Shoreditch: Why do we avoid something the moment it becomes well-known?

It is an interesting phenomenon to watch the youth community and the art community converge. There are Internet phenomenons that become so fad-like that it is an affront to the young culture to disagree with them. There are also artistic movements that share a certain vision, although those lines are drawn less clearly nowadays. Still, the moment something enters too clearly into the mainstream, the moment your aunt who has no artistic vision starts mentioning images and locations, both groups become completely averse to it.

Shoreditch is an area in East London that has transformed over the last 15 years. It went from being like the surrounding area of Islington, run-down and made up of mainly immigrant families, to a vegan, cigarette smoking haven of people in their early 20s. It has now been denounced as no longer being as cool since many people know about it. Ignoring the obvious gentrification and wealth issues, this seems to be a popular consensus. But while walking through East London, it seems like Shoreditch is still fun. The clubs are cool, the coffee shops have clever names and intriguing interior designs, and the restaurants are well themed.

Why does something lose a level of enjoyableness simply because others are taking part in it?
While the pizza craze, where every person seems to revel in the fact that they could eat half of a pizza in one sitting, has yet to wane, enjoying certain artists’ music seems to hinge on their notoriety. Why would one stop supporting an artist simply because they have gathered other supporters? Wouldn’t you want to continue bolstering their art? This is where I see a main dilemma. How can we expect people to stick by our own art when we, young artists, seem to be repelled by anything that has a platform? Why are we only attracted to art in dark corners?

Someone’s art is not of a lesser value since it connects to a wider audience. It is important to question how someone’s message reached that many without being watered down, but it seems more dangerous and toxic to throw something out simply because the follower count has gotten too high. There is a lot of senseless art that receives little recognition because of its poor quality, not because of mainstream agendas. Be wary of why we stray from the well-trodden path simply because we see footprints.

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I get this question a lot. As if I should have explained, when I first met them, that I do, indeed, write with my left hand. That, yes, I have a bump on my ring finger because no one taught me how to write correctly and I constantly drag ink across the side of my palm. Many people comment on the connection between left-handedness and the arts— we’re said to use the right side of our brain more, which has areas that incline us towards the arts. I never thought much about my writing, and how I am part of a special 10% of the world’s population, because I knew I was represented in the arts. We’re special, right? We’re natural talents, or something.

All my thinking about my handedness made me wonder about representation: do we always feel represented in the arts? Do we feel like we have a place, or voice, to be seen and heard? As a lefty, yes, we’re everywhere. Handedness is honestly not a basis for separating people, but I think it speaks for the bigger picture. There are many people of many disenfranchised groups that do not feel represented in the arts world. They do not see people who look like them, grew up like them, or understand their work like them. They do not see young people who have worked their whole lives through art schools, endless auditions, and tears to be where they are.

So, instead of this getting us upset, and frustrated, and maybe even making us question whether there is room for us, stop and look around. Look at yourself, and other likeminded artists. This is your call to action. Do not ask for room and representation, demand it. Even better, offer yourself for representation. Further amplify your art. Just because there are not people in the galleries that look like you does not mean that there can’t be. The directors may keep getting similar scripts thrown at them, so offer yours. Offer your intellect, your diligence, and your ability to write a story that no one else can express so eloquently.

Representation matters and is deserved, so do not feel embarrassed to ask for it, or, as said, to demand it. To require it. There is room. I am currently listening to the Hamilton soundtrack, aware of how these actors and actresses were never before given the opportunity to tell this story with their own voices, or with their own music. But here they are. Demanding and commanding space and applause. And that, I think, is what our creative world is all about.

Photo credit: Mona Lisa Foundation

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Check Thomas’s spectacular photography website at https://500px.com/nuhartistic
(a small preview below )

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I had the good fortune of attending a production of A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum at The Bay Terrace Garden Jewish Center. In this show we follow a slave named Pseudolus (Frank Josephs) in his attempts to attain freedom. A chance at this appears when he figures out that his young master, Hero (Samuel Kaufman) is in love with the beautiful Philia (Michele Mazzacco). A simple plan to make her fall in love with Hero takes us on a comedic journey of forbidden love and mistaken identity.

