Expat Angst: Why Occuppy Wall Street? Part 2...

...Or the 2,000,002nd Reason I Left!

"Bye Y'all"
painting by delorys welch-tyson

Let me pick up where I left off…


Now, when there are two paychecks in a household a family unit might develop an erroneously inflated sense of economic worth. Suddenly the family finds that they are paying outrageous prices for small, often unnecessary things. The traffic suddenly decides to bear surrealist prices for flotsam and jetsum: whether it’s a ten-buck cup of coffee or a one bedroom apartment facing an alleyway in Manhattan for $4,000,000. The family begins to believe they are entitled to things that no longer have the value they had in their parents’ generation. No one is going to sell you an overpriced house or apartment to you if you are unwilling to buy it. It’s quite simple really. It simply requires a collective American and realistic philosophy regarding what something is actually worth and why.

Where once, one could achieve a decent education for a moderate price at a State University or for free at a City University, now everyone is vying for an overpriced ivy league education in order to major in philosophy or basket weaving, then wonder why they can’t find employment when they graduate.

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Whose fault is this?

Perhaps one should look around, while occupying Wall Street, to see who really might be occupying their jobs if they can’t find they can’t land one in their chosen field.

I realize I’ve been absent from the United States for quite some time, but I remember that all of my professional service providers, whether they be lawyers, doctors, teachers, engineers, journalists, editors or bank employees were all college graduates. People with college degrees (usually some kind of liberal arts endeavor) who worked for retail establishments were all occupying temporary gigs until they could figure out what profession they would pursue. I’m assuming they were all American people. Of course I never checked their birth certificates…so who knows.

Perhaps I’ve just been gone too long. I have no idea what my American brethren are talking about, anymore.

**Perhaps I should just find a venue where they’re trending, to grow my knowledge of things going viral so that I can offer more transparency to my dissed homies!

**(See my blog post: Ugly Words and Jacked-Up Concepts)

Expat Angst: Why Occupy Wall Street?

Recently I received a letter from a male friend in response to a blog I wrote concerning the precarious state of the European Union. My friend, a native New Yorker, is an educator, activist and Fulbright scholar and has for decades lived on the West Coast, in the San Fancisco Bay area. Here is an excerpt from his correspondence:


“I'm not sure what steps concealed the deconstruction of the middle class in Europe, if there has been such a deconstruction; but I know this one for the US. First we added a second working adult to the definition of middle class - so that two incomes were needed to produce the lifestyle previously accomplished with one. Then we offset flattened salaries with housing inflation so that the middle class could maintain once again the same lifestyle by borrowing off of its housing. And we lowered the costs of most everyday products by having them made in places where people earn only a couple of bucks a day for their labor. All the time, the share of the assets owned by those at the top, whose tax burden we steadily reduced to the point of starving government.”

This is my response:

When I was growing up in a moderately middle class black American family in New York City, my parents and their peers lived with a particular philosophy.

Although, both of my parents worked, my mother remained a homemaker until the last of her children reached school age. There were three of us. Their philosophy was that in a family, the role of the father’s income was to determine the standard of living in a family; the wife’s income would contribute to the quality of life. You see, this way, if one were to loose his/her job, the other could be able to kick for the duration, with minimum and workable adjustments in its day-to -day standard of living requirements.

In addition, the philosophy was that a family should never purchase a home where both full salaries would be required in order to qualify for a mortgage. This would often mean that one have to live in Brooklyn instead of Manhattan, Stanford, instead of Greenwich, Pasadena instead of Beverly Hills, Oakland instead of Sausalito, if you understand my meaning. This way, one wouldn’t accumulate unnecessary overhead, thus limiting the economical mobility of the family which the mother’s additional income could provide. The mother’s income was to be used primarily for quality of life issues such as planning for higher education for the children and also for the cultural enrichment of their intellectual and spiritual growth.

My family’s philosophy evolved in a culture… a black American culture… where historically both the female and the male worked outside the home for its survival. (Of course, I realize that I’m talking basically about my own family and their peers, not the general American community, black, white or other.)

