Tag Archives: tourism

post-transitory thoughts

I have now officially been a New Yorker for three days.  After a week spent getting over a surprisingly tough round of post-Denmark jet lag and the overwhelming joys of seeing everyone I love on the Carleton Campus, I have again moved on, this time to THE BIG APPLE, where I am interning at Anthology Film Archives and hopefully helping (and documenting) fellow Carls Gabe and Henry as they make a feature film.

In many ways, being here is like beginning yet another study abroad program — although I have visited the city as a tourist about five times previously, actually living and working in New York is as foreign to my experience thus far as being in Japan or Denmark was.  And living in Bushwick, which is heavily populated with Puerto Rican families, the predominant language is even Spanish, so I may have to brush up on my language skills here as well.  So if you count New York, by the end of this summer, I will have spent 9 of the past 12 months ‘studying abroad’ — which is strange to think about, and perhaps underlies the sense of constant movement and exhilaration coupled with a lack of permanence that I have been feeling.  I am very transient, on the cusp between student and tourist, between theorist and traveler.  And this, in large part, is what is drawing me so strongly to psychogeography — an awareness of the necessary motional state of being that is my life for now, and my youthful and energetic and perhaps over-eager desire to discover and create and postulate and explore.  Because the essence of psychogeographic exploration is really to explore with curiosity — with an open mind and open eyes.

Admittedly, my approach to New York still feels very star-struck, in many respects, from my realization that the “Goings on About Town” section of The New Yorker is now actually applicable to my daily life to my giddy disbelief at simple things like jogging in Central Park or buying tofu and milk and Gushers with Theo at The Food Emporium (cue RENT reference…).  Incorporating “Bleecker St” and “The Bowery” into my vocabulary is kind of thrilling.  And while I was first struck by the so-called ‘sketch factor’ of my living arrangements (and have been struggling not soundtrack all aspects of my life with further RENT references), a little bit of unorganized psychogeography this afternoon revealed the charm and character of my Bushwick neighborhood (and at the risk of generalizing, gave me the feeling that I had been plunged into a Spike Lee film).  I went out in search of a library card and a set of sheets, and ended up walking Bushwick Avenue at least 15 blocks or so, and meandering back until I reached Knickerbocker Avenue, which the Bushwick BK had informed me would be the panacea for all my shopping needs (which it was, since I only need sheets, and I found those, but was disappointed to learn that the Spiderman pattern only comes in twin size…).

On my walk, I learned a few things about the visual culture of the area — or rather, what one can learn about the area itself from visual presentations therein.  There are quite a lot of flags flying in the area, and while a few of these are standard stars and stripes, the vast majority are Puetro Rican flags, which is an obvious but interesting feature of my walk today, given the shocking lack of racial diversity among which I have grown up living.  Next: I have a habit of pretty much always wearing a bandana or keffiyeh around my neck, and I tend to choose the color or pattern based on a combination of what is clean and what will go well with whatever shirt or other articles of clothing I have on.  Today I opted for green, and while strolling through the further reaches of Bushwick, I was engaged in conversation regarding the color of my bandana — “You like green?”  “Green in good, right?” “We like green, but green don’t like yellow.” etc.  Luckily I was wearing the ‘right’ color for my brothers in the hood this afternoon, but I could just as easily have pulled out my yellow bandana, which is a sobering thought.

