Homelessness

St. Nicholas Housing Projects in Central Harlem

If there's one thing that one cannot avoid stumbling upon in New York, it's the presence of homeless people. They sit on the edge of sidewalks to ask for money, sleep in cardboard houses at church entrances at night and dig for food in garbage bins. Most of the time the homeless we see are men, black and range from middle age to old. To some extent, these are images we are accustomed to from other cities - just think of the homeless man that slept in front of our building in Lausanne throughout summer or of the Romanian groups that always ask for food, if not for money, at the entrance of Coop Grancy and Migros Closelet.

Nonetheless, things are different in New York, where homelessness has a dimension we would never have been capable to think of had we stopped our attention at the somewhat obvious signs of poverty one finds in every big city. The staggering truth about New York is that most of its homeless are invisible most of the time.

Fact is that almost 1% of New Yorkers are homeless. Each night some 60000 people, including many children, experience homelessness. Homelessness is not a phenomenon that concerns only social misfits, but families and kids just as well. During the day, homeless kids go to school, their parents search for jobs or work for salaries far from what a living wage would look like . During the night, these kids and their families often sleep in one of the many municipal or private shelters scattered over the city, which offer food and basic accommodation to people in need.

These homeless remain invisible if one doesn't try to look hard enough. Once grown sensitive, however, one often encounters mothers with tired kids carrying lots of strange bags in the subway at dusk, or people in worn out training pants fast asleep on subway seats in the early morning. What is more, I have recently discovered the coalition for the homeless van that serves food to homeless people every night at seven just one street north from where we live (which is to say in a neighbourhood inhabited for its most part by upper middle class people). 

Probably it would be easier to look away were it not for the strange feeling that this city's logic somehow builds on the availability of ridiculously cheap labour - a logic which becomes blatant in shop opening hours, cleaning service costs, prices for fast food products, and so on. It translates into the existence of vast neighbourhoods with median wages per household below 35'000$/year (Bronx) or 25'000$/year (Spanish Harlem) and into extreme feelings of foreignness whenever we happen to come across neighbourhoods of this kind (although we have never actually been to either the Bronx nor Spanish Harlem in particular).

Poverty and inequality of chance have long engaged me on a theoretical level.The unease I feel about it, however, has never been as concrete before coming here.

Ginkgo Trees

Ginkgo trees on Riverside Drive

If there is one plant (sic) particularly associated with our stay in New York, it's the Ginkgo tree. Not only had we never really taken notice of Ginkgo trees before coming to New York this fall. But by now we also have stories to tell about this family of flamboyant trees.

It all starts with our favourite New Yorkers Virginia and Fred. For a couple of months they have now been cohabiting with a new room mate: a Ginkgo tree that they found some day on the street. The tree had been cut somewhere at its trunk and still bore its beautiful fan-shaped leaves. In a spirit of wonder and curiosity, they took home the tree which has ever since stood in their apartment as some sort of unusual contemporary sculpture. Its leaves have since turned from saffron yellow to brown and folded in, but (as dropping leaves - Virginia and Fred gathered - is apparently an active process), they continue to hang on the tree.  

In the shape of a sculpture at Virginia's and Fred's, we have thus come to know Ginkgo trees (well, a Ginkgo tree in particular to be precise). Yet since then we have noticed that New York is virtually full of these plants. Stately Riverside Drive is flanked by dozens of Ginkgo trees, whose warm and bright yellow leaves bring beautiful colour spots into the greyish brown urban tissue of New York City's Upper West Side. And wherever else we go, Ginkgo trees turn out not to be far.

Ironically, we have gotten accustomed today to another particularity of Ginkgo trees. Female Ginkgoes not only bear fruit, but can also be distinguished by their distinctive, pungent and hardly pleasant smell. Since we inattentively walked across the Ginkgo fruits that heavy wind had torn off this morning, Ginkgoes have accompanied us not only visually, but also olfactorily through our day.

Be this as it may, Ginkgo trees have become an unmistakable feature of this city (from our perspective at the very least).

A day at the MET

Say one thing about Americans, say they are thorough. The Metropolitan Museum of Art is a gigantic compendium of the arts of the human species. It combines within one building the most disparate testimonies of human creativity, from early craft tools of the nomadic Egypt of six millennia ago, to 20th century totems from living oceanic tribes, from greek and roman pottery and sculpture, to middle age european artwork, from pre-columbian american jewellery, to contemporary and modern art from all corners of the globe.

The MET plays a role of teacher, providing you with the tools to understanding how civilisations evolved their way of expressing themselves and narrating their everyday life, how they established a contact with the divine throughout the eras, and how this all gave birth, in a relatively small part of the world, to an entirely new way of understanding and creating art. 

