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That guy up front, on the right, has his fingers crossed. If he can sell his wife’s collection of Hallmark ornaments, some dating back to 1987, he can afford to drive back home.
Invitation to a Ror-schach: so that’s it. Fine! Instead of light at the end of tunnel it’s darkness at the end of walkway–or should I say runway: I tend to run toward a darkness or off a deep end screamming geronimo. Except that there’s what appears to be a stormdrain in the foreground. That keeps my two feet on the ground: where does it lead to?, in a heavy downpour would it get stopped up with leaves? All right down my alley.
“Dutch Angle” is (so I was told) the term for the slightly askew camera angle employed to provoke unease in the viewer and to underscore an emotionally “unbalanced” moment in the action or the characters. Here the lilt of the trees echoes the angle of light and shadow on the columns and gives an ever-so-subtle right-leaning tilt to the scene, which would be perfect for the sudden interruption of a pickpocket chase or a skateboarder perhaps, disrupting the scene. Mayhem ensues. Or possibly the Voice Over of an Evangelical — to underscore the leaning Right. Ah, the possibilities. Every picture tells a story.
What are they selling? The mildly colourful row of parasols remind me of the sidewalk that leads to the entrance gate of The New UST Hospital where my father stayed for almost two weeks this year. I had just arrived from Davao, a city hundreds of kilometres south of Manila, and I hadn’t even been in our house for twenty minutes when father suddenly collapsed. Low blood pressure. Polyps somewhere in his intestines. Ulcers, too. It was evening.
I slept in the hospital (freezing cold!) and I remember walking outside the next morning, about six o’clock, to where the street vendors were selling coffee in Styrofoam cups, and cigarettes, and instant noodles with free crackers. The parasols were very colourful, though none of them came in Starbucks green. There weren’t any benches in the area, so when I smoked a cigarette for the first time since I met my lover I had to do it leaning on a tree. Just like the rest of them.
It’s an invitation to walk down the path towards the wood, which stands as a challenge, for when you reach that point, a new scenario opens in sharp contrast to the commercial one before.
The perspective almost commands you to walk in and explore.
I am walking toward myself, the viewer of the picture, on my way to the Turner Exhibit, which I just now agreed to see with an out-of-town artist friend at the end of August. The day is hot, and I’m walking slowly, but the heat feels divine, like Provence. This picture evokes every positive memory I have of New York, the Met, and art. And a happy sigh.
As a grumpy New Yorker sick of vendors cluttering the streets at every turn (the glorious entrance to Central Park at Columbus Circle has been ruined by vendors, hawkers trying to rent bikes and others offering rides on pedicabs), I just see the ubiquitous tables full of crap for sale. But the Met? A glory of the world.
I love how the rows of trees echo both the columns and the generous, shade-giving umbrellas.
That guy up front, on the right, has his fingers crossed. If he can sell his wife’s collection of Hallmark ornaments, some dating back to 1987, he can afford to drive back home.
Invitation to a Ror-schach: so that’s it. Fine! Instead of light at the end of tunnel it’s darkness at the end of walkway–or should I say runway: I tend to run toward a darkness or off a deep end screamming geronimo. Except that there’s what appears to be a stormdrain in the foreground. That keeps my two feet on the ground: where does it lead to?, in a heavy downpour would it get stopped up with leaves? All right down my alley.
“Dutch Angle” is (so I was told) the term for the slightly askew camera angle employed to provoke unease in the viewer and to underscore an emotionally “unbalanced” moment in the action or the characters. Here the lilt of the trees echoes the angle of light and shadow on the columns and gives an ever-so-subtle right-leaning tilt to the scene, which would be perfect for the sudden interruption of a pickpocket chase or a skateboarder perhaps, disrupting the scene. Mayhem ensues. Or possibly the Voice Over of an Evangelical — to underscore the leaning Right. Ah, the possibilities. Every picture tells a story.
What are they selling? The mildly colourful row of parasols remind me of the sidewalk that leads to the entrance gate of The New UST Hospital where my father stayed for almost two weeks this year. I had just arrived from Davao, a city hundreds of kilometres south of Manila, and I hadn’t even been in our house for twenty minutes when father suddenly collapsed. Low blood pressure. Polyps somewhere in his intestines. Ulcers, too. It was evening.
I slept in the hospital (freezing cold!) and I remember walking outside the next morning, about six o’clock, to where the street vendors were selling coffee in Styrofoam cups, and cigarettes, and instant noodles with free crackers. The parasols were very colourful, though none of them came in Starbucks green. There weren’t any benches in the area, so when I smoked a cigarette for the first time since I met my lover I had to do it leaning on a tree. Just like the rest of them.
It’s an invitation to walk down the path towards the wood, which stands as a challenge, for when you reach that point, a new scenario opens in sharp contrast to the commercial one before.
The perspective almost commands you to walk in and explore.
I am walking toward myself, the viewer of the picture, on my way to the Turner Exhibit, which I just now agreed to see with an out-of-town artist friend at the end of August. The day is hot, and I’m walking slowly, but the heat feels divine, like Provence. This picture evokes every positive memory I have of New York, the Met, and art. And a happy sigh.
As a grumpy New Yorker sick of vendors cluttering the streets at every turn (the glorious entrance to Central Park at Columbus Circle has been ruined by vendors, hawkers trying to rent bikes and others offering rides on pedicabs), I just see the ubiquitous tables full of crap for sale. But the Met? A glory of the world.
Grumpy Old New Yorkers. Fist bump!