I was reminded quite suddenly of the different meanings of something as simple as a single color (or less simple, perhaps, when it carries the gang-related baggage that has become attached to the bandana as an article of clothing within areas of major cities) — and, once out of sight of the kids commenting on my neckwear, promptly removed it in case I ran into any ‘yellows’.  The inner-city semiotics of self-presentation are a perfect case-study for the specificity of culture in the meaning of any visual that becomes proscribed as a ‘symbol’.  This is also a fascinating case of reader-response criticism (and the integral nature of cultural context): as the ‘author’ of my outfit, my intended meaning of “I am a hipster look at my thift store ironic fashion and film-related t-shirt with this cool green bandana” was not read that way.  I’ll probably reserve my neckwear for Manhattan, where I know my audience will be a much higher hipster-to-normal-person ratio, so as not to prove Roland Barthes right once and for all.  But really, Bushwick is quite safe — just an excellent spot to meditate on medium specificity and knowing one’s viewer.

pablo picasso and the potential parasites*

Today’s class in the land of Carleton College CAMS New Media consisted of a guest lecture by Matthew Clear, a professor at IES Barcelona, on Picasso, followed by a guided visit with Matthew to the Picasso Museum in El Born district.  Despite the fact that I was dead tired from staying up until the wee hours this morning editing video (I am a CAMS major, after all), both the lecture and the tour (especially the tour) were completely engaging.  Prior to this morning, I knew enough about Picasso to rattle off his various Periods (Blue, Pink, etc.), expound a bit on his influence (or fathering, one might say) of Cubism, recognize (some) of his works, comment on his proliferate womanizing, etc. etc.

But I definitely discovered a great deal more of the depth of Pablo Picasso, and particularly the fact that there is, in fact, a continuity in this body of work that at first glance seems almost disjointed at times, so varied and shifted in its style.  That continuity, I think, is his constant curiosity about his art and himself — translating into a consistently autobiographical and medium-experimental approach to art.

I’m sure this has been written on extensively by scholars before me, but I think it’s particularly interesting that if we consider his curiosity to be a inherent part of his character, his self, then even his experimentation, medium-wise, is part of an over-arching autobiographical thread, tying together all the reflections of his sexuality, his relationship with his family, his lovers, events in his life, his varying levels of wealth, that run through and define and inspire his art.

Of course, this approach to interpretation is very much author-oriented, so now I will turn about-face (of a sort) and talk about one particular work that we saw today that I think has special meaning located in the image itself, and in my own subjective appreciation of it.

Unfinished is fine

The work is one that Picasso half-executed in 1917, at the age of 36, a foray into yet another style in his never-ending process of self- and medium-exploration.  Matthew asked us why we thought it had, like every other attempt Picasso made at pointillism, remained unfinished, and I raised my hand to suggest that Picasso must have simply gotten bored, knowing his tendency to work fast his constant to desire to move on to the ‘next thing’ — whether a new painting, a new artistic style, or a new lover.  But while this is a likely (and interesting) explanation for the painting’s unfinished state, I want to question whether this painting should, in fact, be called unfinished.  Clearly, Picasso was done with it — he had ‘finished’ with the pointillistic approach not long after he took it up.  This, in some ways, could be seen as a mechanism of the medium itself — like the mechanically inherent aspects of the photographic practice that at times places the act of creation more in the body of the camera than in the hands of its operator, the artist, the mechanism of pointillism produces inherent impatience in some of its less ‘devoted’ practitioners.  And as a result, we are left with this beautiful trace of the medium, this ephemeral story of coming-into-being, a story we would not have been able to read had the medium been any other.

Picasso's unfinished attempt at pointillism.

To me personally, this painting is beautiful and mesmerizing (I aver that the rendering above holds no candle to the actual painting — shout out to Walter Benjamin!) precisely because it is ‘unfinished’.  The balance of space and color, of lines and dots grows together so organically.  There is a sense of fleeting existence, or simultaneously disappearance and reappearance, that I see in this painting.  For me, it is finished.  Or rather, it is not unfinished — it is always still being finished.  In a way, no work of art is ever finished, if we allow it to ‘mean’ subjectively, because it’s meanings and its context grow and change, almost imperceptibly, every time it is viewed or discovered and drunk in by museum-goers like myself.

