The Team Goes to El Museo del Barrio

I missed a great photograph today. The youth sitting on a bench facing a gigantic photograph of a path leading to a mountain. Not speaking. Waiting.

I had attempted to steal the language reigns of the project due to lack of speed but the Editor-in-chief coup'd. She claimed her own pretension and snobbery and stated that even she wouldn't request such high writing. So fix it, I said. It's written. Why isn't it here?  It's saved in my computer. With complete sentences as opposed to a bullet list? Yes, she assured me. So I want to see it.

One of my writers gave the thumbs to my boosting them over this first hurdle; after telling me she wouldn't be able to make it, she'd forgotten about a school trip, so stressed out; Raw Fiction is enrichment, it shouldn't be stressful. Another writer also approved and gave feedback regarding some of the technical details, very helpful. One thought the opening paragraph was too refined to be asking for the unrefined: it's complicated and unapproachable and where's the grittiness? One wanted to redo it herself (see paragraph above). One had no comment, the same who was waiting at the wrong museum for 20 minutes.

I told them to just go in and experience the art. No assignment. Just look at what you like.

There was a photograph on the wall of the museum. Of fire escapes full of people. Like water slides, the Editor said.

While they were waiting for me to get my bag from the bag check, I handed the camera to the Project Manager. She had them take a picture of her:

And returned the camera. So I gave it to the Graphic Designer for the walk to East Harlem Cafe where we were heading for snacks and a meeting. She did nothing but turn it off after a few minutes.

There they discussed the project and I got some snapshots of their serious seriousness.

The project manager took the last shot of the cafe.

The following I found in the museum where there weren't any guards:

I sent them home with Baldwin and told them to write on the photocopies. Underline the most powerful sentences. Reread five paragraphs once you're done.

Variables in Autonomous Hierarchical Collaboration

Today I met Raw Fiction's graphic designer on the corner of Dekalb and S. Elliott to retrieve my computer. I share it with her so she can learn the software and create a logo, design flyers and do whatever it is a graphic designer must do. I was dressed like a ringmaster. She looked like a high school student.

I keep preaching hierarchy and autonomy to them, my kids. Which is funny, because I'm an anarchist. Or maybe that is why. Everyone is their own individual monarch. Can monarchs with no masses work together?

The graphic designer had a present for me. One I was not expecting. A small white candy box with chocolate covered insects inside. There were four total. Two worms and two crickets, either milk or white chocolate. We stood across from Fort Greene park eating bugs and questioning progress.

Admittedly, progress has been slow. When I try to tell them this and encourage them to reconsider such big ideas as publishing others (we haven't even started to tackle the event yet) they ignore me. I love that they want this so much. But I also want them to get the most out of the reading, writing and field trips.

In lieu of the museum trip to El Museo del Barrio this Saturday, the graphic designer suggested the group have a meeting. Now, I did not say no. [This project is theirs. I can only provide them with options and hope they make the best decisions, or those I'd prefer. They have their mentors to ponder questions about time management and goals. They are on different pages and didn't meet last weekend due to the snow. Nor did they organize a conference session, which I suggested.] I simply asked her if she'd proposed this idea to the others and then emphasized the necessity of expanding one's cultural horizons in order to grow as a writer, thinker, human.

We finished the insects, I put Baldwin's Going to Meet the Man in her hands, and went our separate ways. I went home to walk my dog, chilled for a bit, felt social while longing for solitude, took the later and wound up the the BPL's Tuesday night movie. Scarface. Action, art, guns, immigrants, cops, morals and murder. The film has it all. The depths of loneliness, desperation and greed. I was moved.

I came home ready to scribble about solitude, anxiety, love and loneliness in the new tiny notebook I bought in the Brooklyn Museum shop after the El Anatsui exhibit on Thursday but checked my email first. An email to the group, from the Graphic Designer. Basically saying: There's much to be discussed (full stop). Let's meet to talk this week and do the museum next week (full stop). Respond All if you agree (full stop). Like a telegram. It'd been a couple of hours but no one had responded. I piped in. Not so easy. First: I haven't reserved a room for this Saturday. Second: There's a workshop next weekend. So the choice must be meeting and museum or no museum.

The web programmer responded: Meeting.

I kind of like the idea of being overthrown. However, I dislike the idea of work over art. Except, of course, the work is art. Is it the tangible taking priority over the metaphysical that irks me? The growth of spirit being deemed less important than professional growth?

And therefore, I must think hard, introspectively, about my own motivation. Motivation has so little to do outcome. My motivation was to bring youth together like frozen compounds of unknown, untested substance placed in a bowl to thaw and react to one another. The only constant is that they all want this to work.