#moma;

[joannaengagingart]

Home is where Mom Is. That was a magnet I gave her for Mother´s Day several years ago. Having different ¨homes¨ as a child and then again as an adult, home was also something very intimate and private. Few guests visited us growing up. Today, living in a roomier apartment with easy access to the subway, I continue to host few visitors, although my mom is one of my regulars. Maybe one explanation is food. Even after living in Inwood for a little over two years, I still miss my Brooklyn Food Co-op, a cult-like supermarket (as a friend likes to refer to it) with great fresh produce. My Saturday farmer´s market pales in comparison. The reason: lack of variety. At one point, I would cook and freeze enough to last me a month; now I barely cook enough for a meal. So hosting a dinner party becomes a major effort when before it was a piece of cake. Whether I eat out or make myself something to eat, I obsess about food all day long; I must have almost starved to death in my previous life. When I am not fed I get hangry, as Michael coined it. Basically: angry and hungry at the same time. The culprit: my blood sugar levels. Those who have witnessed it in person can confirm that it is not so pretty a sight. Thankfully when food is not on my mind, art is. And checking out shows becomes an almost weekly priority. A performance or exhibit space becomes a temporary home where a very intimate experience takes place in a very public space.

One of the more recent shows on the agenda was the Henry Matisse: The Cut-Outs at MoMA. Although it was mobbed with tourists and locals alike, and the viewing experience was not fantastic, I´m glad I went. Disclosure: I went a few days right before it closed. It showcased collages he did during the last thirty years of his life. High art? Low art? Who cares! Really. It was beautiful. Full of color. And very playful. One of my favorite pieces was ¨The Swimming Pool,” a fairly large collage that would easily drawn any studio apartment in New York City (no pun intended). The story goes that he wanted a pool, and his hotel-home did not have one, so he created and displayed one in the main dining room. I had seen it in art books, so it felt like a real treat to see it live. The Mediterranean Sea offered a great contrast with the stylized silhouettes and canvas background. I kept thinking of my favorite job in college as a lifeguard. Ever since I can remember, being in the water has always felt like a home- either doing laps in the pool or going into the deep part of the ocean with my dad when we would go to Marina Grande, a beach right outside Caracas. I realized lately that I wear a lot of blue. I´d like to think that it is because it reminds me of the sea.

A few weeks later while at the Romare Bearden show at the Wallach Gallery (Columbia University), the theme of home hit me again. This time for a different reason. This exhibit showcased a series of collages based on the Odyssey as a way to describe the African-American experience. Born in the south, Bearden eventually made Harlem home. Perhaps his reality was grittier and this added layer is what is reflected in the cutouts. They were not just pretty to see, but offered lots to ponder about. Each cutout has a narrative about home and displacement. Is home where you are today or where you once were? Is it a feeling or a physical location? Or better yet an ideal?

For my dad, home is a state of being. Almost by accident, I discovered that he belonged to a band. My mom recounted to me when he had recently moved to NYC for grad school and was part of a musical group called “Venezuela Suya¨¨or Your Venezuela. When I asked him about it, he confessed that it started as something fun to do when he first got here with little English and few friends. The band included harp, drum, percussion (he played the maracas) and a singer. The music was a mix of Venezuelan with the ballads of the day. One of the songs he remembered was a Venezuelan waltz titled ¨Pasillaneando.” They often played pieces by the composer and harpist Juan Vicente Torrealba, who plays music from el Llano (akin to the American Plains) and where my dad is from and a name I remember from childhood. According to Wikipedia in español, Torrealba is a hearty 97 years old, who recently wrote an autobiography. They played for about 3-4 years in different places including Central Park, the International Center, parties and restaurants in the Village until their gigs took too much time, and they decided to focus on their studies. Sadly, there are no photos or recordings. It got me thinking that this band was also a way to assert his Venezuelanness. In the NYC of the early 1970s, being Latino was not easy, particularly when you did not fit the standard profile. He is tall and handsome man with dark eyes. According to my mom he was often taken for Polynesian or some other exotic island in the Pacific, which I am pretty sure annoyed him.

After seeing both of these exhibits, I was reminded that home is something constantly in flux for me. Maybe home is also where the soul or spirit lives, and preferably with a full tummy. I have a few homes: my physical home uptown, the water and any venue showing art, and of course where my mom lives. But also where my dad lives. Not sure what my new fridge magnet should say. Any suggestions?

This post is dedicated to my sister who, like my dad, made home a state of feeling.

Image: lovethispic.com

[joannaengagingart]

Feeling Art

When I think of murals, I think of Diego Rivera. So when I found out that MoMA was having an exhibit entitled “Diego Rivera: Murals for the Museum of Modern Art,” I had to go. My first and only previous in-person encounter with his murals was 15 years ago when I went to visit a college friend who was studying in Cuernavaca, Mexico.  One of the mandatory stops was the “History of Mexico” at the National Palace in Mexico City depicting images from the Spanish conquest through the early 20th century. My friends kept telling me that the local guides were overpriced. They were probably right, but I did not care because it was one of the most beautiful murals I had ever seen, and with the added bonus that I already knew several of the personalities from studying them in school.

It was one of the smallest yet most insightful exhibits I have seen of Rivera’s work. It was a treat to see sketches, photographs and other documents of the murals commissioned by MoMA for the Diego Rivera retrospective of 1941 as well as archival material on the mural commissioned for Rockefeller Center.

Perhaps what I liked most was getting a peek into his creative process. Seeing preliminary postcard sized watercolors was extraordinary. It particularly hit home because at the time I went to the exhibit, I was taking a portrait drawing class and attempting to use watercolor, one of the hardest mediums to control.

What I liked least were the murals of New York. They were very dark and somber. Even though he was no doubt intrigued by skyscrapers and machinery, he reflected the less than human quality of the City. “Frozen Assets” showed the 1% of the City: a woman going to a vault to view her jewels while above her lay row after row of men on cots in a homeless shelter.  The image was quite appropriate given that it was done during the Great Depression. The scary part is that it is just as valid today given the Great Recession and the claims made by the Occupy Wall Street movement.

The murals of Mexico offered a sharp contrast. They were full of life, color and stoic characters. My favorite one was “Agrarian Leader Zapata” for these same reasons. As I walked through the exhibit, I could not help but wonder how Rivera’s feelings and convictions as a lifelong Communist impacted his work. It made me think how my own emotions play into my drawings. My instructor was a professional cartoonist and loved them; he claimed that they had lots of personality. The image above was the last drawing done in class. I am not sure if any of my drawings show my political views, but I do know that when I draw, I am happy and living in the moment.