The Queen Mother Iyoba pendant mask
(16th century)

But at the end of the day, the MET is a museum, and when you have gone through its educational process, the MET is an incredible archive of human artistic creation. Of the 26 paintings that Vermeer created in his whole life, 5 are in a single room on the second floor of the MET, accompanied by Rembrandt and other masters of the chiaroscuro. Gigantic canvasses by Pollock, Rothko or Ellsworth Kelly take ownership of entire walls, while El Greco, da Messina o Tiziano fill rooms with colours, shapes and light.

We leave with the feeling that indeed, someone should take on the challenge of cataloguing the greatest achievements of culture and creativity. The MET promises to do just that, and delivers with vigour. Maybe it is a task that only a country founded on the idea of cultures meeting and joining, carrying over oceans their baggages of ideas, aesthetic vocabulary and traditions, can accomplish successfully. And maybe they're the only ones with the guts to rebuild an Egyptian temple OUTSIDE the walls of your museum in the middle of the most expensive real estate in the world…

The greatest european museums, while in their own right great repositories of art, don't come even close to achieving something similar, be it because they only focus on a subset of artistic history (Italian museums and their utter refusal to consider anything younger than a couple of centuries as art come to mind), or because they believe that empty space is a bad thing (the Louvre is the best example of what a museum should NOT look like in this respect), or simply by lack of space and money compared to this american giant.

The Temple of Dendur, in the MET greenhouse directed towards Central Park

The result is something that gives me hope for humankind. This museum, which is a physical embodiment of the encyclopaedia of arts, proves that there exists an effort to explain, demonstrate, maintain and exemplify our achievements, and does it on a "pay what you want" basis. Because beauty belongs to everybody, and everybody should be able to afford a visit through its history.

Gold figure pendant from northern Colombia (10th-16th century) 

A step back to the Middle Ages

The Cloisters from its entrance

As Europeans, we tend to think of the Americans as slightly eccentric and somewhat megalomaniac. Nothing is impossible in America after all, and so we often find ourselves confirmed in our preconception of Uncle Sam and his people. Moreover, as the wisdom of the crowd has it, despite their political and economic proeminence, Americans silently begrudge the Europeans their centuries old cultural and religious heritage.

Today we have been witness to what could be seen as the best possible outcome of these two commonplaces (should they then be true). After a thirty minutes subway ride up north, we found ourselves at the entrance of Fort Tryon Park at the northwest tip of Manhattan, a hill so remote and solitary that one could imagine it to hoist a genuine European cloister.  

And so it does, somehow. On the top of the hill of Fort Tryon Park thrones the Cloisters, the uptown branch of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the only museum in the United States entirely dedicated to medieval European art. Yet the Cloisters not only exhibits medieval art, it also incorporates it in the most literal possible meaning of that expression. The Cloisters was built after the plans of different European monasteries, in such a way that it could incorporate in its architecture several pillars, archways, cloisters and chapels that had been shipped from Europe to be reassembled on site. As a result, some of the most beautiful masterpieces of medieval European sculpture, interior architecture and pieces of art have found a new home on this side of the Atlantic.

Late gothic alabaster sculpture

Romanesque crucifix from the 13th century

As both Basilio and I have a decidedly contemporary mind-set, we decided to go for the audio guide to get the background knowledge that we deemed necessary for a full appreciation of the masterpieces that lay ahead. And our choice was well suited. Following the director's tour, we saw early romanesque sculpture, beautiful cloisters from three different European monasteries, magnificent embroidered tapestry, gothic arches and stained glass as well as a medieval herb garden on a terrasse on a patio with unique vista on the Hudson River and wooden land in New Jersey (apparently the young Rockefeller who gifted the Metropolitan Museum with the land of its current northern location bought the land on the opposite Hudson shore to make sure that it would never be overbuilt by mediocre settlements that could destroy the pleasant view from the Cloisters).

Sunset light seeping in from the patio

Today's afternoon has therefore been an uplifting lesson in medieval art history, guided by some very fine examples of European art. Ironically, our visit was framed by a contemporary piece of art that we last saw at MoMA PS1 (the contemporary branch of the MoMA) when we came to New York some two years ago: Janet Cardiff's Forty Part Motet, an installation of forty high-fidelity speakers each of which embodies the voice of an individual singer, performing a sacred chorale. Installed in the formerly Spanish romanesque Fuentidueña Chapel, this work almost looses its contemporary character and becomes a genuine part of the surrounding architecture and its time. One may regret that some playful aspects of the space and sound experience intended by Cardiff go awry in this context. At the same time, context and sound melt into a unique stunning experience - which was especially beautiful shortly before the doors closed as most people had by then already left.

