Day 21-Last Day June 14, 2007

Please take any photographs that you are in.
This was posted on the wall and window for people to see.

Everyone took their photographs today. Everyone was happy to get their photo. No one was expecting it which made it more fun for me. Some people did not come by, so I had others look on the wall for neighbors, friends, family, or just passersby that they see often in order to give them their photographs. I am sure that new friendships will emerge and old feuds will subside. It is my gift to the community as well as an enabling of the project to continue outside of the space and performance. The exhibition has crossed borders from the gallery to homes; from the public space to private place. It kept developing, growing and transforming as people came by and looked closely for their image. “Everyone from the block is here!”. I signed a few photographs and I intend to keep my promise of making it big, so that the photos will go towards someone’s retirement. Those photos mean so much to both the community and me, more than ever imagined. Their stories will be legend.

Days 19 & 20- June 12, 2007 & June 13, 2007

Cloudy scattered thunder storms humid 80 Cloudy cool high in the low 70’s

The last two days seemed to conclude the circle from which I started. The weather was similar to the beginning of the project, cool and rainy. The dampness has affected the drying time of the masks. I must fan my face. It’s became a little uncomfortable because of the cool temperatures. Watching the rain is comforting. A stillness arises that makes contemplation of my surroundings easier. It becomes much like a film montage with no narrative or sound track. The local sounds work best alone: There are laughs, light screams, gasps, exclamations, car alarms and horns. The drops were so big on Tuesday that they reflected light off. It was like strobe lighting outside. People react differently to the showers pounding down on them and everywhere. Many run to escape it or seek shelter under deli storefronts to wait it out. Others give up changing their pace to static. Objects seem differently alive because of the light. The clouds act as a sort of filter. Their moods span from joy to melancholy attaching to objects like the light pole making it seem like a silver. The colors of the newspaper are better to look at in this light. The sun at times constricts my sight as it descends west. The paper has a lot of blue and red ranging in luminosity and value. The partly cloudy days allow me to differentiate between the types of reds and blues easier. Every mask has a different color and shape. Most are made from newspaper. A few others are a combination with subway maps, a Chinese menu, construction paper, or non-coated magazine paper. Each person who walks in has a different favorite one. That’s a good sign.

I will miss Harlem. I will miss coming here everyday. It is a gift to be able to work like this and do this performance. It is a marvelous gift.. This project is a one time deal. I won't do this specific one again because it is so connected with the people who have walked in and participated in it. To recreate what they have contributed is impossible. Everyone has touched me in some way. This piece had to take place here. I am sure of it. I must decide how to finalize the masks, that is, how they will be displayed upon exhibiting the project documentation. It will be fascinating to see the objects and photos out of the context of the performance in a gallery. How will they read to people who did not experience the Harlem space and me with them react to them? Will the masks seem less special?

The masks and photographs have kept me company these last three weeks for 154 hours (I closed early for Memorial Day). I now understand why photographs Sitting for 7 hours a day has been a feat. Just to be clear, I sat there and made masks. I never had a drink or bathroom break. Keeping my focus was tougher when I was alone than when someone walked in. It seems like people had a time machine with them and they’d fast forward it upon entering. I never doubted myself. I knew I would complete the 21 days. There were close calls because it was exhausting. I am glad that I stuck out the mini- breakdowns. Wearing the masks made it easier. Only once were there people in the space when I took the mask off and that was on day 20. Paul and Megan were witnesses. I felt like I was coming out of a cocoon. I wondered what it looked like to them.

Days 17 & 18- June 10, 2007 & June 11, 2007

Cloudy in the 80’s Partly Chance of showers high 80

On Sunday, I had a small reception for the community to thank them for being in the pictures and being supportive. The kids on the block had a blast. They ate tons of grapes and strawberries. The mini cupcakes were gone within 2 hours. No one really touched the pretzels. By 4 p.m., a revolutionary water/ice fight had begun between the boys and the girls. It was getting pretty hectic so I had to put the ice away. Sorry to spoil the fun. Within an hour all had calm down. At 6 p.m., a few people were coming in, each taking their time reading the logs and looking at the pictures. I noticed one man translating the logs into French to a woman. Families were coming back home from fishing, church gatherings, visiting relatives, or simply the park. Dinner time was approaching. One last visitor came in at 6:30 He seemed transfixed by all the images and logs. In my book he wrote that I could be from Palestine.

