Museum guards are an under-appreciated bunch. They're essential to protecting and preserving art, but we art lovers barely acknowledge their presence. They are trained to be inconspicuous, and we may pass right by them without seeing them. That's bad. Not only are we denying their physicality, we are also failing to notice the details of the entire picture. They, and us, deserve more.

Artist Fred Wilson's experience as a museum guard in college lead him to create a piece that put the dynamic of the hidden guard front and center.  His 1991 work "Guarded View" (now in the Whitney Museum of Art's permanent collection) shows four headless black mannequins in real uniforms from New York City museums. As Wilson remarked, "[There's] something funny about being a guard in a museum. You're on display but you're also invisible." Wilson further proved his point by showing up to give a tour of the Whitney in a guard's uniform. He was well-known in the art world at the time, but the people who eagerly awaited his tour failed to recognize him.

If museums train us to "see," shouldn't we start with the people inside them? We need to embrace an entirely new etiquette, I think, regarding our interactions with the people who help make public viewing of art possible. A polite head nod or a smile would probably do it.

Some guards are so spatially talented, you want to applaud them. At the Louise Lawler show, WHY PICTURES NOW currently at MoMA, I was struck by how the guard (photo above) made graphic performance art by inhabiting the door space under an exit sign. It reminded me of the guards in their booths at Buckingham Palace. This guard's act of geometric occupation counterbalanced the spatial relationships in Lawler's adhesive vinyl wall piece, "Triangle (traced)." Impeccably dressed in black-and-white, he extends rather than distracts from the monochrome wall piece. His white shirt beneath his blazer mirrors Lawler's triangle, and his clever positioning creates a three-dimensional triangle with the black-clad art observer as the point. Thanks to this stealth performance artist, aka museum guard, I had a stunning moment where art and life perfectly intersected.

Put ons, London

I don't travel in a hat-wearing crowd. So I envy the British in their ability to preserve the tradition of making and wearing confections as ornate and extravagant as afternoon tea pastries. I stumbled across this eye-catching display of handmade black-and-white hats in the millinery department of the wonderful London department store, Fenwick (in my opinion, now far more authentically British than Harrod's). This handmade feathered fascinator by Nerida Fraiman, who has made head-turning pieces for the Paris National Opera, could be perfect for "weddings, parties, or The Races."  Of course, to need it you have to travel with the right flock. But to me it was a tiny piece of wearable art that simulates motion so perfectly it looks like a bird in flight. In fact, add a little battery power and it could turn any well-dressed female into a flying drone.

Sign, London

Along with Will Shakespeare, T.S. Eliot and Noel Coward, among others, the British can also lay claim to memorable (if anonymous) sign authors. Witness this sign on an iron gate outside St. James's Square in London. First there is the sweet misspelling,  "bycycle," which suggests cycling by things. So much more poetic than bicycle, which refers to the mechanics of two wheels and expands to tricycle for three wheels (hmmm, consider for a second, "trycycle"). Then there are the polite phrases, "causing obstruction,"  "danger to pedestrians," and "Please leave them elsewhere." It's the afternoon tea of signs. Who could refuse? By contrast, what would the New York City version say?  "Don't even think of parking here!" 

Tulip Garden, NYC

Flower shots can be as clichéd as sunsets and puppies.  Most of us know that. Yet, time after time, we are seduced into trying to freeze and hold captivating natural beauty. Maybe we try to grab and store it photographically because we know that memory will fail us. But so often, the photo disappoints us too. Shrunk and in 2-D, what was inspiring in real life comes out banal and unremarkable. When I saw this spectacular open tulip "singing in the rain," I couldn't help but try to capture the irrepressible joy I felt. There's nothing fancy or unusual about the shot, but I like it. Now I'm indulging myself again by posting it.

March Madness, NYC

If March looked in the mirror, what would it see? Most people think of March Madness as a basketball tournament, but I'd argue the real MM is its crazy weather. The month has a whopping identity crisis. It can't gracefully transition from winter to spring. It rages with snowstorms from its rapidly depleting stock. It taunts you with warm, jacket-shedding moments.  Erratic and volatile, it knocks you over with furious winds. Blizzards jump out of nowhere. Temperatures plunge and then rise. Snow falls furiously and then melts. Sometimes all of these things happen in one fragmented day. March can't make up its mind as it blows hot and cold. Only its bright, white light is consistent. And then, just when you can't bear it any longer,  you see crocus heads pop up through dirt or snow. March has thrown down its white flag and surrendered to spring.

Pitchers, Milan

Doesn't this colorful glass pitcher display look like rows of giant gum balls with lips and handles? And wouldn't it be convenient if gum balls did come with delicate handles? What would they be made of? My money's on rock sugar. Of course you'd have to stick your pinky out as you lifted the tiny gum ball handle to your mouth.

