jen stark

Tunnel Vision Inside View from Jen Stark on Vimeo.

cut paper; new show opening this weekend!

legs beat arms

How David Beats Goliath

my own legs, by the way, are spent.
or, at least, my feet are.

i have used them to bits, will keep using them to bits. running in spring and fall, you are my favorite thing.

It' is Spring. The Buttrflis Ar Hare.

(i love my job)

the buskers

so one of the things that i most enjoy about life since crossing the water and taking on this inter-state commute is that... i actually really love the trains, the ride (hey: mandatory space-out time) and the stations.

yes, the stations are in many cases dirty, yes they are too hot in summer and too chilly in winter and yes the trains fail us all too often and the fares keep going up

but... down in those stations, amazing, beautiful things happen.

i have seen an elderly asian man taking portraiture to a new level, squinting up at you for a moment and then cutting a little square piece of paper into an incredible kirigami likeness ($5 and you get to keep the paper portait, but it's free to just watch and be amazed). my heart has ached while listening to an elderly colombian (i think that is what his friend said) man wailing an exquisite aria from La Traviata, the song made all the more touching by the tired rasp in his voice. i have even enjoyed passing the cheeseball with the digeridoo (you guessed it: white guy w/ dreads) because even though i suspect he is a little bit of a dork, he seems peaceful enough and the sound elicits fond memories from my kidhood overseas. and yesterday, i was coming up between platforms at union square and heard The Crazy Piano Guy doing his thing, but with some intense percussion alongside. i peeked over the shoulders of the crowd and saw that along w/ a lone drummer, there was a quad of tapdancers, one of whom was hammering her heart out through her feet on a board, to the sheer joy of the crowd. that was amazing enough, but i realized that i'd met one of the dancers before, through my friend heather, who teaches tap in brooklyn, and this young woman is *amazing*. i forget her name and how old she is, but the first time i saw her tap, she took me to the FLOOR. i was so happy to miss a few trains in order to catch a subway solo-- she has the most amazing body posture through her dance. her feet are ripping it up, but her upper body is always so loose and relaxed and comfortable. her movement, that pairing of rapid-fire and languid ease, is such a thing of beauty, and anyone who catches her tapping for free has just been given a gift.

and that's what it is. payment is of course welcome but voluntary-- all you people passing by, please understand that the free-ness of the experience does not in any way mean these gifts are not worth your time or appreciation or, yes yes, your dollars. i think i myself need to start keeping a pad of singles on my just for the buskers. there's a lot of nonsense out there, but i stop and am awed enough to owe the great ones something.

so thumbs up to the busking! friends compelled to get it out there, keep getting it out! keep belting out the tunes, keep slamming on the keys, keep snipping at the paper, keep your breathing circular.

and you, you tappers, you keep stompin'!



(yeah, i was finally moved to dig out my camera and take a few minutes of video. and then to take the time to upload.)

refreshing fish tacos on a humid thursday night

i have been working some long days, and by the time i've marched my way home, i'm sweaty and tired and hungry.

last night i threw together some tacos i'd been craving all week-- they're so fast and easy and tasty and satisfying.

genno tonno in olive oil
granny smith apple
hothouse tomato
red bell pepper
arugula
spinach
red onion
lime juice
black pepper

with roasted purple potato fries (potatoes, olive oil, garlic, red pepper flakes, black pepper, salt, spike) and a glass of cheap but surprisingly passable sauvignon blanc. and soft, sweet mango for dessert.

audio embeds

if you have audio uploaded somewhere, you can embed it in your blog w/ the following code sandwiched between your "less than"/"greater than" pacman mouth punctuation marks as appropriate.

embed width="320" height="20" pluginspage="http://www.apple.com/quicktime/download/" scale="tofit" type="video/quicktime" controller="true" autoplay="false" src="YOUR AUDIO FILE URL HERE"

/embed


there are other methods here.

i didn't know this before tonight. now i do. i'm happy i do.


