Monday, May 20, 2013
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Blog #4
The scene from the film 'Goodfellas' when Karen and Henry walk into the Copacabana club is one of my favorites. A steadicam follows their movement into the club's side entrance and through the kitchen, then down into the main dining area. The steady long shot that follows their progression through the interior of the club to their eventual seat near the stage focuses on the backs of Henry and Karen, while capturing all the hustle and movement of the clubs staff, first the bouncer/host, kitchen, then servers. Henry's interaction with the Copacabana staff is showcased here-the way that people relate to him conveys a certain level of status onto Karen, as he is trying to woo her.
In this scene, at 2:00, two of the servers carry in a table-creating a seat out of nowhere- literally rearranging the dining room for Henry and his date. The flourish of the white tablecloth and the quick display of above-and-beyond service is a testament to Henry's power, which Karen is dazzled and confused about. Later in the same scene, she asks what he does for a living, to which he replies "I'm in construction." She feels his presumably soft hands while musing "They don't feel like you're in construction." The camera moves quickly behind them, and lots of action and movement all at once and from all angles is captured during this short scene. The quick, breathlessness of the editing, and the angle of the camera-highlighting the staff's expressions and almost over-the-top displays of service upon Henry and Karen's entrance is very important to the film's plot.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Sr-vxVaY_M
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Blog #2
A Walk Around Bushwick
I started off on the corner of Eldert and Irving, paused and opened my ears. I could hear faint Bachata music coming from a car parked near Covert, someone's favorite song turned way up. As I turned to the left and began a pace, the Bachata music, fainter now and intercepted by a thumping base from a car driving past me. Almost on Halsey street, I could hear the sound of three men fixing cars, the wheels of a skateboard rolling back and forth and loud friendly greetings, the smell of gasoline blended with warm bacon/coffee smell wafting from Los Limones, the corner bodega. As I walked up the graffiti'd stretch of Halsey street, I heard clicking heels and loud headphones, and the lonely sound that a tire makes when it rolls along the pavement. I heard a mother chiding her toddler in Spanish, the sound of the L train below the ground, more Bachata music. As I turned left again onto Myrtle Avenue, I heard the honking of truck horns, more hellos, and wheels rolling across the street. I passed the shop that sells live chickens, heard men yelling and lots of very distressed clucking, the flapping of wings, and the steel sadness of the cages as they screeched open and closed. More thumping base as I approached Food Bazaar, my final destination. I heard shopping carts across the parking lots, car horns beeping, and finally the sliding of electronic doors and the beeping of electronic cash registers.
I started off on the corner of Eldert and Irving, paused and opened my ears. I could hear faint Bachata music coming from a car parked near Covert, someone's favorite song turned way up. As I turned to the left and began a pace, the Bachata music, fainter now and intercepted by a thumping base from a car driving past me. Almost on Halsey street, I could hear the sound of three men fixing cars, the wheels of a skateboard rolling back and forth and loud friendly greetings, the smell of gasoline blended with warm bacon/coffee smell wafting from Los Limones, the corner bodega. As I walked up the graffiti'd stretch of Halsey street, I heard clicking heels and loud headphones, and the lonely sound that a tire makes when it rolls along the pavement. I heard a mother chiding her toddler in Spanish, the sound of the L train below the ground, more Bachata music. As I turned left again onto Myrtle Avenue, I heard the honking of truck horns, more hellos, and wheels rolling across the street. I passed the shop that sells live chickens, heard men yelling and lots of very distressed clucking, the flapping of wings, and the steel sadness of the cages as they screeched open and closed. More thumping base as I approached Food Bazaar, my final destination. I heard shopping carts across the parking lots, car horns beeping, and finally the sliding of electronic doors and the beeping of electronic cash registers.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Artist Statement
ART MAN, ART.
What a glorious, exhausting,
torturous possibility of being. The creation of art through any medium requires
the artist to be brutally honest with himself. The creative impulse is innately
human, and as a product of humanity’s multitudinous perceptions, art is
subjective. The first meaning of art belongs to the artist before reveal
invites interpretation and comparison. One of the most beautiful things about
the creation and appreciation of art in our world is that art can’t be forced.
Art that is supposed to come into being comes organically, it happens because
it has to. Though some people are undoubtedly more “artistic”, I think we all
house creative inclination. We are all capable of being inspired, art is part
of a reverence for lived experience.