At about five minutes to 7, I saw a man drop to the ground outside. A woman stood above him. His body shook and twitched. The woman said, “Oh no....”. Bart ran outside. He yelled, “Call 911”. I took my mask off and ran outside. Blood was gushing out of the man’s head. His breathing was shallow. Other people has stopped to watch. I dialed and was connected in seconds. The operator said,” 911 what is your emergency”. I don’t even think I heard her say this because I was talking right away, telling her what had happened as I saw more blood spread along the sides of the man’s head. His companion didn’t want us to call the ambulance, “He’ll be fine. This happens all the time. He’s just having a seizure. He’ll get up and we’ll go home”. I noticed her hands were dirty. Her clothes were too. For a second I thought maybe they are homeless. She had a Brooklyn accent. I think she was Jewish. More blood filled the streets. The operator asked for my phone number. She asked if I knew the man. She asked me to repeat the address. I became impatient. I snapped back at her, “When is the ambulance coming. This man isn’t breathing well”. The operator transferred me to someone else. More people surrounded the street. Many asked if someone had called for help. I had trouble hearing the man on the other line. He became impatient, “Hello?!”. I snapped back and gave him the information all over again. It was frustrating. After I was done answering the same question I had with the operator, I was told that an ambulance would be sent as soon as possible. ” What do you mean? How soon? There are children here. Please hurry!”, I shouted. The voice on the other end became irritated and simply said “As soon as possible”. We both repeated the same things a few times until I fianlly said thank you and hung up. A police car was 3 blocks away. A man on his bicycle rode to them to try to stop them. Bart and I waved our arms to hail them over. Blood filled the ground. The man who had fallen lay still. “If the police come, I have to go” said the man’s companion. “ What do you mean you have to go. You have to stay with him”, I said. The police car reached us. They told us not to move the man because he might swallow anything in his mouth. The children were getting curious. Bart lured the kids into the space and handed out the balloons my friend Monique had brought to attract attention to the reception. One of the officers called the ambulance again. After about, 15 minutes two ambulances came. The man on the ground slowly started to get up. The EMTs rushed over to him. There was blood all over him. Bandages were pulled out. Bart and I went inside the space to clean up. “Don’t take him to the hospital. He’ll be okay”, the woman yelled out several times. I knew she didn’t have health insurance and I knew that they would be sent a bill large enough to pay an NYU freshman’s first semester. The man needed medical attention. His head was split open. Blood was coming out of his mouth. Did he bite his lip? By the time we came out, the man was in the ambulance ready to be taken away. The EMTs were inside the ambulances and the police were about to drive away. I noticed the blood soaked bandages lying on the ground. Wasn’t anyone going to pick them up? There were kids on the block. At that instant, I walked up to the ambulance. The EMT reluctantly opened his window. “Aren’t you going to clean up the blood and bandages?”, I asked. “No.”, the EMT answered, “Sanitation is going to do it.” “It’s Sunday and there are kids playing. Don’t you have plastic gloves and a trash bag?”,. I was getting really frustrated. If this were 66th street and Park avenue the blood and bandages would have been gone before anyone noticed they were there to begin with. “We normally don’t clean it up”, he said. “There are kids playing here. That shouldn’t be left on the ground. You need a trash bag. I have one.”, I said. At that point, one of the children came riding up in his bicycle. Another one was behind him. The EMT got out of the vehicle. Bart went to get a trash bag and the bandages were in it in less than 30 seconds. The EMT took the bag. There was still a puddle of blood on the ground. By the time I looked up, the EMT vehicles were gone and so were the police. We got buckets of water and washed the blood away until there was a weak stain on the concrete. I never knew blood could stain concrete so heavily. It never occurred to me to take a photo of everything that was happening. I am glad it didn’t.

On Monday morning before opening the gate, I walked over to the spot. It rained in the night so the stain was much weaker. Only if I stared hard enough could I see the last remains.

Later in the day, Mr. Scott, a retired musician and teacher, came by. This week marks the beginning of June teenth Holiday. It is a holiday celebrating when the last slaves were freed. Not everyone became free at the same time. Mr. Scott told me about this holiday. It is an important holiday in the African American community. When the slaves were finally freed in 1865 not all people knew. In very rural parts of the country, news travelled slow and the date was not known for sure. So June teenth is how people remembered. The real date is June 19th. This whole week Mr. Scott has been singing and playing his trumpet in the area in remembrance and celebration. He has been singing old church songs and spirituals. They are beautiful. Today, Mr. Scott, sang and played his trumpet on the spot where the blood stain is.

Day 16- June 8, 2007

Humid high in the low 90’s with chance of showers

I realized that my time in Harlem will end soon. I sat thinking about what else I needed to do and have been photographing the space. The marks and peeling paint have been comforting at times. They have often behaved as anchors for me when my mind has wondered and I have not been present.