It will be interesting to rediscover a new eye for old art when we get back to the other side of the pond.

Medieval herb garden

Price comparisons at the halfway mark

PDF for those with bad eyes

This weekend has marked the halfway point of our current stay in the United States. The concurrency of this event with the first weekend at home on our own since a while back, has given us the time to rest, and take stock of our experiences (and resume our electronic narrations as seen in the posts below), and to do some sums about our life in New York in the few months we have been here.

Speaking of sums, the prices for a number of things were somewhat unexpected upon arrival in the big apple, and we have therefore decided to make a comparison chart, on the somewhat sketchy statistical observations we have made these past two months, of the cost of life in New York compared to life in Lausanne. The result might not be what you'd expect coming from a country that is supposed to be very expensive...

A few things should be mentioned regarding nourishment: we have elected to maintain a dietary habit that is hardly different from what we had in Switzerland. One could argue that we could have adapted to the local customs (when in Rome...). That is a valid point, but we could argue back that the standards for health around here are less successful than back home. If we were actually in Rome, we'd probably gain from the dietary lifestyle (and the olive oil) of the locals. Here to eat healthy you'd have to look for asian or european cuisine anyway, which would seem redundant. (Although we will probably want to give Sushi a chance before we leave.)

The other things, such as phone contracts, clothes and museums, need to be evaluated with the understanding that we are here for a limited amount of time, so several things that are available on a yearly basis were not an option for us. (For instance, we ended up getting prepaid sim card, which are potentially less optimal than other contracts.) It is quite possible that a number of expenditures could be shaved off if one were to take the yearly options.

This was mostly a chance to play around with graphics and numbers on a sunday afternoon, as some people are happy to do every now and then. 

Family time

Brownstone buildings in the Brooklyn residential streets

If we have been more silent than usual during the last two weeks, it is for the most part due to a very pleasant special occasion which we could enjoy until Thursday: my family's visit to New York.

Downtown from Dumbo

Having the family closely around (very concretely in the case of my brother and his girlfriend, who slept in our living room for one week, and slightly more commonly in the case of my parents, who stayed at a nearby hotel) had at least two very appreciable effects. On the one hand, Basilio and I had a wonderful excuse to escape the daily work routine and plunge into the city's history and cultural offer at an unprecedented pace and depth; and on the other, we finally left the relative social isolation in which we had spent the first part of our stay to enjoy intense contact and exchange with the people we (or I) feel closest to. (A great aftereffect I should not miss to mention is the fact that we are now living from a kitchen full of exquisite cheese and fruit, as both my parents and Silvan and Fabienne gifted us with delicious and somewhat unaffordable gourmet products when they left.)

Midtown from the Top of the Rock

In terms of activities, these two family weeks have been a pure delight. To mention but a few: Together with fabulous tour guide Norman Oder we discovered Brownstone Brooklyn in a five hours walk through Park Slope, Fort Greene, Clinton Hill, Downtown Brooklyn, Brooklyn Heights and Dumbo, where we learned about the tight links between city growth and transportation systems, Brooklyn's past as an independent city, remainders of both the independence and the civil war, and the many positive and negative effects of gentrification (positive especially where it is well done as in Dumbo); American Promise, which we saw at the Lincoln Film Society, taught us about the challenging American school system and the difficulties (and chances) it brings about for children belonging to minorities (in whatever possible sense); From the 'Top of the Rock' we got a better grasp of the city's geography and its dimensions - which, although more manageable from a vantage point such as the top of Rockefeller Center, still go beyond our actual imagination; At the MET we saw 'Two Boys' and thus a dizzying masterpiece of a new music opera, which delves deeply into the realms and possibilities of the world wide web to tell a story about identity, masquerade and the danger of unfulfilled longing and loneliness.

The Lincoln Center of the Performing Arts

Together with our friends Virginia and Fred we went out of town to Dia:Beacon - a first class contemporary art museum in a former factory building close to Hudson River in Upstate new York which is dedicated to American Minimalism (a current in the new art that deeply satisfies our need for content-less and pure aesthetics); And finally we enjoyed a Harlem Heritage tour (with a somewhat peculiar Gospel mass at Abyssinian Baptist Church) and dinner at the scenic and way too loud (but NZZ recommended) Red Rooster Harlem.

The first exhibition hall at Dia:Beacon

As Basilio and I also had to work at least sometimes, we also missed out on some activities (such as a huge history lesson in the shape of an afternoon long stroll through the Metropolitan Museum) and have therefore put together a list of things we shall try not to miss before going back home.

