Is it like waiting for a sign, or is the sign right in front of us. I stepped out of the Delancey Street J train station today, greeted by a soft haze of snow flurrying about as the sun hid behind an overcast sky, the light slowly waning as the clock clicked without a sound. The general markings of this beautiful New York City moment, that marks the winter, late fall, and early spring were seen in the disparate amount of people out and about, pandemic aside. I ate my noodles in the cold, steam pouring from my mouth like a great dragon with every bite. The flavors rising up out of the plastic bowl, the sriracha coating my tastebuds as the aroma of beef and broth filled my nostrils. Everything, soft and hazy like a glamour photo, paradoxically also had a certain intense crispness to it. The Chinese characters across the street, next to the royal throne of The King of Dumpling himself, stood out in their stark bleached white, against their electric blue awning backdrop, set yet still against the grey brick and corrugated metal on the facade of the building. The awning must not be too too old as the writing was not yellowing from the incessant wear of the weather and air of NYC.
I strolled down Orchard to Chinatown Soup to meet a someone that I would quickly feel connected too. I found myself in a humble storefront gallery space, the trappings of personalities not going after the elitist tide of prestigious face declaration, seemed to be in control of the helm. Right next store, perhaps three storefronts in a row, maybe on Orchard or maybe on Ludlow, I forget honestly as the haze fogged my memory, were the empties of galleries that very recently lined their walls with works of art that perhaps were never meant to be afforded here. Not saying that I disagree with this sort of delivery mechanism, shit I make my my living from it at times as well and I also have a dear place in my heart for levels of the art machine. But here, it stood out that they could not make it. In all of their prominent self important glory, they simply had the monumental quality of lifeless soullessness. A grand castle with no hearth, a great feat of pure bright white paint where nothing moved and no one cared to patronize what I am sure was well explained to be a good investment. No, the thing that shown the brightest on this dimming block was this small little alternative gallery space that was holding on, perhaps even surviving in this time of reckoning. It emitted life and something beyond “product”. It invited you in to be warmed by it and start to imagine what one could make of the world, with the world.
The art was soulful, young, fun, weird. It was like being in someones cool basement that had an art show, and almost like I was going to receive a Tarot reading in the back, or see a house show like in the Williamsburg of the early aughts. I spoke with artist curator for a good hour about her work, food, history, purpose, our respective journeys through life. I listened, I really found myself listening. She captivated me in her honest delivery, in her slightly anxious unraveling of thoughts. It was a very personal experience compared to the silent treatment given at most of spaces that act, or used to act, as their neighbors. I had the wonderful experience of losing myself, the beautiful melancholic satisfaction of being in the womb of Manhattan’s chilly glow reminding me of why I have always loved this place. They even had an apothecary (I don’t know, is this a new trend with the nouveau spiritual) which was kind of cool, and a zine library, in what the real estate agents refer to as “the trendiest hottest most hot most trendiest OMG its the hottest” part of lower Manhattan. Machine shops and tailors, sign makers and Chinese Benevolent Societies still lined the blocks. The upscale restaurants were patronless while the seemingly new, young, locally run pizza place was forming a line in the snow of all times.
It was awakening a bit. It felt like a place where the possibilities to take some of the space and be part of redirecting the power in this famous locale of hard work and unbridled energy was possible again. It finally, for the first time since I returned to New York, made me flush with the sense of possibility. With the sense that perhaps I can sit down and write a list of spells and alchemical compositions which involve people, places, work, time, and the ingredients of manifestation to give something to this place, to these now calm and still spaces. Something which might crack a certain chunk of the armor of suppressed creative story telling in this place. Or maybe it is just a sign of the extended melancholic daze that will slowly constrict the life energy out of this place as it is lost to those who need it and eventually overtaken by those who do not deserve it. Or maybe, maybe it will just continue to coexist in ways it always has, pushing and pulling at the strings of culture, purpose, creation, and survival. But now in the ending and beginning of a cycle, I am hopeful it will usher in the possibility of conversations and stories that have needed to be heard for too long as the loudness of the machine has deafened them.
It was a great melancholy today, its everywhere. Maybe this is the moment of void we all need to find that moment of grace where the grey wind carries us to do something amazing. Or maybe, just something that needs to be done.