Many times when one receives an invitation to any particular event, one contemplates how they’re going to dress. Should I wear something to reflect my personality or should I wear something everyone’s going to wear? At a black tie affair, one normally contorts themselves to a mass opinion of tux and evening wear. When it specifies strictly black tie, or business suit… ok that works too…
Now artists will always be artists. We don’t normal adhere to the norm, and yes I consider myself an artist. I like to be outlandish, wear things to reflect my personality, however I will listen when a certain code is specified. One of the strange things which occur when I’m put into a mass of people is I can become that person. I suppose it’s a natural ability to act as it is I’m dressed. Normal people may find it strange, Actors certainly don’t. You are what you wear.
Case and point, when you put me in a business suit- I become a business man. I have a general perception when it comes to artists and most HATE to be approached or fearful of the “suits”. I suppose it’s the perception of “adaptation” and bending yourself to fit corporate America- something often resisted in artist’s personalities. When I WAS that guy- a suit in Manhattan- I used to go to a bar around the corner. Many musicians and painters hung out there. I’d go to open mic nights, sit at the bar, grab a few beers and listen. I did this every week for months with very little conversation except that with the bartender or an occasional bar patron. I always had a suit, and I stood out like a sore thumb. Over time, the people there accepted me for what I was. I’d talk about music, talk about art as if I belonged and wouldn’t you know it- I did. Manhattan will warm up to you, once you get comfortable with yourself.
Well, I “suited” up for the cocktail party. Sharp as a tack. I had the high power corporate look and perhaps I looked as if I blended in with those that had money, but inside I didn’t. Being distant from that world for so long (even though the past year I “suited” up for a part-time job of selling) my signals got nixed. My ability to be myself which I’ve done for so long now, was disguised by formal threads. SO, when I listened to the gospel group and REALLY enjoyed the music- I thanked them in much the way I’d treat anyone who brought my soul forth- I shook hands and gave a hug- guy to guy- an artists embrace. Nothing by it, just a sincere thanks in the form of a gesture. I remember this guys reaction backing off- after all here’s an unknown, short hair cut, shiny tux shoe guy giving a hug. I looked more like a banker- (which might explain the conversation I had with a global associate director of commercial real estate I had earlier). Standing on the outside of that situation, one might have wondered WHAT the hell I was doing!
I did put a business card on my suit which stated I was a writer and novelist. At the event people look at the card, if you’re wearing one. Mine has a picture of myself behind dark sunglasses, a hat, and a trench coat on. Next to me is one of those little signs like you’d see in a cartoon of me speaking my name. It’s DEFINITELY an artistic card, and totally opposite of how I appeared. It’s the real me.
To get back to the point, people always make judgement on others within the first 5 seconds of a meeting. They get an immediate like or dislike to someone based on look, on meeting it’s within the first few minutes. You have only minutes to work out details on conversation. It’s like any interview. If you can’t speak- well you’re a statue. You can be a handsome or beautiful statue, but hollow inside- DON’T speak if you have nothing to say. SIDENOTE: I wonder who came up with the phrase - “dumb blonde” Return: You could be the opposite- beautiful inside, but need some help on the outside. SIDENOTE: How the hell did the Beast get so lucky with Belle?
Return: It’s all in the presentation. If you look like an artist from the start- people will accept you that way. If you look like a banker from the start- people will see you that way. If you’re an artist wearing bankers clothes- go home.
Days you DON’T want to relive
There are times we all look back at things we regret. Last night was one of those events for me. They (whoever the hell THEY are) say “writing” is a lonely thing. I suppose after the diagnosis of my ailments last night with a glass of bourbon, limoncello, limoncello martini and some other German speed drink and liquor I found I was true writer. Further discussions led to my immense tendency to overindulge when I visit the City after a period of time combined with a lack of any kind of dinner to absorb the catastrophic concoctions my stomach was to bare. It caused nothing but embarrassment and led to my ejection from a very dignified facility.
I was invited to a fundraiser for the Disabled Veterans hosted by some wonderful philanthropists. The event was at a luxury car dealer and included samples of liquor and food, a fashion show, entertainment and beautiful people from everywhere. Unfortunately, I feel fairly uncomfortable around such surroundings, mingling with the upper class when I’m alone, thus my story proceeds.
I was driven in by a friend who had a social function herself mid-town. I had no train to worry about, but simply finding myself back to the destination of 51st and Sixth Ave- the home of Radio City Music Hall. It was her second time in New York driving and I was there to guide her in, around and back out again. Our functions coincidentally fell in the same time period and since we arrived ahead of the events, I was able to show her around the Rockerfeller area.