(someone elsewhere asked about recording voice memos. i know on my mac, i can do it very easily w/ voice candy. it saves as a quicktime file, but you can download an applescript for saving as an mp3, too. upload to your filehost. embed as above or via some other audio player/embed process.)

Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles

The first time I saw Jeanne Dielman at the RU Film Co-Op years back, I hadn't had much preparation for it-- I just went and sat. And sat. And sat.

I remember not being bored, exactly, but wondering exactly where the film was going (for three hours...).

There's so little action, you see, and so little dialogue-- or so it seems at first (three hour) glance, maybe-- that I was shocked at the climaxing action and perplexed by the last few minutes of the movie.

Some years later, I was browsing VHS selections at the Princeton Record Exchange with an ex of mine. He held it up-- "What's this? Is it good?" And rather than just say "YES. I mean I think so. I'd like to see it again," I just said, "You'd hate it. No Russian gangsters, no car chases." And that was that until this past week, when I caught her again at Film Forum.

I'm not sure if it's because I'd already seen the film before or because I was viewing it as an older person this time, but this viewing I felt as if I was eating up every second, every decisive or indecisive gesture played out by Seyrig across the screen. Where her hands apply force or pause lightly, where her eyebrows lift or drop, whether her shoulders straighten or sag, the tension of her back, the briskness of her walk or the hesitation of her step.

It's true, there is very little dialogue-- but my god! Every moment, so much is being said.

Yes, okay, my eyes know more about cameras and angles and lighting and all that, and yes, I register the odd planarity of it all, and yes, I think I understand what kind of feminist I am by now, but that's not really what jumped at me most this time around. No,

Watching it now as a 32-year-old woman with her own wounds, I related quite differently to this woman, this film than I did as a barely-20-year-old college kid years ago. This time, when someone guffawed down the slope of the theatre when she burned the potatoes, it somehow hurt me. This time, when people (including myself) laughed at her foiled attempts to soothe the baby, a cold stone sank in my chest at the same time. This time, when her pale hands slapped at the shoulders of the man on top of her, I felt that they were more than little flutters-- I felt them as futile but exceedingly desperate kicks, the gasps of someone already drowning.

I wanted to put them in her hands. I wanted to straighten her shirt for her and put them in her fluttering hands.

And those confusing last few minutes of the film-- those sagging shoulders, the long breaths, those hands, the pausing lift of her eyebrows. I wanted to touch those seconds, those shoulders, those hands, all of them. Believe it or not, it's all even more downhill from here, poor thing. Lady, you are fucked.

To all my young friends in the theatre who spent so many of those many minutes checking facebook on your blackberries and texting "omg this is looooong" back and forth and laughing out loud when my heart was collapsing within my own chest on behalf of this woman, hey: please visit it again sometime. this is an amazing piece of storytelling.

You, too. You just missed it at FF, but try to catch it the next time it catches your eye (and you have 3+ hours to spare it).

It is a sad thing, but also a very good thing.

Chamber Magic: no criss angel

Some time ago, a friend of mine received from his parents a birthday present of two tickets to a magic show.

I watched him struggle to compose his face as he realized that the two people in the world who had known him longest had misjudged his interest so thoroughly...

a magic show? really?

a box full of masking tape or manila envelopes would have been more in line with who he is or what he does with his time... and he already gets so much shit for looking like this cheeseball:



The last thing he would want to do would be to spend a night of his valuable time watching a guy in heavy hair and makeup do lame card tricks or the kinds of feats we've all seen at Coney Island a hundred times before.

Clearly, my friend was disappointed by the gift.

Worse, the magic show would require him to wear a jacket and look fancy for the night.
Worse, he couldn't imagine that anyone would want to take that second ticket and sit through a magic show with him.

A magic show? I know i asked this before, but: really??