the critic as tourist?**

I am as always, interested in how we attend museums, the paths we take through them, why we look at certain works and not at others, and how the architecture (literal and institutional) of the museum structures our visit.  As a large group (25 people counting Matthew) taking a tour in an extensive but rather small-roomed museum, we tended to cause blockages, but one thing I found fascinating was the way that other visitors to the museum would sort of attach themselves to us for varying lengths of time.  Undoubtedly, this is a credit to Matthew’s excellent tour-guiding, but it got me thinking about whether this is okay.  Sure, if you’re looking at a painting a tour group is looking at as well, it’s rather unavoidable that you will hear their guide’s explanations, but there was one point where we had accumulated at least a dozen hangers-on who were actually moving with us from room to room, which, practically speaking, creates serious traffic issues.  Then there is the question of whether these non-group members should be allowed to join a tour that was not, technically, public — we had some clinging Asian tourists for 5 or 6 paintings, and one older American couple that stuck with us until the very end in the ceramics gallery.  I guess as long as they aren’t preventing the students for whom the tour was intended from seeing or hearing, then it’s probably fine, but I’m also fascinated by the extent to which this fascinates (read: kind of bothers?) me.

Don’t get me wrong — I’m all for open-source, especially in academic contexts.  And it seems wrong that I should be bothered by the fact that other people were taking an opportunity to learn more about Picasso by listening to Matthew, who is a veritable expert.  But beyond speaking to a potentially unsettling elitism in myself, an elitism that I am beginning to suspect is in fact produced by the museum structure and the way it privileges certain art and an intellectual approach to the aesthetic, might this accumulation of tour group ‘parasites’, if you will, speak to a general lack of knowledge of how one engages a museum?  And how one engages art in general?  When I am feeling energetic, I like to go into art museums and look at everything, especially if the particular exhibit compels me in some particular way, as if it were a photograph with some Barthesian punctum to reach out and interpellate me.

The Louvre, where I am not afraid to admit, I get lost.

But not everybody does this, and I certainly don’t in every museum: I walk into the Louvre and feel lost, partly because it is physically dwarfing and mostly because I am looking for the modern and contemporary art that I personally know how to engage with (and which the Louvre tends to lack, since you must be dead to be exhibited there — unless, of course, you are Picasso, who was the first living artist to have his paintings hung alongside the likes of his idols El Greco and Velazquez).

Guided tours, then, are all about solving this confusion of what to look at, a method for dealing with the image-overload of entering the museum space.  They are a way of having our sight instructed.  In this sense, they have the potential to be both incredibly useful and incredibly limiting.  Approaching any museum through both the tour format and the free-form (as free-form as an architecturally-structured space can allow) act of exploration can be differently rewarding in different situations.

Centre Pompidou, where I know exactly which route to take so I can stand in front of the Mark Rothko for half an hour.

So I understand, on some level, these other tourists’ desire to join our group, a desire perhaps influenced, if they spoke little Spanish, by hearing a continuous stream of clever and enlightening and lightly-accented and familiar English in a foreign country.  Perhaps my unease at being joined is that, as a student here, I tend to Otherize tourists, hypocritical as that may be.  I conveniently forget that I myself am also from America, am also only marginally skilled in speaking Spanish, am also engaging in a number of activities that could be considered ‘touristic’.  I see American (and other) tourists as Others, in a separate group, while they see me (and the CAMS group) as Self, part of their own familiar space of English-speakers excursioning abroad.

So thinking about museums and the relative private-ness of guided tours reveals almost as much about how I see others as it does about how I (and others) see art — which in itself speaks to the interdisciplinary nature of visual studies, my tangential foray into my own psychology and some anthropological musings.  Speaking of (visual) anthropology, I should end by saying that, as tempted as I was, I did not sneakily follow the Japanese tour group that kept crossing our path in the museum.  At least, not for that long…

*I’m thinking of naming my band this, if I ever start the post-twee extravaganza I’ve always dreamed of fronting…
**Syntax and implied reference to parasitism lovingly attributed to J. Hillis Miller.