Mashed Together in Chelsea

Passing the cell with a face full of cordon bleu, I saw Paul and he flagged me down. Originally from Texas, lived in NYC 8 years, then jumping out to take care of horses in the high desert, he'd transferred himself all over the States already. As we walked toward the subway together, I told him about my project, and we exchanged emails; I'd just given my last two "Please May I Paint You" cards to two ladies from the presentation at Cue. Paul crossed the street, and was gone as quickly as we'd run into each other.

Famished after the workshop, I'd gotten my sandwich at Hyper Deli on 23rd Street & 9th Avenue along with 2 Baci chocolates and a Mash drink. As I took a swig of lemon/ginger, I mused on how I'd had my first taste of Mash in Chelsea, and how those two things would be linked together in retrospect: Mash = Chelsea.

Just like Paul and I - and every other art-lover in that New York neighborhood who has ever had an unexpected hello and rapid goodbye - mashed together, then drained as quickly as a thirsty draught.

Rückblick

Our world is more connected than it was 14 years ago, but are we more tightly knit? The first time I sent an email in high school has led to expert skills in typing and an insatiable desire to devour social media. With the internet, global trade, exchange students... you never know who you'll run into on your hometown IP.

As I opened my youtube account this evening, at the top of the random cue was a face I thought I recognized. And then it clicked: this was a person with whom was briefly shared - along with my friend, and his friend - a wild and unexpected Oktoberfest, American Thanksgiving, and a day at the Alpamare when I was an exchange student in Switzerland over a decade ago.



I'm not very good at keeping in touch, in fact, I'm horrible at it. I frequently have imaginary conversations with the people I care about, writing letters to them in my head, yet I never go to the post office to buy stamps. (That's why I have 6 years of Christmas letters printed out in a drawer with envelopes addressed to various destinations across the globe.)

But unlike the time-capsuled Christmas letters waiting patiently in my drawer, time spent as an exchange student always has an expiration date. And though I was able to negotiate my school-year stay into one day short of a calendar year, with many tears I reluctantly boarded the plane back "home." My folks even said I had an accent (re-speaking English). I've never been back. And while I live in the city that is a springboard across that pond, the psychological distance seems expansive. That's why I'm reluctant to bid 'tschüssli' to the people and place I'm currently located; what will happen to the relationships I have now - because I'm horrible at keeping in touch?

Martin Nüss, I remember you from fourteen years ago.

DNR Trail

Recently, I sat for another artist, Clarity Haynes, for her Breast Portrait Project. It was lovely to talk and connect backgrounds and experiences over pastels and warm coffee in a sunlit studio. As I was traveling back from her studio in Brooklyn, the "D, N, R" on the subway sign reminded me of the DNR back where I grew up in Minnesota. I'm drawn to contrasts, and these two memories couldn't be further from each other on a map.

The DNR trail (see location "T" on map) is right off of Highway 15 directly across from my best friend's childhood "dome" home (D).  New Ulm has two rivers that border it and the DNR trail is a virtually-unknown gateway to a quiet and magical part of the Cottonwood River. The trail is heavily overgrown (you have to plow through the mosquitos), and after each twist and turn the pioneering pathfinder is rewarded with sparkling rivulets, meandering sandbars and lush vegetation.

And while "sparkling rivulets, meandering sandbars and lush vegetation" may on the metaphorical occasion be found in the New York Subway, my guess is that you probably don't want to explore those trails any further.

The Cottonwood River - the river my parents didn't want me caught dead in - was a constant companion in my childhood. Danny, Lance, Huy and I would bike down the back way into Flandrau State Park to go swimming (sorry, Mom and Dad) in the river. Flandrau was bordered by the New Ulm Country Club - where, on the 9th hole (G) in the middle of the night with my boyfriend and his brother, was the first time I got drunk at 16 years old. (But I still remember the whole story; um, sorry again, Mom and Dad.)  Schell's Brewery (B) sits right in the river ravine, an almost mythical place being the 2nd oldest family-owned and operated brewery in the nation where I worked through college giving tours & tastings, tending the museum and talking to the peacocks. And just beyond the map is, still along the Shag Road, the Winkelmann Lime Kiln - the first mortar-maker in the area which provided the glue that built my historic hometown.

