Making Paper at the Brooklyn Hi-Art! Machine

Today I learned how to make paper. It might be a surprise to some who know my politics and perspective and building/plumbing tendencies that I've never gotten into making my own clothes or paper; I don't compost; I don't belong to a community garden. I have no CSA. There are a lot of things on my to do list for being a model citizen.

It was hot in Brooklyn. And on the shady side of the street, under two tents, a few tables stood waiting to be surrounded by the young and old of the community, and Oasa sat sketching the boy who faced her on the other side of the table. A group of women and children walked ahead of me, we were all destined for this community project. The Brooklyn Hi-Art! Machine is a public art project serving a neighborhood that is being ravaged by gentrification (pause ... think about the fantastic use of words) and today a woman and her 10-year-old son George came out from Queens to conduct a paper making workshop just up the block from where I live.

I've kind of known Oasa for a couple of years and when I ran into her at a Farmers' Market vegetable stand I commented on the kickstarter for her project that I'd heard so many good things about but had never managed to visit and participate. I had three days to donate and they'd gone over their goal so she suggested I do a workshop. I didn't manage to donate and so I offered to do a workshop. Conversations via email: I think when my writerly verbosity communicated with her artist laid-backness glitches happened and I didn't end up doing a workshop. I could have but I also kind of bailed out.

Today, finally, the second to last day, I managed to make it to the awesome public art project that happens a few blocks away. And I learned how to make paper. And I met a ton of young people and helped them learn how to make paper, too. I wound up engaged in a rather in-depth and exclusive conversation with a young'un. His hair was to his shoulders and in his eyes. 

This is how it started:

What does life smell like? A few of the young, little people were looking at these buckets equipped with maps, a word and instructions to smell.

Life. Freedom.

Humility and Respect.

What does life smell like I asked? What about Freedom. 

"Freedom smells like cinnamon and salt."

Marcy, my new friend, was getting a bit high on Freedom. 

They weren't sure about life. Life smells like a pizza parlor, I said. 

I'd already explored the interactive art piece. And had written down my own answers in the little book I carry.

Humility is the sweet smell of love.

Respect: a forest carpet of pine needles after the rain.

It's always flattering when a random kid takes a liking to you. He showed me the tins he'd painted the day before that belonged to a masterpiece of connected cans of different sizes painted by the people on the block that looked like a necklace for a giant (he understood my imagination, I need to talk to kids more, I made a mental note) and we got to talking about making paper and the art project they did yesterday and summer in Brooklyn. He was telling me about his dog. Who was at home, and then, no at the vet. Why? I asked. And he said something that may well have come from his imagination.

I used to have a dog, I said, got her when I was just a bit older than you. How old were you? He asked. Nine, I said. How old are you? Seven, he said. But then he became 8 and a minute later he was nine. I honestly have no idea how old this boy is, his arms were so skinny and frame so little but he couldn't have been too little because his language, however mumbled and at times really hard to understand, was good. My guess is seven.

Oh, it's my birthday in three days he said. He'd forgotten he was eight and is going to be nine in three days.

I'm not going to reproduce the conversation but it was fantastic. Random. Creative.

At times I was thinking, does he realize that I know he's making all this shit up?

At times I wondered if he was thinking, does she realize that I'm making all of this shit up?

Except maybe he wouldn't have thought "shit."

From dogs to superheroes to block association presidents with exclusionary rules.

Eventually he went off to play with the other kids. And I asked Oasa if she'd like to do portraits at the launch. She will. Thanks, Oasa!

And thank you to Mildred the Hi-Art! collaborator. The world needs more accessible art workshops on the street and we all need to contemplate the scent of Freedom, Life, Humility and Respect on a regular basis.

The Evangelist, The Holy Spirit, and an Old Idea Come New Inspiration

On Mondays I volunteer for the Women's Press Collective. They're located at 12th Street and Second Ave in Brooklyn. You can call them at 718.222.0405 for more information, they don't have a website. Their organizing style is old school and personal. Today I came in to volunteer and they offered me an opportunity.

Lisa was driving to Fort Greene to pass out magazines to small business owners and managers to try to recruit sponsors. I was the one who was going to jump out of the car and give them to the employees to give to the manager/owners. Middle people, always makes me think of the children's game telephone - will the message arrive in tact, will it be wholly distorted or will it get disconnected? However, there was another incentive for me to be a part of this, to meet L., an elderly woman who lives in Fort Greene.