The (in)famous Red Rooster in Harlem

Despite all the memorable and fulfilling activities, most important has been the presence of my family and the mutual exchange, discussions and common experiences it made possible. Their presence was a balm for the feeling of Heimweh (for which none of the languages we're familiar with provides a satisfactory counterpart) that we had been becoming victims of after two months on our own.

Indeed, these past two weeks of emotional refuelling have made us ready for the official second half of our stay.

Shoes and a teddy bear in Williamsburg, Brooklyn

Gospel and Community

Riverside Church, between W 120th and 122nd Street 

Last week we went to Harlem for a tour around its historical heart, led by an energetic octogenarian "swedish black dude from Minneapolis" who despite his venerable age left most of the group behind in his brisk new-yorker gait. The tour guided us through the richer parts of Harlem, which comprise several beautiful brownstone buildings streets and seem to be inhabited by a higher socio-economic class than other places in Harlem we visited in the past.

The last and main gemstone of the tour was the Abyssinian Baptist Church, where we attended a 1h30 long gospel mass in honest to god american style. The valets wear white gloves and tidy uniforms, and guide a mass of people to their seats on the main floor or on the upper balconies. On sundays, they tell us, well off african-american personages strive to come and be seen at the Abyssinian and the community is alive and strong.

Stained windows of the Abyssinian Baptist Church on 138th Street

We arrived some 20 minutes before the beginning of the Mass proper, and during that time, while the church was filling to the brink, a couple of new members of the community introduced themselves (the pastor had them come in front of the crowd and tell their names), an old man talked briefly about his joy at coming regularly to church, and a lady volunteered to sing the solo voice of a couple of psalms, the psalms were sung in gospel style, with the crowd joining in with energy and cheer. While all this was going on a score of people arrived to the altar, and when the last song ended all hell broke loose.

The latest arrivals were, as it happens, the choir and the lead… performer? Who sang and directed the crowd with boisterous, loud and infectious laughter and charisma. The better part of an hour of songs ensued, at earsplitting volume and accompanied by the public clapping and singing along, dancing in place, in standing ovations or exhausted on the benches. Young and old, affluent and destitute, all were caught up in the atmosphere. The words "communal" and "united" are quite apt at describing the oneness that this type of experience seemed to provide.

At moments I was thinking about what our equivalent in Europe looks like, where a group of well-intentioned amateurs manage to make even the most tone-deaf klutz cringe from the bleating cacophony they produce. As my dad often remarks, the proof that god is merciful is that he doesn't smite all his faithful into muted oblivion. Not in gospel-America though. Here the stuff sounds good and the effect on the people attending is tangibly positive (for extended exposure you might want to sit a bit further in the back or bring some earplugs).

Religious center in Manhattanville on 126th Street

The sermon was given by a two meters tall former NBA player, reforged into a junior pastor, who spurted out a garbled bunch of platitudes strung together in a grammatically and syntactically nefarious verbiage that managed to pull off some one-liners that somehow resonated with the public, who voiced its approval with yeas and amens, or raising hands and waving them in rapt meditation on what seemed to be pre-digested food for the soul. Here I had to give it to european priests: their rhetoric and the discourse is far better structured, and seems to be aimed at a public that, at the very least, is willing to follow more than one sentence at a time. The average sermon back home usually provides a number of points that relate to the human condition or to the challenges of living and sharing a world with others. The degree to which these points are banal or instead touch on interesting questions then depends on the priest, the place, the audience, but a minimum level of sequentiality in the discourse can be found even in Capriasca. Here, instead, the most pertinent phrase I can remember was "I discovered that I loved the game, but the game didn't love me back…".

Nevertheless, while the sermon might not be the pinnacle of intellectual discourse (mind you, it never is in Europe either), it undoubtedly combines well with the feeling of unity and community that we could feel throughout the mass. After the sermon, all people who wanted to ask god for any favours could join the pastor, the choir, the other pastor, the lead signer, and the dozen other people already at the altar for a final prayer, before the white-gloved ushers ushered us back outside, smiling, greeting and cheering the other people around us.

The feeling of belonging, welcome and openness that one feels here is something definitely american in nature. I can hardly picture a stranger entering into a church in Ticino and immediately being embraced by the old-timers and crones there. Here, however, it is a palpable feeling, and despite my entrenched opinion that we should be rid of religion as a matter of intellectual honesty, I understand the positive force that this type of experience exerts. In a place where 1 in 20 people in New York are or were homeless and where 20% of the population lives in poverty (and we are not talking about the swiss definition of poverty), a warm embrace, an hour of singing in unity and a dignified welcome are something that can provide an anchor and resonate with many.