What made this journey immensely enjoyable for me, as an audience member was the wit and comedic timing of Frank Josephs and Samuel Kaufman. They bounced off of each other seamlessly. A moment that stuck out was the number, Free in which Pseudolous sings about dreams and aspirations following Hero’s promise of freedom. The faces made by both actors created quite the humorous stir amongst the audience. Mr.Kaufman was quiet for much of the number but exhibited great listening throughout that story telling, which made his character lively.

Great passion was evident within the character of Hero. This character trait was used to add to the comedy when he’d cry out, “Oh, Philia.”, to which Philia would reply, “No, it’s just Philia!” This comedy played off the theme of the young, beautiful and dumb girl. Due to this fact, the actor playing Philia must be quite likeable or the character may slip into the territory of being annoying. Ms. Mazzacco added an undeniable charm to the character that made her constant confusion fun to watch. I found myself hoping for her happiness throughout the entirety of the show. However, Philia’s job as a courtesan did not make that hope easily achievable.

The dilemma keeping Hero and Philia from being together is that she has been sold by Lycas (Roger Leonardis), the owner of many colorful courtesans. In Pseudolous and Hero’s search for her they encounter what Lycas has to offer as far as women go. Here we are introduced to five women who exhibit their many, ahem, attributes. In their attempt to seduce Pseudolous, who has claimed to be a person of status, there were splits, whips and meows galore. The audience, greatly comprised of senior citizens, laughed as those racy parts appeared before us.

After being subject to that performance by the women, Hero finds Philia only to eventually learn that she’s been sold to a warrior who’s return is fast approaching. Pseudolous, thinking fast on his feet, comes up with a plan. He uses Philia’s cheery disposition to convince Lycus that she has a plague whose side effect is smiling often. In his panic Lycus is convinced by Pseudolous to bring her into his custody. Pseudolous claims that he’s already had the plague so it’s best that he watches her because he won’t get it again. This plan gives Hero and Philia time to fall in love with one another. Despite this, she stays true to what she has been taught and says that she will still marry the man she is betrothed to. What unfolds next is a plan to ensure she won’t marry him. Pseudolous tells her to go inside the house and when her warrior arrives he’ll knock three times. Pseudolous goes off in search of a potion that will render her unconscious so Hero can run off with her.

Senex (Eli Koenig), who’s the father of Hero, returns home early from a trip with Domina (Andria Amarosa) and happens to knock three times. This leads to a case of pure confusion regarding the identity of him. Mr.Koenig added to this confusing circumstance because he decided as an actor that his character was in constant confusion! This was evident in how he phrased his lines. Many of them were said as a question which unconsciously added to the already funny circumstance.

There are many other cases of mistaken identity and adventure before this musical rattles to an uplifting end. I appreciated the lighthearted feel of this show and encourage everyone to see a production of it.

High expectations were in place for this production after I’d been told that this would be an exciting new turn for this theater group. They had just gotten a new artistic director who brought a more current twist to what these theatergoers were used to. All of my expectations were met. I sat there throughout the show laughing hysterically at what this theater group brought to the table.

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There are many plants in the square. Ferns. I wish I knew all their names. I think it would make me feel more at home here. I would walk through the gates and say hello to the different families of foliage, gossiping with the squirrels. When the wind blows I imagine I can hear Grandmother Willow telling me that these are ‘winds of change.’ I am a hand-me-down sweater made of all my cultural experiences and societal knowings. None of me is only mine, and yet so much belongs to me. I feel no ownership over the grass and greens and yet a strong affinity exists.

