To See Colour In The World Again

This man's name is Saravuth In. Every day he sits patiently by the north-east subway entrance in Union Square in front of his chess set, inviting passer-bys to play. I met him whilst waiting for a friend and after he promptly cut me to shreds we got to talking.


He has a fascinating and tragic story. Born in Cambodia, his parents and siblings were killed by the Khmer Rouge. He made it by as a shoe-shine boy till he was taken into a missionary orphanage by a man named Brother Michael, who later pushed for him to be included in President Ford's "Operation Babylift" -- a mission in which 28 Cambodian orphans were airlifted to the United States, put into foster families, and given appropriated citizenship. Unfortunately, he was subsequently abused by his foster parents and became a ward of the state. Despite this, however, he obtained a full scholarship to Rutgers where he studied PhD English Literature.


Saravuth fell in love with a woman in Montreal with whom he had three children. But after a messy divorce, he ended up in a dire situation, living on the streets with all his personal documentation in hand -- documents like his passport and birth certificate and social security card that were lost when he was beaten and robbed. He was deported to the U.S. on the basis of his fingerprints and a scrappy copy of a Washington Post article from 1975 that featured his photo. And now he can neither obtain a job (other than the typical illegal refugee fare, which he refuses to engage in as an educated man) nor gather welfare because, in a catch-22 of American bureaucracy, the government cannot fully identify him other than as a 'displaced citizen' without his full paperwork. Though he plays at a grandmaster level, chess is, like the classical guitar he used to earn on the streets of Canada, simply a means of getting by -- a hobby which was once enjoyed, but now exists at a purely functional level.


I ended up visiting Saravuth pretty much every day while I was in the city. Not only because he taught me the nuances of the Sicilian Dragon and the Yugoslav Attack, but because I genuinely enjoyed hearing him speak of such things as his favourite book, James Joyce's Ulysses, or his days as a concert cellist. This is an educated and eloquent individual who speaks both French and Latin; a natural teacher who loves nothing more than to frequent his knowledge. And yet here he sits as a homeless man, denied of his passion and purpose in life. It amazes and saddens me that something like this can happen. I would like nothing more than to meet Saravuth again some day. Just not sitting on the steps in Union Square, freezing to death in the middle of winter.

[Note: on my last day in New York, I finally beat him. But I half suspect that he let me.]

Leftovers

Just touched down in Chicago. My first impression is: I love it.

Anyways, just wanted to share a couple of pieces I spotted in Chelsea a while back before I forget about them and they get buried deep within the corners of my hard drive.

Cayce Zavaglia
'Martina' 2009
Embroidery, crewl wool on fabric

Cheryl Kelley
'Untitled'
Oil on aluminium

Two very different yet equally beautiful photorealistic depictions. It's pretty much impossible for me to choose between the textures of Zavaglia's piece and the rock'n'roll lighting of Kelley's painting. Absolutely stunning stuff.

Cuts Like A Knife/It's Ice

I fly out of NYC tomorrow morning. I've been here long enough that the town feels comfortable, and I'm definitely going to miss all the friends that I've met here, but I am looking forward to moving on. Anyways, here's some 35mm highlights from my trip to frosty Coney Island:









It feels super great snapping analogue again. And more is on the way (much to my wallet's chagrin)!

There's Something About Mary

I found these two paintings (by Mary Henderson) in a gallery a little ways off Chelsea. I think on 9th Ave or something like that. But they absolutely took my breath away.

Sepulveda, 1988, oil on panel, 20"x16"

Tyler Dormitory, 1995, oil on panel, 16"x20"

I dunno, classical artists don't really do too much for me. But there's something about finding contemporary painters and knowing that there are people out there right now making these amazing pieces that makes me want to push myself. So good on you, Mary. One day I'll be hanging up there next to you (especially since each of these babies was retailing for a good $8,000 or so).

Hart in a Cage

Another Chelsea discovery: Sharon Lockhart.

I visited the Gladstone Gallery and walked in on her exhibition Lunch Break. While I really enjoyed her photographic work (mostly three-paneled series of lunchboxes opening up and revealing their contents; below) it was the video piece that took the cake for me.




I turned the corner into this installation room and was just engulfed by this hypnotic slow-motion video. It's a simple premise, really -- the camera moves down a shipyard hallway in a smooth single shot as the blue-collar workers eat their sandwiches and read their papers. But it's the inertia of the whole thing that's so captivating. You really feel every thousand pound footfall and bottom-of-the-sea movement as the industrial soundtrack fades in and out.



The gallery attendant actually kicked us out because I sat there until closing time. Probably a good thing, too, because I could've watched that thing all night.

Going Retro

First post from New York City.

I've kind of been avoiding the big touristy areas. Not just for my own monetary sake, but because I'd like this stay to be a different kind of experience. I suppose I got all that out of my system the first time I was here four years ago.

I spent the other day in the artistic treasure trove that is Chelsea. Slowly but surely, I'm making my way through all 213 of the galleries there. By sheer blind luck, the other night I walked into a retrospective of my new favourite photographer, Bruce Davidson, who wasn't only present but giving a photo-by-photo reflection of the entire exhibition.


I was particularly enamored with his series Brooklyn Gang (below), shot in 1958, when Bruce, then 25, wormed his way into a tribe of 15 year old knuckle-busters for one year. It was fascinating to hear his dozens of stories, from the chieftain who went on to become a successful dealer, then user, then drug counselor, to the banger turned police detective who contacted Bruce years later when he recognised himself on the cover of one of his books left at a precinct after he was mugged.


In the spring of 1959, I met a group of teenagers in Brooklyn who called themselves "The Jokers". I was twenty-five and they were about sixteen. I could have easily been taken for one of them ... I found myself involved with a group of unpredictable youths who were mostly indifferent to me. In time they allowed me to witness their fear, depression and anger. I soon realized that I, too, was feeling some of their pain. In studying close to them, I uncovered my own feelings of failure, frustration and rage.

- Bruce Davidson

If I had any cash left I would've bought all of his books in a heartbeat, but Manhattan's an evil money-sucking vortex. One thing it has taught me though is the fine art of turnstile-hopping, a skill that I am putting to great use.

Elvira

I'm just leaving the small upstate New York town that's been my home for the past four months. Sniff. Next stop: the big city.

One of the nice traditions at this school that's somewhat lacking at mine back home is that students trade their work. It was fun picking up souvenirs like this woodcut of one of the natives, which was rendered in a single all-night marathon. I think it turned out well.


I actually wanted to post five of my own prints but I never got them back from my teachers in time (they had to photograph them for a book they were making of the class' work). Since I've got the plates I guess I'll re-print them once I get back but it's still a bit of a drag.

A Thinking Man

Sorry, I didn't want this to become a graffitti blog. But I've just moved to upstate New York and haven't had the time to sink my teeth into anything too artistic. Hopefully that will change when class starts next week. For now, enjoy this little postcard -- I found it whilst looking for the cafeteria.

Licking Numbers

Translation: I like math.

Probably because it's so much like art.


I'm flying to Toronto in a few days before I head down and start school in upstate New York on a six month exchange. Exciting stuff, but please bear with the inconsistent posting while I try and get my footing.