On and Off, Florence

Mysterious light switches annoy me everywhere I travel. But these Italian designs deliver an appealing low-tech solution. They're whimsical and speak a universal language. The efficiency (or not) of light switches has always fascinated me. When I was twelve, I was bothered by an overhead ceiling light with a switch far away from my bed. My idea was to tape a very long red ribbon to the top of the switch.  The ribbon ended at the side of my bed. By pulling down on it with a delicate tug, I could turn off the overhead light without getting up. The ribbon was one-directional and extremely low-cost, and it lasted for years. Soon switches themselves may be obsolete, due to high-tech improvements. We can already turn lights on and off by clapping, speaking, motion sensors or an off-premise smart phone. What do you think? Is turning on a light a burden or a joy?

Salad Days, Florence

I'm always looking for ideas to change up my life in little ways. You never know when that one small change will have a domino effect that leads to the big Eureka! This clear globe of colorful mixed salad totally amused me. It was served at breakfast in our small Italian hotel. It reminded me of the little forest terrariums I used to create as a kid and also of those enticing gum ball-style machines with plastic balls containing surprise toys. Imagine if a ball with fresh greens had rolled out of the metal chute! This ingenious presentation made me stop, look and admire. Suddenly, breakfast salad seemed like a perfectly compelling idea. And it has ever since.

Red in White, NYC

An angry blizzard wraps and quiets the city, slowing its rapid pulse. Furious sheets of white whip sideways and pummel faces. Sidewalks betray feet and lay icy traps for innocents. Here and there, handcuffed bicycles signal their surrender. Parked against a curb, a bright red car shouts its resistance.

Love II, NYC

It's hard to talk about love and not sound corny or clichéd. But it's a critically important subject right now. What's the antidote to hate? Love.  What's the antidote to fear? Again, love. A particularly useful practice for stress is  compassion meditation, also called loving-kindness meditation. The point of this meditation is to find, open and renew channels of love through meditation. Once located, the feelings of loving-kindness are directed toward loved ones, self, people you are neutral to, AND enemies. I've been recommending this particular kind of meditation to people who are particularly anxious right now. Here are downloads to try from my first teacher, Christopher Germer, PhD. A week after I received the love magnet (see my previous post, Agency of Kind), I got a follow-up love letter from the universe (or so it seemed). On a brutally cold winter day, I passed this lit "LOVE" sign in the window of an antiques shop. As I stopped to take its photo, a joyous child skipped by with raised arms. The interior and exterior reflection with blue sky beyond made a spontaneous collage of hope. Suddenly, I felt warmer.

Agency of Kind

Love is mysterious. So is this kitchen magnet. An extroverted man with a box of them gave me one for free near the entrance to the Women's March NYC last week. It seemed rude to refuse it. I mean, who isn't for love? There were free peace magnets too. But the little gift left me with questions. Why was he doing it? Was it his personal way of making a difference? Does it broadcast an unknown-to-me organized cause or movement? Was it left over from a wedding, political or religious event? Did he just think it was cool to print up love magnets to hand out to strangers? Does he share my firm belief that there is agency in daily kindness? Kindness seems more important than ever now. Even Nietzsche, a nihilist if ever there was one, believed kindness was one of the "most curative herbs and agents in human intercourse." Kindness, unlike even love, is defined in part by a complete lack of self-interest. It asks for nothing in return. It's a standalone virtue. Could it be among the most important political actions that can be practiced daily? What do you think?

The March, USA

I was waffling on whether or not to make and wear a pink #Pussyhat to tomorrow's March NYC (the knit hats are meant to create a striking united visual statement and defiantly reclaim the term "pussy"). But who could resist the opportunity to learn a new craft, bond with fellow female artisans, and express solidarity one stitch at a time? I resolved my conflict over pink by finding this gorgeous ombré yarn, whose color is literally named "Dirty Hippie," and I learned how to crochet from a kind stranger in the store that sold me the yarn. Later today I ran across an ancient male musician in the natural foods store wearing a lavender knit cap that looked suspiciously like a pussyhat, ears and all.  "My God," I thought, "is he in a pussyhat?" He was the first guy I'd seen in one, though I'd seen several young women in pink ones on the streets. My question was answered when I overheard him talking to the guys behind the corner. "I'm wearing a pussyhat!" he said proudly. "It's for women."  The young guys behind the corner were simultaneously hysterical and skeptical. "He's telling the truth," I said, "and I've got mine in my purse!" I pulled it out and waved it at them. They were dumbstruck.  "Thank you," said the lavender hat wearer, "as they just know me as a crazy musician who makes up crazy stories." I'd love to know where he got his and whether he might have knit it himself. If I ever see him again I'll be sure to ask. 

Above, Florence

My early memories of Europe were formed by experiences I never had. My first walks through Paris were all virtual reality: I pored over books of graphic, moody and seedy street photography by the incredible grab-masters André Kertész, Eugène Atget, Henri Cartier-Bresson and Brassaï. Now I continue to look for the Europe of that lens, no matter how modern it gets. If I have a hotel room with a street view, I always look down before I look out.  On this early morning in Florence, I woke up to the flat-tire sound of delivery trucks bumping over wet cobblestones ( setts for pedants). I opened the casement window and smelled the oddly metallic rinse of European rain. I looked and saw solitary figures making their way on blue-washed streets past a local perfume shop. Fellow humans on their way to...what? Work, school, a lover? I ran for my camera.

