I did it. I packaged myself, my anxious tired of being in a studio apartment in Oakland during a global pandemic self, my hungry for the energy of East Coast, for the feeling of an airplane holding me in a 500 mph stasis over the expanse of this schizophrenic ideologically torn abyss of land, I packaged myself and boarded Jetblue. Upon sitting down, the vast spacious enclave of middle seats begone almost massaging me with it’s sense of calm and comfort, I settled in, plugged in, pressed the TV touch screen , adjusted the air vents, and let my mind wander into 6 hours of nothingness. Upon arriving at Newark Intl. Airport I found my car service and rode into New York via the Holland Tunnel. I hadn’t been in the Holland Tunnel in years, quite seriously maybe 10 years. And every time in the past that I would emerge from this transitory portal between New Jersey and the Empire City, it would be bustling and hustling with throngs of enthused patrons of the energy of NYC, the , meeting of Tribeca, Soho, Chinatown and the Financial District all colliding with different cultural agendas and capitalist strategies for geographic debate and trade. This time, it was still. The lights sparkled, the storefronts, half open half shuttered, and people non existent. A still ghostly apparition of the entry to the Roman Empire in the modern age empty and open. I could imagine all the decades of people streaming over each other as I have seen it my whole life yet in this moment, in the dark of night, breeze blowing on my face the stores and stalls flanking Canal Plastics lay dormant, the bootleggers with no one to sell their bootlegs to, the street carts absent. It was a strange, welcoming, but strange moment.
I reached the studio late. I stocked up. I got ready to shut in for 14 days, and I went to work. In this post are a few images of things I worked on while in Bushwick for three weeks. Looking forward to going back before the year has ended.