Truth is, when he opened that gift I was nearby and got sort of excited. I would go with him, that was a no-brainer. I figured it would be a no-lose situation: we would go and we would either be amazed by the, um, magic-- or we would be amused by the incredible corniness of sequinned pants glinting through the hazy magical smoke or whatever. Maybe there would even be white tigers disappearing into tophats or something. Maybe the magician would have gorgeous hair and a cute assistant. Maybe the comedy of it all would make up for the lack of interesting so-called magic.

Really. And it turned out to be nothing short of amazing.

My friend had me to go with him, he found a jacket, and the magic show was fucking *excellent*.

1. No smoke or mirrors (or sequinned pants, or eyeliner).
2. No huge room with seats so far away you couldn't quite see enough to know there were no strings pulling the cards, etc. - it is parlour magic, with 20-50 audience members all sitting or invited to stand close enough to see ... well, everything, if we just knew where to look...
3. Magic!

Chamber Magic with Steve Cohen ("The Millionaires' Magician) is a weekly show that happens usually in the Waldorf-Astoria Towers (the private residence wing of the Waldorf-Astoria, apparently. The salon in which the show occurs is actually just steps away from the Presidential Suite, where each US President stays when visiting NYC). Because it's at the Waldorf, there is the old-wood, old-upholstery, old-crystal sort of air about the whole thing-- maybe a little conservative, maybe a little stuffy if you feel old things are conservative and stuffy. However, I think Mr. Cohen enjoys the vintage element of the thing-- his show itself (indeed his style of magic) is "vintage". Think more along the lines of The Prestige than Mindfreak (lucky for everyone), but without the smashed birds and drowned women.

This is salon magic, pure sleight-of-hand and graceful trickery so subtle you really can't tell that they're tricks. Honestly, the only way you know that they are tricks is because you find yourself clutching to your disbelief simply because you have to. There is no such thing as magic. There is no such thing as magic.

And yet --through amazing math skills perhaps?-- Cohen pulls cards from your mind and materializes them in his hands. Or, without his hands-- they rise from their packs from within glass cloches while he stands on the far side of the room talking to you. He serves you your favorite drink from the same teapot from which he served this other guy his favorite drink-- without anyone naming these drinks out loud (that's right-- a chianti, a margarita, an orange juice with calcium but without pulp, a cosmopolitan, a chocolate milk...). He will amaze you with a streetmap (really! Amaze!). He will tell you things you haven't told anyone but a card that you folded up and placed in a box and which he never had an apparent opportunity to read.

He might just even change your mind about magic shows. That's something.

...


You know what, though-- the most positive, good things/thumbs up element of the show was not even the crazy tricks and mindreading feats that had me turning bright pink and my friend nearly in tears of awe. The most thrilling and happy thing about the show was that Cohen seemed so genuinely happy to be there, doing what he was doing. Many time throughout the program, he referenced his childhood and his relationship with his uncle who had taught him his first magic trick and started him on this lifelong obsession with the perfect delivery of the perfect tricks. When he says that he thanks his audience for allowing him to live his dream, you feel this shot of joy and gratitude that is so warm and ...yes, just so happy. I suppose that's one sort of magic on a bitterly, miserably cold January night, too.

Hello.

Welcome to GOOD THINGS! THUMBS UP!, a blog about mostly good things recently or soon to be experienced.

Art shows & outings to arch supports & osteopaths, all are fair game on this thing. If you read it, post your thoughts. If you ate it, post your thoughts. If you saw it, heard it, swam it, ran it, hiked it, rode it, painted it, tried it, post your thoughts. That's what i'm doing.

Pictures, links & shared files* encouraged, and please tag (blogger calls this "labeling") your posts with search-helpful terms** .

If you're interested in contributing as well as reading, let me know via the comments box below and I will add you.
Thank you so much - thumbs up to you.



*break no laws, of course of course. (do what you like, but i should probably say that somewhere on here.)
**such as "nyc, film, film forum, movie, akerman, seyrig, jeanne dielman, creepy, feminist," etc for a posted review of chantal akerman's 1975 film, Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles when it screened @ film forum in late January. it just helps people find stuff later.