One thing’s for sure- if I’M ever showing you around- you better have comfortable shoes. I like to walk and I like to show. She wore heals and will undoubtedly hate me today.
We walked from 51st St down to NY Public Library on 42nd, and turned back on 6th. A short walk filled with the beautiful sights and sounds of the city. Fortunately, we saw my favorite street performer- a homeless drummer named Reggie. The guy has appeared out of no where for the past 15 years with me. I recognize his drumming instantly on his tin pans, grates and whatever he has available. I had to stop. I could literally watch this guy play for hours and it hurt just to hear a few minutes of his playing, but time is time. Not far from him were 5 guys doing some incredible street dancing all for cash. Their backflips and moves are something which you look at in awe and wonder how it is people like this AREN’T well known.
One comes to the city for the sights, the sounds, the smells and the inspiration. It’s certainly true with the high energy and constant change, there’s never a dull moment.
We talked about the nut vendors and how the smell of hot roasted chestnuts fill the air as Christmas gets closer. The toasted almonds to die for. There’s not much I don’t like about the city because to me, it’s always a sensory carnival.
Well, I returned my guest to her gathering and hopped on a subway to Penn Station where I walked to my destination- a trip across to the WAY West side. The area looks dicey so I walked “New York Mode” (a quick pace) and the fact I’m in a business suit, tie and tux shoes (which wore a blister into my heal) I felt even more focused. The area is largely commercial and dark at night. Unkept streets littered with paper cups, newspaper, and the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel- a place once filled with prostitutes. It was only 6:30pm and I kept to the car driven streets and out pops the dealership with security at the door.
Well the difference in the dealership to the surroundings is typical of New York. You can be in one place which looks like it’s been dragged from out beneath a rug to another which looks like it’s luxuries finest. Such are the strange differences of class.
I once asked my father as a teenager- why the differences? He’d been raised with nothing and was able to go quite far in life, so I suppose many of my views have been held by this growth thing. I had friends who were on both sides of life- the poor and the wealthy. I found a great deal of change on interaction between the sides. I always had more fun with those who had little because they weren’t afraid to show you themselves- who they really were. They would have fun, dance, maybe make a fool of themselves, and you always knew where you stood. The rich were different. They had masks as thick as steel. You never knew where you stood and despite a smile on their faces, they could have a knife in their heart. You had to act in a dignified way, respectful, and have social grace- unless you’d suffer their rath- while they smiled. Basically, humans are the same. We all have fears, we all have reactions. Some hide it better than others. I like just being myself.
I have no idea what transpired in the dealership other than observation. I was more in the fly’s position, but as I drank… which often happens, I feel more at ease to speak with people, more willing to enjoy the evening UNLESS of course I over drink. Well, I can tell you one thing. There was a gospel group there which was absolutely phenomenal. I damn near cried as they sang about being saved, all in unison. What I loved and I will always love is when the soul comes out. It elevates you and as these singers got into their singing I watched. Many just carried on walking, I saw some smiles, and I saw some expressions of disgust. I started thinking as my soul was escalating how terrible it must be to be so removed from your soul you can see nothing but disgust… so I had another drink. The experience of the soul singers was beautiful. When they finished I had to thank a few of them, just because. The fashion show was next. The people were beautiful throughout the place, there’s no doubt, but one must wonder what the world would be without make up OR clothes. Would we be ourselves with nothing to hide?
I don’t remember much after the second designer came on. Perhaps I gave the wrong look to the wrong person. Perhaps I said the wrong word to the wrong guy. Perhaps I vomited in a bathroom with dignity- I’m not sure. I remember one tall man saying “You have to go.” He wasn’t wearing a police uniform or a security outfit and I remember asking “why?” I don’t remember if he shoved me towards the exit, BUT I DO remember 5 guys pulling me out, one holding my arm and escorting me down the street out of the front of the dealership. I remember yelling “Get Gloria” and them threatening to get the police, so I brushed the creases from my suit and said “fine”. They left me, I hailed a cab and that was it. As quick as it started, it ended.
My behavior was inexcusable and I admit to it. I got sloppy, let a little too much of myself show instead of bottling it up in the WRONG atmosphere. I have engraved on my ring: Courage- resistance to fear, mastery of fear, but not absence of fear: a quote by Mark Twain. I like to think I live by this, in that way, truth can be found in writing. What is real and what is fictional is all based on perceptions in oneself- the reader.
I’ve spent much of the morning piecing together the evening, eating only a few pieces of toast and a bowl of rice. Sorry Gloria, sorry world and sorry stomach.