The leaves are not yet changing here. Only a few go yellow or brown and then fly to the paths. I wish they would redden and blossom— like a late in life crisis, headed out soon and yet just beginning their worldly travels. A second come-to-life. A celebration of history and experience. This is how I wish the colors to seep into the leaves, first creeping in from the stem in creams and yellows and then recreating themselves into flames of blood orange, crimson, and classic red. The trees would stand defiant at the sun, coaxing it to the compare its setting hues to their vibrancy. All at once, like a couple with nothing to lose, like a child’s first leap off the diving board, they would flip and spin until they landed, giggling, in the softened dirt. This is the freedom I want for the trees.

Mother Nature and I aren’t the only ones in the square. Young couples sit on the benches, and a black dog runs in and out of the fountain. Many people sit alone and read. It is a sort of isolated community. A woman approaches the bench, my bench, and asks if she can join me. She tells me it’s her sister’s birthday and this is her bench. I watch as she ties a bundle of balloons around the back of the bench, places a card on the seat, and pops a bottle of champagne. She says she would have offered me a glass but for her lack of cups. Her sister had eaten her lunch there every day before she died.

Disappeared. Left. The bench bore her name and years, giving room for others to enjoy their meals in her place. I wonder how many people had used this park as their personal space before moving on. I ran away from that bench. I do not sit on it anymore. I like to think about this woman unknown and keep the bench free for her. Now I sit on a bench nearby, gazing as couples take her place. Day in and day out. She’s been added to my sweater, and I think she makes the grounds feel a bit more like a home.

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I was born in a family surrounded by artists. Since I was a kid I was interested in art and how people connect with it. I had the opportunity to travel the world which helped me discover my passion :photography. I specialize in digital photography but I’ve also tried analog. For me, photography is the best way to express yourself, it is a phenomenon that impacted worldwide. I’m from Venezuela a beautiful country located in South America characterized by its beautiful beaches, abundant nature and tropical weather even though is currently going through a crisis still a great place to be. My advice to young artist like me is to be themselves, go out and find what they love, work on your passion and find your signature

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I like to describe my art as a personal road map of development to self-discovery, depicting vivid conflicts and reflecting the dualism of the internal vs. the external world. My work generally encompasses a large range of media, including painting, installation, sculpture and ‘happenings’ commonly known as a form of political protest.

Initially inspired by my father, I began to create art, which allowed me to work through the rough times of my mom’s cancer, my dad’s brain tumor, my parents’ divorce and the loss of numerous family members that encompassed my past. Although I rarely speak of these times, they prompted me to do art and use it to tell my story, to let go of the experiences and work through them attributing those times as my greatest source of inspiration. After creating numerous works that thematically addressed my own past, I began to be inspired by Fluxus and soon began to work the world around me into my own pieces.

My work tends to thematically fluctuate between themes that are entirely personal, to themes that arise from personal interest but are directed at society. Generally speaking they are solely driven by idea and concept rather than medium and style. My works are specific snapshots of times in my life that were either unresolved or difficult to cope with and endure. They however are not made to let everyone in as their meanings consist of two levels; a personal and a general level furthermore reflecting the external struggle. They are not necessarily meant to be understood but are made to be related to and felt. They are reflections and request exactly that from the viewer, allowing them to dive into a world that is not theirs and find themselves in a distant corner.

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Ex Locum: Latin for “out of place.”
Ex Patria: Latin for “out of country, or fatherland.”

I am an expat, or, if I am not one yet, I will be considered one in the coming years. I am purposefully and noticeably out of place— away from home, away from my culture, away from my people. I never liked this term because I thought it was mainly used by snobby Americans living in Europe who have extremely popular and cliché Instagram pages. I considered myself to be distinct: I was not tied down to my culture or geography and my nationality did not trump every other possible descriptor of me as a person.