When the American male ethnic majority, through their women’s coercive tactics, reluctantly gave into their demands for the right to work for economic compensation, no theory was put in place as to how this would work in order to maintain the financial equilibrium of a family unit.

A backlash then ensued which granted women unequal, inferior, pay for equal work and at the same time required that in order to achieve a decent standard of living it would be necessary to find access to more than one paycheck for each housing unit, in most areas of the United States..

Would you like me to continue?

Blaxpat Quote for November: Living Abroad

Some have said that, as a foreigner, it's difficult making friends abroad. This is what I tell them:

"The two most misused words in the entire English vocabulary are love and friendship. A true friend would die for you, so when you start trying to count them on one hand, you don't need any fingers."
                                                                                                     ~ Larry Flynt


Alors...bon séjour!

The Occupy Wall Street Movement?

Being far, far away and all, in France, surrounded by EU madness, I am completely baffled by what this Wall Street Movement in the States is really about.

I’ve been wondering, though, if perhaps the brochure, from the Wall Street English Institute, below may be at the heart of the matter?

Really…they gave me this!

They claim that they are endorsed by Cambridge University!

Une Connerie Extraordinaire!

The most politically questionable sculptural installation project in Europe in the last decade has to be that of the completion of the Fountain du Soleil and the Sept Scultures Illuminées de Sept Continents. This monument to something not yet clear to me, now defines the Place Massena, which is in my opinion …the heart and Soul of the City of Nice.

Had I considered myself pudique I hardly would have settled in France…particularly Nice... but this most recent project has tested the limits of my comprehension.

At the centre of the Fontaine du Soleil… standing haughty and very, very, white (marble) in all of his “butt naked glory” at the entrance to the Old Town of Nice is Apollo!

photos by dwelch-tyson

All of you know him, I’m sure: the God…Greek God, I emphasize…of light and the sun, truth and prophecy, enlightenment medicine, healing, plague, music, poetry, arts, archery…everything… and I suppose our very existence as well.

He is the son of Zeus and Leto and twin brother of the “chaste “(ah…hem, look, I didn’t write this stuff. I wasn’t even born yet) huntress Artemis. Surrounding Him are five bronze statues of fabulously buffed naked men and a voluptuous broad or two...one toting a baby... accompanied by their animals. Allegedly, these Greco-Roman mythological folks represent the planets, Earth, Mars, Mercury and Saturn.

Yeah, right!

The inauguration took place on June 20th of this year (I happened to be in New York at the time and missed out on the “festivities”). Apollo is now back at his old location at the Place Massena after almost 40 years of censure.

It was rumoured that he was banned  back in the 70s for being “overly well endowed”. This I find hard to believe because, in my opinion ( based on, of course, quite limited experience in these matters), he appears to me to be in completely perfect proportion throughout…if you get my drift.

But then what do I know? I’ve never been with a Greek!

So, back then,  after considerable controversy, Apollo was exiled to North Nice to the Sports Stadium, Parc des Sport Charles Ehrmann.

To my way of thinking, a sports stadium seemed to be a far more appropriate place to reside, outside of perhaps as a centrepiece for a Gay Disco, for this particular Deity.

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This Apollo now complements the contemporary art installation commissioned from the Catalan artist Jaume Plensa which frame the tracks of the Tramway.

Plensa’s towering seven white resin sculptures, which punctuate the square, are of naked men. These men are sitting on 10 meter high poles. Each man lights up the night with a play of light which bounces from one statue to the other signifying communications between the seven continents. 
This interplay of light flashing reduces the Tramway to a dubious image of an ominous phallic image snaking its way though core of Nissa La Bella.

I have been informed that the work is called “Conversations in Nice.”

Yeah, right!


It’s not the Apollo statue itself which perturbs me, it is the cumulative message of the entire centre city installation!