I look out my window and watch the leaves turn. I often looked at Fall as a “dying” time. Leaves wither, things slow, and the cold of winter shows it’s face in frost on grass blades. For some, it’s a creative time. I’ve always been fascinated with death and the existence of a place beyond our mortal homes. They say when we look at lives in the small chasm of time, and realize how fleeting they are, to make good use of them.
I once lived next to a cemetery. In that beautiful place I took walks, to never forget how important life was outside of work and the people around me- both alive and not. When you see mourning, and keep close what makes us LIVE- you’re purpose becomes clear. I walked through that place daily when I commuted to NYC and every day when I returned. A peaceful place and one most people avoid at night.
As a kid, I played in a small Jewish cemetery and although I remember few ceremonies I took interest in the early headstones. One had a porcelain picture of two people mounted into the granite with period wear (1920’s or 30’s). l wondered, what went through their minds when they were alive- their dreams, their ambitions, where they went, what they did, etc.. So many questions as a boy, led to so many questions as an adult.
One of my favorite songs is by the Smiths and titled “Cemetery Gates”. I’ll always associate it with my move into Central NJ. I sang it before settling it, much like “Moving to New York” by the Wombats when I moved to New York. Cemetery Gates is about the exploration of an old English graveyard (where Keats and Yeats are buried) and the pondering of questions of lost souls; many questions which I’ve asked myself. It’s beautifully poetic and an astounding piece of music.
Death is close every Fall (Winter- to me- is symbolized as death) and Life (symbolized by summer) is far. Creativity moves quickly when Fall & Spring are upon me. I observe and change those energies into something useful, and most often than not- bury it deep into the psyche of characters I create.
When I can’t write- I become the frustrated artist. Change can be very good. Habits can be very bad, especially addictive ones. When used correctly, habits can encourage one to make steps in the right direction. I like to think the pain I’ve experienced over the past few weeks has led me into some better habits and prevented some pretty bad ones- no better deterrent than pain
Now, is the time to understand yourself before it’s too late. If you open your third eye, perhaps you can see the value of creativity to your own sense of being. If you don’t utilize it… well, we all might remain stagnant. One word, one stroke of paint, one note, can blossom in the enlightenment of another and isn’t that why we’re here?
Remember, when you get out to wander, Neil Armstrong’s memorable words when he first stepped on the moon, “this is One small step for man, and one giant leap for mankind”. Enjoy your weekend.
Battle for the Hudson
At Stony Point, New York- a location on the arch of the Hudson- existed a battle which helped boost the success of the Patriots over the British. It was a night attack on a British Fortification which stood way above the river. It’s rocky ground, hilly, and amazing to be at when you look up and down the river. You could understand it’s vital importance to control this point as soldiers moved up and down the enormous river.
In 1779, a midnight assault on the Redcoats was indeed a surprise. The American forces held unloaded rifles armed with bayonets, for silence. The British left their cannons unloaded at night because the likelihood of a night move of ships on the Hudson was exactly that- unlikely. The Americans put pieces of white paper inside their hats to differentiate between their own forces and the British. MAD Anthony Wayne was the Patriot commander, and all I could think was WHAT an appropriate name! MAD, is exactly what he was……
The American forces took the British garrison and seized the fortifications at Stony Point. In 1826 the Hudson River’s oldest lighthouse was built on the site. On the weekends workers wear period dress and they also do reenactments. Yesterday, the only men out were a couple of Blacksmiths making large torch casings (the kind you might see in a cave). I did learn that they used to soak wood in animal fats to keep them burning longer. Something about the large clanking of an anvil and hammer with Steel. The fire which burned coal was blown hotter by a large blower (can’t think of the proper name for it).
I tasted a beer made by Sam Adams a few holidays back which had this burning metallic taste. It was as if you took the smell of a freshly blown musket, bottled it with some of the shot, mixed it up with some smoke and got BEER. It was made from an authentic recipe from the 1700’s. I need to find that stuff- it would be perfect for writing this passage.
Walking around historic places like this allow you to see into another time. I saw a lesson on art by the Teaching Courses which has fabulous DVD’s that teach you on numerous subjects. I watched one on the impressionists and the instructor told how they use to be “Flaneurs” around Paris- which is a French term for wanderers. Most creatives have this drive to take in things from around, and use them to the best of their ability. I hope to utilize this information, process it, and spit it out- like I do here.
With the help of a small local book titled, “Memoir of a Revolutionary Soldier”- perhaps I’ll be inspired and THAT’s HALF the job.
Steve
Funk Thunder