Ollantaytambo

A public space is activated by its citizens, and is therefore fluid.

Plaza SUNAT (Superintendencia Nacional de Administración Tributaria), Day/Night, 2013.

Left, a marching band in military uniform, practicing typical marching band instrumentation.
Right,  a Peruvian/Andean, dance troupe practicing the Kashua, a traditional Andean dance performed in groups and outdoors.

Arriving in a new place, I become more autistic than usual. Language is more difficult to form with both English and Spanish speakers because my perception is heightened. I generally have no interest in purchasing group adventure tours, massages, conventional Andean tchotchkes, or geometric-patterned Alpaca sweaters made in sweatshops, so I'm easily agitated with all of the sales pitches experienced on the street. I become a watcher in every sense and try to figure out the best way to get to my targets without having to dodge vendors. Maybe I'm just getting old. Good thing I'm traveling alone. My targets tend to involve architecture, fabric and costume stores, hardware stores, good stargazing spots, quiet plazas, and good food. I like to take a few days to walk the city in order to identify my targets but also to think about why the streets are laid out the way they are, or why the young-people-make-out spot is where it is. In a sense, I'm attempting to construct a whole picture of a place understanding that, as an outsider, I will never get to experience it any differently.

The plaza pictured above was near my hotel in Cuzco.  By day, the loud sounds of a practicing marching band can be heard for blocks. Standard militant patriotism reminiscent of the Spanish conquistadors that toppled this great city, the former capital of the Inca empire. By night, the plaza is overtaken by a young Peruvian dance troupe practicing their Kashua, a traditional Andean dance performed outdoors. This felt significant and illustrative of contemporary Andean/Peruvian culture as I've experienced it. 

One of the first questions I am asked after I explain how I got here, is about the specifics of my project. I don't think the specifics matter so much and I don't like talking about details because I think there is more substance in the spectrum of information I can't plan on discovering. Whatever the specifics of my project are, my interest is in giving a visual form to the substitute culture that arises from communities that depend on tourism for their survival, focusing on the inauthentic commodities that are fabricated and sold as evidence. I will focus my research in Andean weaving communities, learning the processes by which their textiles are fabricated both for export and personal use. I will look for inspiration in every stage of a product's life cycle, from maintaining a herd of Alpacas to setting up a marketplace in a town center. There is much more I hope to explore but here is my starting point.

I hope to use this site to both publish my thoughts as an observer of a foreign place, and also to help track and develop this project that feels impossible to describe succinctly with language.

More soon.

Hazy days in Lima

Last view of Chicago

Lima from Larcomar

Fitness Equipment - Newer

El Parque de los Enamorados

Really good Ramen

For Abby

Making it work

Coffee to go

Electricity Museum

Electricity Museum

Electricity Museum

Electricity Museum

Electricity Museum

Electricity Museum

A working THEREMIN in the Electricity Museum!!!

Fitness equipment older

Letter to a friend:

I am metaphorically at the edge of a wide open space, either because I've sought it out or because I've failed to actively fill the space with meaning.
I've been thinking about environment so much. About how I long for a place that is both new and inherently home. I was in San Antonio yesterday with my friend M, I showed her my favorite lobby that was built in 1811 and had music that was reminiscent of either Poland or New York in 1982. And then we got into this conversation of wanting to be in a place with secrets, and loopholes to paradise, like New York in the 80's or Paris in the 20's or the Wild West of Billy the Kid. It got me thinking about New Bedford and also Montreal, sometimes Boston and definitely New York.

Road to Marathon

Ace Popcorn

Proud Mama

Pitcher

Sandwich, wide

Bathroom mirror

Marathon • 1 minute sculptures

Tagged along for a Marfa excursion. I'm making a video about impromptu sculptures along the way, here are some sculptures and other images of this lovely West Texas landscape.

"Braid"

"Red"

"Silver Line"

"Love Shack"

a fiction based on actual events in Marseilles.

"Marseilles is full of shit." These were the first words that came out of my host's mouth as we exchanged hugs and European double kisses. A very proper introduction to France I thought. "No, It's really full of shit, you really have to watch where you step here." He followed with, "No one comes to tour Marseilles anymore, what do you know about this place?" I rummaged through my brain, thinking of something intelligent to say. I thought about bringing up the diversity I knew existed here, the fact that it is the oldest city in France and the second largest city next to Paris, or something about it's importance as a port city to Northern Africa. What came out was simply, "Bouillabaisse?" It was a surprisingly honest answer. I had been dreaming of the hearty French Mediterranean fare that awaited me since arriving in Madrid for this two-month excursion through Western Europe. In my mind, France was a sure thing regarding cuisine. This is why I was here. I wanted sea creatures soaked in butter and then soaked in olive oil and then slathered on a toasty baguette, I wanted to wash it down with Pastis and macaroons. Tapenade, ratatouille, and aioli were all invented here. This is why, Marseilles. Julien, the host, took note of my one word reply and filed it away somewhere as he began talking about the "[h]ip [h]op."

I would not eat Bouillabaisse on this trip. Instead, I would eat like a 6 ft 7 in basketball player named Julien, I would eat like a true Marseillais. We began at L'Authentique, "the best" sandwich shop in Marseilles. Le Charolais is a foot long chopped steak sandwich smothered in aioli, caramelized onions, comté and topped with perfectly seasoned pommes frites. Cheese, fat, salt, carbohydrates and protein all accounted for here. Yes, this is a meal for 3 and yet I managed to only feed myself. As I watched the sunset on my impossibly delicious and diminishing sandwich, Julien informed me that there was no hurry, because lucky for us, "the best" bakery in Marseilles never closes. This was not dinner I thought, this was an eating contest.

Julien advised getting two treats at the 24-hour bakery. He recommended the plum cake though the layered chocolate mousse or lemon tart were sure things he said. We consciously walked home, hopping over piles of neglected dog poo, (it turns out there is a lot of shit in this city) with an éclair, a chocolate mousse, and a lemon tart for balance. Steps from our door, we make one final stop to pick up a bottle of "the best" drink in Marseilles, Quebec soda. Over pastries, Julien spoke passionately about tomorrow's calories. "Fougasse" he said, "is fat, fat and lardons, it is incredible, tomorrow we eat the best Fougasse." Indeed we did.

After a week of Marseilles' best, I left with many extra pounds, an addiction to lardons and a deep respect for the wonderful people of this gritty Southern French city. Luckily, a week of hiking in the Austrian Alps awaited my rapidly beating lardon heart.