Manifesto, NYC

What about skipping the traditional resolutions list this January and opting for a manifesto instead? The idea came to me after visiting Julian Rosefeldt's "MANIFESTO" installation at the Park Avenue Armory. The show has thirteen screens playing simultaneously in the Armory's dark cavernous space. They show videos of Cate Blanchett performing extremely different characters who interrupt their daily work to recite artists' and writers' manifestos in otherworldly singsong voices. Blanchett's capacity to perform diverse roles ranging from homeless man to female CEO inspired me to think about change and how we all hope to "perform" better in the new year. Maybe if we think of acting, instead of being, the changes we desire become more possible. Manifestos are most often artistic or political, but I think they can be personal too. Instead of resolutions, or god forbid, that outdated notion of a personal mission statement, a personal manifesto for change and action seems perfectly in tune with 2017. I intend to write mine. How about you?

Random Acts, NYC

Bless the silly soul who decided to do this. Imagine waking up, thinking, "Today I'm going to marker me some ping-pong balls and stick 'em on a tree!" And the positioning above the ring left by the sawn branch couldn't be more perfect. Score! Props to you, street artist, whoever you are. Here's to random acts of silliness as the antidote to snark.

Manual Labor

This week I received a "Thank You" note written on a manual typewriter that made my day. I promptly fetched this old Olympia deluxe portable out of the closet to fire off a thank you for the thank you. Somehow a 5-second email exchange would have taken all the fun and romance out of it. And my fingers got a gym-level workout, too.

There's a Slow Food movement from Italy that started as an antidote to Fast Food, so why not a Slow Words community too? It could honor the nutritional value of taking a little time to think about what you're writing.  To braise, not microwave, your thoughts. Creative daydreamers who still prefer pecking at a manual typewriter or even writing by hand on yellow-lined pads would join for sure. One of the many cool things about typewriters is they need you to go slow. The QWERTY keyboard design was actually designed to slow people down enough to give the type hammers sufficient time to return to position.

Courier typeface makes my heart beat faster. It's the Humphrey Bogart of type. 

Too be honest, I do love writing on my computer because I do so much damn rewriting. I don't miss the days of White-out, correction tape, carbons and labor-intensive retyping. But the dark smell of ink and the staccato sound of a manual machine beckon me. It's a whole newsroom in a box. This is how manuals work. You can buy yours here. Then sit down, breathe and relax into some nice slow writing. Poems and thank you's, you're welcome.

Tree Angels, NYC

It's a little known quirk of New York City law that anyone can sell Christmas trees on the street in December. All you need is permission from the owners of the store near your stand. Right after Thanksgiving, emerald forests sprout overnight on city sidewalks as tree sellers lug beautiful firs, balsams and spruces in from the country. The disruption of cold grey concrete with fragrant dark green needles is sudden and miraculous. My simple walk down city sidewalks becomes a soothing and soul-restoring  forest bath.

The guardians of these overnight forests are the sidewalk tree guys (and gals), who drive and fly in from all over to tend their little patch of green. More than a few of them are hardy outdoor guides who might take you kayaking or river rafting in remote places in season. Their outdoor skills help them survive this grueling winter camp-out. They spend long freezing hours out in the cold and sleep in nearby parked cars and vans. They work in twos and threes and have sellers on duty all 24-hours, just in case someone needs a tree at 3 am. Would you?

They're super strong and constantly cheerful. Nobody wants to buy their Christmas tree from a Grinch, I guess. But imagine bringing an 8-foot tree up to the fifth floor of a walk-up. Ouch. I have seen majestic cousins of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree on my corner just waiting to be bought by some penthouse owner with 15-foot ceilings and wrapped up and delivered by hand. It's not an easy job, selling and delivering joy. 

Another NYC quirk is that everyone believes their local tree guy is just the best. The city teems with "best guys" on every corner. Articles abound. There are a lot of fun facts about the tree man's perspective in this article and video. A few blocks away,  two New Yorkers even made a short documentary  about their "best guy" called "Tree Man."

But my corner guy IS the best, hands down. His trees are gorgeous and full, and, like people, come in all shapes and sizes. And his accessories make the outfit. He turns sidewalk drab into fab by creating a party piazza with overhead lights, rows of wonderful trees, lit flying pigs, twinkling white lights, glowing ornaments and bulb-wire presents. For non-tree buyers, he offers whimsical folk art like hand-carved pigs, snowmen, reindeers with branch ears, and even a wood Menorah for sale. A hand-lettered cardboard sign hung on a stripped down fir with branches only at the top says "Canadian Palm Tree." This is a tree guy with humor and imagination, who says he wants city walkers to feel and remember the magic of childhood.

Grateful neighbors honor and reward their tree guys by dropping off gifts of coffee, soup, sandwiches, blankets, music or sometimes even offering a hot shower. Even people who aren't in the market for trees like to stop, chat and help them out. Joy is contagious.

After taking his photo, I saw my tree guy in a whole new light. Check out the stars around him. They weren't there when I took the photo. Now I have physical evidence that there's magic in these trees, their tenders and our sidewalks. You just have to look a little closer...and remember.