Happy spring equinox, my fellow Northern Hemisphere dwellers. (And happy fall to my friends down south.)
One of the highlights of the last several months for me was a visit to a progressive high school in my neighborhood. The principal gave me a tour of their historic building and introduced me to several teachers. As a tutor, I’ve visited many schools over the years, but this one felt like my version of a utopia. A place where making art is not an elective, but an integral part of the curriculum all four years. Where there’s a buzz of camaraderie in the air. I felt it in the hallways and in the classrooms we popped into, where I saw teachers and students having animated exchanges. Where what's central to it all is curiosity. A part of students’ junior year curriculum is to devise a question and then take a trip to somewhere in the world where they can seek answers.
This is how I want to live the rest of my life. Curious, exploring, and full of people who are doing the same.
My relationship to formal education is a little bit wrapped up in performance, in making the grade, which feels at odds with curiosity. In college, for instance, I was reluctant to visit professors because I was afraid of not knowing enough. I’m shedding that, bringing people in earlier.
I’m in development on a feature film (the working title is "The Joy Project"). I would like to shoot it next year, and I’m excited to share with you what I learn along the way. If you’re on Instagram, feel free to follow me here; I’ll follow you back. And I'd love to hear from you. What's one thing you're excited about this season?
"The Joy Project" started with an image. The one above. (Photo credit: Fred R. Conrad.) I began to imagine the life of the person behind the balloon cart, and I started asking questions, lots of questions.
This Creative Life: Smoke Signals | Summer 2023 /
Hello Friends,
At around 8:30 p.m. on Memorial Day, my building caught on fire. It happened so fast. One moment, we were lounging in our apartment, when the smell of fireworks filled the air. We searched around, thinking it might be an overheated computer or our space heater. The next moment, my partner told me to leave. Now. I grabbed three things: our dog Hugo, my phone, and a coat.
Our neighbors gathered on the street, and the fire truck had already arrived. I called one of my neighbors, a friend, to urge him to get out. A little while later, they brought out a man, naked and unconscious. I thought it was my friend lying there as they attempted to resuscitate him. Then they brought out another man on a gurney. They were father and son.
Within a few days, my partner and Hugo left for Miami. I flew back to New York the following week to attend the funeral, coincidentally on the day when the air quality in the city was at its worst. Walking through the city, it felt apocalyptic. When I arrived at our building and our apartment, it no longer felt like home.
I am grateful every day for my community of neighbors. In the immediate aftermath of the fire, we came together in solidarity. We created a group chat where we share information and offer support to one another. The experience took a toll on us, and we continue to feel its repercussions. Some have chosen to leave, while others have temporarily relocated as our building is rebuilt.
We are taking a break this summer, fortunate enough to have family to stay with. The time away is healthy, and I am grateful to be exactly where I am. I'm looking forward to spending the summer in Miami. I plan to shoot a movie. A tale of resilience?