L. has lived a life. She was a gospel singer who had her esophagus taken out but still sang at the Brooklyn Tabernacle on a momentous night. She was a mother for the four months of her infant's life. Her husband was a merchant marine who was on water more than land. She was baptized by the Holy Ghost and visited the Brooklyn Hospital for over 30 years and prayed for thousands of people and witnessed miracles. She is a living miracle, she calls herself the bionic woman.

L. has a story to tell. And I am going to help her write it. Literally, because she doesn't type and can barely hold a pen to write. I cannot imagine being blessed with a more honorable task.

But that is not all that happened today. While I was sitting in her living room, crying at some of her stories, taking in the knickknacks acquired over a lifetime, and trying to figure out a good way to start the transcription I was inspired. Raw Fiction should incorporate the older generation.

It's not a new idea for me. When I worked for Green Guerrillas there was an emphasis on cross-generational learning and shared experiences. So when this idea of Raw Fiction came back to me in January it was still heavily set in three parts - writing, development and community -- and my launch event was going to include youth and elders sharing stories. However, the community took a back seat for a while. It looked like too much on paper. But if the summer component revolves around youth publishing the stories of community elders then that would be a truly beautiful thing. And I don't think I'm going to give an option. I think that is what I will do because it is the most valuable thing we can do, for ourselves and for our community.

Goodnight moon.

James the iMentor and an ELNYA panel at Smack Mellon

I'd been looking forward to meeting James for a couple of weeks before our schedules finally meshed. We were to meet at six and I finish work at two. So I had some time to spend in the city. I decided to make photocopies of the brochure I'd finally finished and walk around a bit. Finding a photocopy shop proved harder than I'd imagined because prices were much higher than I'd imagined so by the time I gave up and decided to get a very late lunch I'd already walked a few miles in city heat.

There was a pizza place called Artichoke on E. 14th St between 2nd and 1st Ave that caught my eye. I wondered what time it was and pulled my Blackberry from my skirt (yeah, I was wearing a skirt, and I'm wearing one today and I wore one on Monday, too) pocket. Somehow it slipped from my hand and landed on the concrete. I wasn't too worried, Blackberrys, unlike blackberries, are known for their durability. So when I picked it up and the screen was white without a crack or scratch in sight I did what anyone else would do. First I tried to turn it off and then I took the battery out. No cigar. I'd broken my phone. The next hour made me think of Murakami's 1Q84 and I believed I could well have stepped into a coexisting parallel universe and the dead phone was the glitch that made it happen. But I wrote about that in my journal and this blog is no site for fiction.

The relevance of the broken phone is that I was about to meet someone I had never seen a photo of. He'd seen a photo of me, however, my gmail blogspot rawfictionfacebook photo is a me with a fro. I have short hair now. So I ran to a library and sent an email to let him know I had no phone, however, brilliantly, I failed to mention my hair and my outfit. So, when I got to Think Coffee, I was on the lookout for a potential James. There was a man sitting on a high stool at a high table and I thought, he could make a good James, but had an arrogant air about him. I bought an iced coffee and wandered around the tables. There was a guy in the back who looked like he was waiting for someone, he had no coffee or treat and looked nervous and a little bit scared. We made eye contact but I really didn't want him to be James. So I went to the front and took out my colorful brochure and flyer that I hadn't made any copies of and put them on the counter. Yes, I am Raw Fiction.

A couple of minutes later a dashing, laid-back man walks in. His energy was immediately warm. He didn't necessarily look like he was looking for someone but I wanted him to be James. I caught his eye (he was looking for a woman with a fro so it didn't immediately register that I could be Zahra) and brought his attention down to my flyers. He smiled, we shook hands. Whenever I'm around men with ideal physiques the feminine in me is immediately summoned and the masculine in me feels a sense of camaraderie (not that I have an ideal physique, but I think I make a cute boy/boi when I dress like one). He was wearing a grey t-shirt and navy shorts, we could have been in his living room with a couple of cans of beer watching a game; that's how comfortable he looked. And his appearance didn't contradict his personality. He's totally the kind of guy you'd be thrilled to have mentor your kid. And! he's into healthy (slow) food.

We sat down and I pitched my project. He asked questions and suggested that he take it to the staff of iMentor, an organization that pairs adults with teenagers across the city. They have about 2500 young people in their network, it's very possible a young writer is amongst them just waiting to benefit from project Raw Fiction. Thank you, James!

This is going to be a long blog. But yesterday was a long day full of like-minds and positive energy.

