Sunday, December 28, 2008
How long have we lived here? I begin to think, sitting in this cheap suede green couch in my family's tiny apartment in Miami/Little Havana, Florida. Coming back every holiday from New York, I've realized that things in this place just never change. Miami is an empty city. A beautiful city in a postcard but so curious-looking in person. It's filled with aspiration and dreams, that a lot of times just never come to life. Passing by on the elevated train you can see the vacant luxurious condos, now pass the highway and all the immigrant seamstresses are waiting for the bus at night. This is the United States, dreams dreams dreams right? It's what I've seen, and It's what I know. You have to start from somewhere. If you don't get out, you fall in, or better said, stay in this "bunk bed" idea of mine. What's the bunk bed theory? you may ask. I grew up always living, sleeping and even having to share my bunk bed. A lot of my friends in Miami were the same. However, we were all next generation kids: conceiving big dreams and intending on pursuing them all over the world. Here, dreams can sound like fantasies, especially to immigrants like my Father. All he ever wanted was a better life in the United States without a dirt floor. "Art is not a career!" he told me when I showed him my Pratt scholarship. Why is it so hard for parents, people or minorities to let go and grow out of a routine. Even stereotyping. Accepting different things, different ideas. If you stay in the bunk bed, in your parent's house, just what are you living for? It's sad that some parents don't want to accept that their children have to grow up; but it's even sadder that their own children can't support themselves. Miami is a place where scared kids stay in the bunk bed and get used to a lifestyle of parental support. But then again, I've seen that everywhere. If your going to do the talking, do the walking too, I know you can.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
it's Christmas Eve, there's nothing to do, especially because we are poor and it's 2:00AM.
At night though, all the time, I always begin to think of things I have to or just want to do.
Finish the Summer Zine is one of them.The Martin Luther King Jr. Day of Service is January 19th, I figured that would be a great day to release, or be done with the zine. Hopefully by then I can finally be done with the zine. Thanks to everyone's help, especially the designer helping me put it together and bind it. Whoever that will be.
Title: "Das Weird"
Subtitle: "Artists recollections of their summer memories"
January 19th 2009 pink swear people!
Rosa Parks & Martin Luther King Jr.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
the time for it is always with us
though we say "I do not have that kind of time".
The kind of time I have is not for this but for that.
I wish I had that kind of time.
But if you had that kind of time - would you do it?
Would you give it a try?
A kind of this kind of doing both takes time and gives time
makes live the dead hours inside us.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
It's December 16th, 1:05am.
I pull the heavy wooden chair to the window and put my grandma glasses on. I lit my cigarette on, I breathe slowly and think. How many pages do I have left for this fucking paper? Oh yea, three more pages. I suck the cigarette, the menthol, yes I like nasty menthols, and look outside. Wow we are so high up, you can see everything and everyone from here. It's not that cold and it's a beautiful silent night. I can see airplanes flying away and hear the sound like songs that these police sirens are making. Lonely people walk on the street and no one is in the open park. I think about the times I've spent in all these areas, these streets and wonder, how could I ever leave New York, how could I ever go back to Miami? Looking at the purple foggy sky now I thank God for bringing me here to a place so connected with artists and ambition, it's almost like a utopia for me. The lights in every apartment flow around, like the changing light in my own cigarette. Every person here seems driven for something so strong, every person here has their own book that I want to read, or maybe even write. My cigarette is almost done, and my paper is not writing itself. Quickly though, I look over to where Fran lives and send her a telepathic message. Even though I know that the only human who can read my mind is probably busy rehearsing right now. Kinda busy to play charades with me
Monday, December 15, 2008
We went to a jazz concert Friday night, my first jazz concert! I felt so…what’s the word… ah yes! Privileged to be seeing something so historic in such a beautiful city, ensue. And although we were only in the fifth floor, it felt like we were in the penthouse, where we were over Central Park looking at the entire city in panorama view. As the music played I could see some people overlook the fact that what was taking place was so beautiful and significant, they were eating French fries and laughing at the way other people danced or just taking flash photography. It was something I didn’t expect, but l should’ve known, right? Ignorance is bliss. Perhaps to be cultural and smart means being up here in the penthouse, knowing who is playing, of course while still being stylish for the night. Just like MoMA, these big industry standards don’t and shouldn’t define what artist is the most valuable or influential in these art/music scenes. I just think that any art, theory, idea made with passion is worth looking at. From the Jazz in grimy underground clubs, to where we were, to be cultural and smart is to perhaps know the back-story of what you are looking at in front of you. You feel me?
Sunday, December 14, 2008
There is a poster near my bathroom, in the dark hallway that I put up but no one ever acknowledges. It is a poster from the MoMA, a piece of art by Cuban artist Felix Gonzalez-Torres. Gonzalez-Torres was known for his minimal installations and sculptures which was considered a reflection of his experience with AIDS. The poster in my hallway is almost 3' X 4' and titled "Untitled" (Death by Gun). 1990. Listed on the sheets are the names of 460 individuals killed by gunshot during the week of May 1–7, 1989, cited by name, age, city, and state, with a brief description of the circumstances of their deaths, and, in most cases, a photographic image of the deceased.
Still, the photographs are dark and the people are just like silhouettes, blurred into the endless idea of death and neglect. I find it so strange how humans have such power to create these machines that will just make the world more distant when they can kill themselves or others. Intelligence is power and power can be dangerous.
above all else,
it is about leaving a mark that i existed:
i was here.
i was hungry.
i was defeated.
i was happy.
i was sad.
i was in love.
i was afraid.
i was hopeful.
i had an idea and i had a purpose and that’s why i made works of art."
Friday, December 12, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
y condenaste a una serpiente - siendo tu el que así lo quiso.
Por milenios y milenios - permaneciste desnudo
y te enfrentaste a dinosaurios - bajo un techo y sin escudo.
Y ahora estas aquí - queriendo ser feliz,
cuando no te importo - un pepino tu destino
Sunday, December 7, 2008
With every lesson learned
If your knowledge were your wealth
Then it would be well earned
If we were made in His image
Then call us by our names
Most intellects do not Believe in God
But they fear us just the same