As an
artist, I work in words. Driven by an aching, giddy nostalgia, Writing poetry
has been a very deep and honest way of understanding myself and how I relate to
the world. I avoid writing when I can’t
stand the prospect of such clarity of thought and emotion. I don’t create nearly as much as I would like
to. I appreciate what I’ve written as a literary timeline marking the highs and
lows of my life thus far. I would love to ban the writer’s block and emotional
inhibition, release the words suppressed by the “grind”, the necessary
monotonous bits of life.
The power of art as a thing comes
from the emotion that it evokes, rather than whatever form or shape it might
exist in. Art is ever-living, gifts of pain or bliss or fear bestowed by past
generations.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
A sunny disposition with alphabet soup problems
Women and Media SP2011: sunny disposition and alphabet soup problems; this...: Gosh, who am I? This kind of self-descriptive writing makes my palms sweat as I type. Providing a summary of self fills me with an odd pan...
post for medp384
2/2011
post for medp384
2/2011
Eyelash Prayers
Women and Media SP2011: Eyelash Prayers: The male gaze is the ever-present eye prod, the tape measure, reflected in all physical gestures of approval and disapproval. The male gaz...
post for medp384
2/2011
post for medp384
2/2011
Brief portrait of Carine Adler
Women and Media SP2011: Under The Skin; Carine Adler: Carine Adler was in her 40's when she wrote and directed "Under The Skin". "Adler has always worked with themes of 'dramatic sexual situa...
link to post from medp384
4/2011
link to post from medp384
4/2011
The Four People You Meet In A Restaurant
a brief history of my part-time employment
New York is an expensive
town and being 20 something is costly. Beyond the price of tuition, fun isn't
cheap. Dinner and drinks have replaced the 'freevenings' of our youth-nights of
board games and trolling AOL chat rooms have lost their edge. Many of us work
part-time while we study, encountering some eccentric personalities in the
process. I’ve compiled a list of restaurant types based on my own experiences.
The "Friend" of
the Owner
Customer who will attempt
to use real or imagined social clout- (usually imagined)- to get preferential
seating or free booze. This type might lock you into a strange half-glare and
loudly say- "Hey is*name of owner*
here? I'm a friend of *owner*'s!"
in an expectant tone bordering on aggressive. More often than not, my boss has
no idea who they are because he met them two years ago at Gray's Papaya or
something. The name-dropping is tinged with desperation, increased when the
Friend is on something resembling a date.
The Lush Co-worker
In the case of my last
job at a cantina in the West Village, the hostess was perpetually drunk. I
recall her yanking my arm and whispering some non-words akin to "bee ba
boo" into my ear. Because she is over 40 years old, you might find this
disturbing rather than quirky. The Lush's friendliness gets progressively
friendlier as dinner service progresses. By 9:00 pm she may forsake the seating
of guests completely to eat cheese in the kitchen.
The Loose Cannon
The Loose Cannon is prone
to wild torrents of misplaced emotion, which vacillate between pitiful and
terrifying. He may be balding and compensate with gold jewelry in the would-be
mafia style. My first restaurant job was as a hostess at a loosely dog-themed
luncheonette on the UES. The floor manager would intercept the phone line and
monitor my brunch performance from a camera in the basement. His outbursts were
frequent and bizarre. In one particularly confusing
instance, the LC screamed at me for forgetting to Windex the menus, then
barreled back down into his basement lair in badly concealed tears.
The Curious Patron
They might ask seven
questions about what falafel is and then order a hamburger from an exclusively
vegetarian menu. The Curious Patron does not have an adventurous palate, and
apprehensively ask if the “gwokamol” or the “kaysadila” is spicy. They might
complain that their bottle of Malbec isn’t chilled, failing to realize that red
wine is traditionally served at room temperature. The CP’s attitude of stubborn
condescension is supremely obnoxious.
I look forward to
applying all I’ve learned from the restaurant dynamic to my professional
future. Within the next decade, work will come to mean something entirely
different. A career in advertising will probably involve an office, more
clothing and less drinking. I look forward to the time when I'll be spending
money on a Saturday night instead of busting my butt to make it.
Pretty=Pressure+Pills
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dUGg4RCoF0s
first production piece from medp384
a (very) rough biographical sketch of a friend & her issues with self-esteem & chemical dependency.
5/2011
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