Yet, maybe, the term has more merit than I have given it. I am out of my place. I am a young woman studying in London, away from all my family and familiar street signs or buildings. Many talk about arts connectivity, about how it has helped them gain lifetime friends and fellow artists. It manifests into a community of its own. And yes, this community is powerful and interconnected and worth growing. I’d like to address an undervalued side of art, though. I have used art to ground myself in my surroundings and in my own person.

Beginning at seven years old, I started taking classes at a local Eastern European theatre company. My drama instructor told my mom she thought I would be too fragile for the industry because I couldn’t take criticism well. I remember the first heartbreak poems I wrote at 11 years old, fresh off my “boyfriend” dumping me. Flash forward eight years and I still cannot escape this concept of human fragility. I think it’s visible in every character: actors and writers alike fill their characters with doubts and weaknesses. This reality, albeit a separate one, ate away at my own insecurities by showing me the imperfections of everyone else. Now, I am a fortress brimming with foliage and flowers. This wall may make me less receptive to others’ art, but it has cultivated my own.

Yes, we are a community. Yes, we flourish under the nurturing light of others. I am not advocating for separating yourself completely, however, do be selective. Not everyone’s art is worth taking in or allowing to affect yours. Trust the direction in which you are moving.

London constantly reminds me of this. We move together, but separately. We walk in the same direction, but end up taking different lifts. Sitting in Russell Square, writing about how I am not an original but rather a sum of pieces, juxtaposes with the fact that I am isolated on the bench, only spinning these ideas through my personal cotton-candy maker. I choreograph for groups; yet value every part as a solo. A play is best when shared, but artistic sovereignty is respected.

Allow yourself to be uncomfortable and in the ‘wrong’ place. Create a spot for yourself, even if you have to shove. You may find that this spot is exactly what you needed. This spot was precisely where you were supposed to land. Decorate your spot with art, dance through your little home with jazz in the background, and write as if you could not eat until a page is finished. Find yourself through your art. Discover your own nooks and crevices. The only true way to figure out what you stand for and what your art is worth is to put yourself in a place where the wind is blowing directly in your face.

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English translation:
Hi! My name is Marie. I’m almost 18 and I live in Alsace, an area located in East France, near Germany. My father is French and my mother is Russian, a mix of culture that has helped me open my mind beyond my country’s borders. I’ve also travelled a lot, in Russia, in the USA, in Canada, in Australia, in Great Britain, in Sweden, in Germany, in Italy, in Spain. I’ve had the chance to visit the greatest museums in the world (Hermitage, MOMA, Metropolitan Museum, National Gallery, Le Louvres).

In every way, art always made it possible for me to express my feelings, my ideas, my fears, my passions. I started early, developing the most common form of expression: speech. In order to do this, I started to take acting and singing lessons in a choir. This confrontation with strangers made me more able to reach out to others. Ballet, then Hip Hop (with a mute and deaf teacher), contemporary dance, and finally modern jazz, helped me discover my body as a way to communicate with people. Over four years, I’ve also trained my ears to the sound of the piano and never wearied of Vivaldi’s and also Tchaikovsky’s classics, whose compositions remind me of my Russian origins. Later, I got into a new passion : literature. I love creating long sentences with incredible turns of phrases, I love writers’ spirits – living their work more as an amusement than a constraint. Boris Vian wrote “I’m wondering if I’m playing with words. What if words were made for this ?”.

I want to explore new possibilities of expressing all the ideas that come to my mind. It’s been a while since I discovered the possibilities of drawing. As a result, I’ve decided to join an applied art school called Le Corbusier, to become a graphic designer, a career in which one is trying to make an information appealing by working on its aesthetic aspect. I’m one who can use collage, infographics, drawing, painting, in short, all means are good to translate an idea into a graphic reality.