Click to see larger version of map.

As more years are added to my life, the grasp I have on my memories seems less secure. The last few years in New York are a blur, perhaps due to the alcohol consumption one uses for fuel. So this project hopes to etch these memories and the these experiences onto my consciousness. However, I must note that as I am writing this post, I'm watching Grumpy Old Men and Grumpier Old Men so I am consumed with an overwhelming sense of nostalgia.

From Memory

Süßes Schmerz

As I was out with a friend one evening, we stopped by Ferarra's - the best Italian pastry shop in Little Italy, or so I've been advised - so that I could get him to try a cannoli. We picked out a sampling of sweets, most of which he'd not tasted before. He looked over the display and commented that "sweet things often end up badly" (this Sprichwort sounded better in Swiss).

I've been thinking about that "box of pastry" ever since.

I have trouble drawing things from memory, and that's why it took me so long to make this little sketch of the aforementioned "sweet things." However, I have a very photographic, detail-capture function in my brain. I can recall, with clarity, specific life-changing events from when I was two years old. I can tell you what shade of aqua and how deep the rippling water was the first time I tossed a coin into the Trevi Fountain. (And no, it's not because I can just google up the image on my browser.) But if you asked me to draw these things - to use my hands to create a likeness of the picture in my memory - I'd lose it. My perspective would be wonky, the value incoherent, the foreshortening a mess. In fact, I think I'm afraid that I'd lose the memory if I let it filter out through my fingers.

With my art, I have built up a storehouse of usable material in my head. Projects, like this one, are filed in hierarchical and separate drawers. But that's not the problem. My internal filing system isn't a hindrance and the answer is not, "just throw it all down on paper/canvas - don't bind yourself with these left-brained concepts of organization, let it happen naturally!" (Complete with a bohemian stupor of manic creativity?) Here's the real problem: the projects in my head aren't getting out... in any way, shape or form.

See, that's the thing about what you think you want and what is good for you. What I want is to live with conviction and passion. What is necessary at the moment is to make a dent in those student loans from an education that provided me tools to realize, with more conviction, my artistic passion. So what is good for me? Though the metaphorical life lived inside of that box of pastry, with all of its sensory titillation may momentarily satisfy, it doesn't give one much sustainable energy. Sweets are tasty on occasion, but to sustain a life-long stream of creativity I need to be feeding myself a steady diet of healthy studio practice.

Like two trains passing in the night.

When I was traveling through Paris to get to Portugal during my time in Europe, I was "flying solo" - on the trains, that is. I met many people during my journeys, the young folk seem to be, not inexplicably drawn to each other. In my first stop in Paris, I found an English Pub (because, Je regret, je ne parle pas francais. Pouvez vous parlez l'Allemande?) and hunkered down with a pint to plan out my strategy for seeing the City of Love. The bartender inquired why I looked so tired and if I was meeting anyone here. We struck up a conversation which ended in his kind offer to show me the city on his day off. We made a date to meet the next day, and I spent the entire day weaving in and out of the best spots in Paris with him.

I wish I could remember his name.

As one does while at a hostel, I'd conversed cordially in the cafeteria with other like-minded travelers. From every country and continent, we discovered our common interests and exchanged travel tips. I set out the next day with another traveler because we were heading to the same train at the same time in the same direction. We spent the ride to San Sebastián keeping conversation and company. But the connection that we had made, on that short journey, seemed more palpable than the summer humidity.

The photo that I took of him, as we parted, is burned into my memory.

Last month, a friend of mine was taking a few days in New England for business - I wasn't able to break away to meet him in an odd Manhattan neighborhood for lunch.

And not less than 20 minutes ago, another dear friend just posted his pictures he took while making a stop in New York. I recognized every place he pictured.

And I missed it.
I miss them all.