New people have walked in. Many have left quickly. Have they been turned off by the Boal quote? I often wish I could stop them and ask them why. A group of three came in. They seemed to be tourists or college students. The young women were European- American and the young man looked perhaps Indian, Latin-American. or tanned. First the young man entered. He stopped at the door. Hesitated then walked towards the wall to the first log. He then very quickly turned around and left. I got the feeling that perhaps he didn’t enjoy the first log and images. As he exited, one of the young women came in. I felt more optimistic. I noticed that after reading the first log she continued looking. Her move was a signal for the other young woman of the group because she walked in. The young man remained outside. I watched him. He was a bit jumpy alone and after a few minutes reluctantly came back inside. Behind him, another young man with dreads came in. He was African American. He said hello to me. Upon seeing that I couldn’t talk, he started reading. He came in because the others were inside. The women made it around the room fairly fast then. The young man with them stayed near the door and wasn’t really in the space as it were. They marched out of the space never looking at me except for the last woman who glared. The young man with dreads was left. He didn’t read all the logs. He looked at some of the pictures and left shortly after the group of three. Before leaving he said, “Thanks”.

An older woman walked in. I had seen her before. She smiled at me, walked in and looked at the pictures in a systematic fashion. Afterwards, she walked right up to me. I turned and looked at her. Our eyes met. I wanted to know what she saw. She looked at me . Pleading almost. She said in a European accent or maybe Israeli, “I am tired of this place. There’s too much”. She left. This incident happened in less than 5 minutes.

Day 15- June 7, 2007

Low humidity sunny in the 70’s

People come back many times to see if their photo is up on the wall. It is incredible to see people return. It is doubly as great to watch people look for their photo with friends or family. Many times, family and friends are enticed to have their picture taken with me. Parents who had their photo taken bring their children on other days. Seeing this makes me see how far the project has grown. It is an honor to have the people in Harlem pose with me and agree to have their photo taken. It makes me think of James Van Der Zee in Harlem. His images were a project documenting African American lives as they were rarely being documented succeeding, living, and flourishing. I wonder if traces of his shop on 56 West 135th street are there and where the families of the photographed are. How many of the people lived near to where these pictures are now? Did Van Der Zee see himself in them?

With all the large scale changes in population taking place, I wonder how many of the people in the photographs will be living here in ten years? I very much want to be here and I aim to be. When I look at Van Der Zee’s images in New York City, it is like seeing family portraits. The images tell me about New York City which is where I was born and grew up. In these images I see American history. I see familiar addresses and locations when I walk to the space in the mornings. Landmarks or places that should be landmarks. I ask myself if the places will continue being landmarks without the people, without its audience. My project wouldn’t be the same without the community and neither would have Van Der Zee’s.

Day 14- June 6, 2007

Mild low humidity breezy in the 70’s

The masks are artifacts for me of this event that will never occur again. They reflect spontaneous decisions I make when choosing patterns and words that I pick from the pile of shredded newspaper. I do not preplan the design of the masks: Whatever the newspaper gives me I use. However the world is that day I try to recreate. At the end of the day, I am quite drained. It feels as if I am returning from a long journey, a different state of being.

Some people ask me why the masks have no mouths or why they are silenced. Part of the reason why they do not have mouths is structural. It makes the masks physically stronger to build and form. Also, I want to discourage too much speaking because then the experience of being in the space is overlooked since talk would prevail. The masks are not being silenced. They merely do not have mouths. Perhaps they mirror what we deny in society or simply amplify what is already there. In some Buddhist meditation techniques, talking is not allowed for long periods of time in order to concentrate on the work done on the body and mind. Thoughts dominate at times taking over therefore preventing being in the moment. I want to be in every moment while I am in the space knowing I am with every person who comes in.

A visitor Warren, told me about how some African masks have traditionally given power or taken power away. My intention with making masks was capturing this feeling of constantly being masked by ideas placed upon me because of how I look, what I wear, or who I am with. By arresting this action and doing it again and again, I gain control. What I have noticed happening as well is a meditation on virtue and tragedy. The virtuous is in the people who walk into the space, on their sharing, the block, the images, and the environment. The tragedy is in the newspaper.

Day 13- June 5, 2007

Partly cloudy windy in the high 70’s

The following statement was written by Augusto Boal in 1974 as the foreword for his book Theater of the Oppressed. I have been reading this book the last few days for a workshop I took with him this past weekend. Boal is a theater director whose techniques and theories are used widely by educators, union organizers, peasants, miners, and anyone who has been/is oppressed by the system. His aim is to use theater to empower and transform. The book has been with me for about 15 years. It was one of the most influential things I’d read. I had forgotten about it until Spring 2005 at a timely moment when I was completing my thesis project. I realized that it had been with me all along and now it was time to activate it again. In 2007, it rings louder to me still and the message seems more urgent than ever. It made clear to me that I cannot use art lightly because it’s power is far greater than we can imagine. For the quote below I have replaced theater with art.

All art is necessarily political, because all activities of people are political and art is one of them. Those who try to separate art from politics try to lead us into error and this is a political attitude. Art is a very efficient weapon. For this reason one must fight for it. For this reason the ruling classes strive to take permanent hold of art and utilize it as a tool for domination. In so doing,they change the very concept of what art is. But art can also be a weapon for liberation. For that, it is necessary to create appropriate art forms.
Change is imperative.