After parting from James -- boy-Z wanted a hearty handshake, girl-Z was all about the hug and awkward-Z just smiled foolishly and said 'how nice to meet you' more than a couple of times -- I headed home to change into my favorite shorts with lots of pockets, got on my bicycle and rode to Dumbo.

Smack Mellon is located under the Manhattan Bridge across from Brooklyn Bridge Park - Main Street. It's an artists' space and was hosting an ELNYA panel on connecting professional artists with teen artists. In a nutshell, it was a panel about mentoring artistic teenagers. I went with my friend Erica, of the Hetrick-Martin Institute (to read more about her see the blog with Erica in the title), thanks for the heads-up on this awesome event!

I'd say the most important thing that was said that I want to remember is to never forget that ART IS FREE OF AGENDAS. This was emphasized by Johnny Ramos of Media Fellows. Yes, realistically, we have to pitch our ideas to schools and to funders so our project descriptions cannot truly be agenda free (even Raw Fiction which attempts to circumvent agenda language but I'm gonna have to get in it dirty to apply for a grant) but when facilitating arts projects we have to remember it is the art that matters. Not the corporate savior jargon and pro-college, pro-institution, pro-conformity agenda. (Not that I'm necessarily anti all these entities, I just think we're all individuals and have independent needs.)

It's the same with mentoring, it's the bonds that are made that matter. It's what the mentor learns from the mentee and what the mentee learns from the mentor. The dynamic of relationships matter more than the goals written on paper.

Another supportive idea that was raised was Jobs Training in the Arts. "Engender a sense of pride - their work is good enough to be sold," said Hannah Berson of Exploring the Arts (ETA).

Yes, not just asking for grants but working to make a profit, attempting to self-fund. Which is impossible but an important part of managing a budget. What can we earn on our own? This project is a worthwhile business not a simple charity case.

The arts are gold and mentoring is priceless.

Hey Eugene! The MoMA and First Generation Writers in a Post-Artists' World

I met Eugene in June 2008. Our mutual friend, the chef with a PhD in literature, the third arm of my imaginary 2004 band The JMZ, the woman who visited me in Seattle and Lorient, Mademoiselle Jennifer X. Cho, introduced us. Jen knew Eugene from being Korean at NYU (they were in different years and departments) and I knew Jen from being an English major in AmeriCorps. "So you want to be a writer?" was my nervous pick-up line to this gorgeous heterosexual before she became the renowned Chef Dr. And we started a writing group that more often than not wound up in bathtubs and bars where real writing happened sitting in a circle on a kitchen floor and our imaginations bounced off rooftops and along the banks of city rivers.

Eugene studied business as an undergrad and got his MFA in fiction at the New School. He loves Borges and Nabokov and was reading Dickens on his kindle yesterday when we met up at the MoMA. The last time I went to MoMA was with Eugene and we saw the German expressionists, Kathe Kollwitz and Picasso's guitars. This time was less exciting but it's still a New York museum, it's not bad. There's a good collection: the Monet room and sculpture garden, Picassos and Kahlos an Elizabeth Catlett and a wall of Jacob Lawrence. It's a way to spend a day.

I met Eugene in the summer of 2008. I had been living in France and a few weeks before I came home for the summer I got an email from Jen asking if I wanted to write for a project her friend, Eugene, was putting together. It was the Alexander Lim Project. Lim was an imaginary sculptor who broke boundaries and acquired fame, however, the material he used in his work was toxic and he gave himself lung cancer and died prematurely. The participants in the project were to write critically about the life and death of this celebrated and misunderstood artist.

Awesome, I thought. But I was moving home, didn't have a job, didn't have much money so how was I supposed to focus on writing? Had to. No one in their writer's mind could resist being a part of this project that culminated in a reading of all the participants. It was brilliant and absurd. A superb afternoon.

Eugene and I have managed to keep in touch over the years. Our early adventures focused on readings and drinkings. We've branched out to museums, Brooklyn and more food than booze. We're growing up, we've written novels we're passionate about but have families and lives and responsibilities that are maybe more important than dreams because dreams will always be there. Comparisons are odious (says Jack Kerouac) and first gen Scottish is definitely different from first gen Korean, but the chosen exile is similar, our parents wanted out and moved to the States and gave their children different opportunities. I feel like I've gone on a sentimental tangent that is more irrelevant than . . . thus I end.

I'm thrilled that Eugene will be reading at the launch event on September 15 at Five Myles Gallery around 3PM or so.