Today, I think that it is important to say what you think. I’m sure you heard about all the horrors that happened to my country this year… the Charlie Hebdo shooting on the 7th of January didn’t only aim to kill people, it was our freedom of speech that was attacked, our right to talk and laugh about anything. I was deeply disgusted that such an awful thing could happen in the country of Human Rights and Freedom. “Freedom, Equality, Fraternity”, in a few moments, this motto was wiped out by some fools, so close-minded that they didn’t even take the time to read the Coran, in which it is written that if a man kills another, he kill the whole humanity. But in all this dread I’ve also seen beautiful and moving things : I’ve seen my country, my compatriots, walking together in the streets, I’ve seen old people crying with children, black people giving their hands to white people, heterosexuals supporting gays. I’ve seen a united nation. Moreover, I’ve seen hundreds of artists creating works for Charlie Hebdo and shouting loudly their love for freedom of speech. This grief made us stronger and pushed me to get more involved with art and all the other means of expression. Today in France, art isn’t a hobby, it is a weapon against terrorist attacks. This weekend, we’ve been attacked again, more violently than ever. Hundreds of innocent people were killed in the streets, in a theatre and during our national soccer team’s match. A friend of mine, who is studying in Paris saw bodies in the streets. In what world does somebody see this kind of horrors at only 18? I cried for these innocent people but now I want to act. I will use my art to say what I think, show my country that I love it and not be afraid of saying what I think is important. I support the artists because they beautify the world through their work, they comfort injured people and unify countries.

Continue to create beautiful things because they’ll help creating a better world full of joy and tolerance

I also would like to thank all the countries that have supported us, you have shown us compassion and so we are very moved and grateful.

–Marie

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As children we depend on things, toys, games, stuffed animals.
Begging for the newest game, the newest toy, the newest this, the newest that.
Throwing fits when our wish isn’t met.
Take candy from a baby and hear it roar.
So imagine taking away a child’s house, it’s home, it’s everything.
Lumping it in with beggars on the street, previously ignored.
People that child has walked past for years hoping they wouldn’t follow or berate them.
Lost without the safety of the room they grew up in,
Lost without the neighborhood they knew so well,
Lost without the comfort of a house.
Four walls and a roof defining their everything.
Defining how many friends they had, if they could have sleepovers, if they met the standard.
And yet without such definition,
Having to attend school and pretend they were just like others.
Feeling as if their soul was ripped out with the uprooting of a stationary lifestyle.
Nomadic, horrified, ashamed.
Coming back as late as possible and leaving just as early in order to be in their excuse of a home for as little time as possible.
Wondering why they couldn’t have a bed, heat, pocket money.
Why was this happening to them. Why now? Why me? Why this?
Blaming anyone and everyone; teachers, parents, God.
Having to ignore the comments on their weight because they didn’t want to have to explain they couldn’t afford the food needed to “put meat on their bones.”
Trying not to hate people that didn’t check their privilege.
We think of the homeless as bag ladies, madmen frothing at the mouth, but it’s more than that.
It’s your teacher, your friend, your peer, your enemy.
It’s hiding behind the identity of a middle class citizen they had seen on TV.
Praying that they won’t become a pariah.
Hoping they won’t become an outcast; doing anything and everything to blend into the walls of a memory.
But what doesn’t kill you doesn’t just make you stronger it makes you smarter.
Makes you realize how frivolous “things” can be.
Exposed to the elements; cramped in a car you realize that you can do it.
You can live without your iron bed frame. You can live without your closet or your dresser.
You don’t need a kitchen with an island or an espresso machine to be happy.
I found that you need support.
And in times of such dependence we think that “things” provide support.
But it’s your friends, your family, your self assurance that give you the power to be independent.
The weight that is lifted off your chest when someone says you can stay with them if anything happens, that you can turn to them, that you aren’t alone is incomparable to the false sense of security you find in a three floor townhouse in Park Slope.
You cannot depend on your next paycheck, your next interview, your tomorrow.
You can only rely on now.
Find security in the dedication of your blood, in the voice of someone close to you, of the beat of your heart.
Find your home, homeless.
A house don’t determine your value. You do.

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