When a friend, appealing to my own personal sense of swagger bragged to me, years ago, how her Niçois population was rather “butch” I had no idea that this was what they were referring to.

Considering the sorry state of Greece today, it hardly seems fitting to have that kind of karma dominating the downtown area of a major French city!

Running Late!

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View from Windows on the World Restaurant

  I realize that this is October 11th…an entire month after most expats have posted their remembrance of 9/11. Finally here is mine.

So sorry about running late!

We had already been living in France, in Villefranche Sur Mer, for over two years on that fateful day when we were running late for an appointment in Nice.

My husband called me into our Den, pointed to the TV screen and said, “Look at this! What do you think of this?”

We both stared… horrified… at the image of a blazing tower of the World Trade Center. The news announcer had said that a plane had flown into the building.

Realizing that, as native New Yorkers, many of our friends and relatives were still living in the New York City Metropolitan area and that it appeared that they were now under attack, we looked at one another…speechless…and frightened in a manner we had never experienced in our entire adult life.

"Perhaps those N.Y.U. film students are up to their old shenanigans again…seizing the TV stations...or something...,” I quipped, in a misguided attempt at adding levity to our state of confusion..

What one earth was going on?



Should we call home?



We did. All the lines were busy.



We were running late for our appointment in Nice.



We turned off the TV got in our car and immediately turned on the news on Riviera Radio, just in time too hear the announcer state quite flatly that ‘the Twin Towers were no more!”

Impossible!



That massive structure… the Titanic of Manhattan (I had prophetically called it for years), could not possibly be gone! Transforming from a flaming inferno of death and destruction... to now toxic rubble. After all, we had just had dinner with friends at its restaurant, Windows on the World, a couple of years earlier for my birthday!

Impossible! Ridiculous!

Those film school students should be flogged, I thought again, just not wanting to believe.

We went though the rest of the day, after our appointment, running errands and buying newspapers. Not a single person we encountered in our local French Riviera towns seemed to us to have heard or read anything, despite the screaming headlines. Not one person broached the subject. Not a twit or tweet…so to speak.

Anyway when we finally got through to various friends and relatives in New York City, over the next few days, this is what we heard:

“I was running late…looked out my window and saw a plane flying into one of the towers…”

Another:

“I was running late, I turned on the TV to see that a second plane had already flown into the World Trade Center building. I realized I would not be going to work!”

Another:

“I was running late. My view from Jersey faces lower Manhattan. When I looked out my window, I saw smoke. I put on my binoculars to see what was happening. There was no way I was going to work that day!”

Another:

“My husband and I were running late on the Long Island Railroad. When we arrived at Grand Central there was pandemonium. Everyone screaming about a terrorist attack in lower Manhattan. I realized, then that I had no physical courage.”

And another:

“I was running late. When I arrived at the lobby of my apartment building, my Doorman said that there had been an attack on the World Trade building. Obviously I wasn’t exacting going to go to work. All I know is that I better get paid this month!”

And finally…

"I was running late to my job at the World Trade Center.. If I had arrived minutes earlier, I would not be here talking to you at this very moment because I would have been in the building's elevator when the first plane hit the building!”

My conclusion is that, as my Mom would say, I am "truly blessed” to have had tardy friends and relatives!

For the record though, despite surviving the worst catastrophe in North American history committed on North American soil, the general fall- out resulted in a certain amount of alienation from friends Stateside.. An alienation which generally grows between those who have physically survived a holocaust and those who only experienced one in theory or by distance.


Those survivors in New York had to continue to work and breath in contaminated air. All had to work, in various ways, through posttraumatic stress disorders and a lingering and haunting fear that there had not yet been closure in the assault.

Nevertheless we all still live…except one friend who I lost three years ago to the long-term effects of having to continue to work at her office near Ground Zero.


She had been running late that day as well.

Graffiti in Monte Carlo? Yo Man....That's ***Whack!!!

L'Art du Graffiti, Monaco

***Whack: an event, action, or thing which makes no sense or is contrary to a logical course of action; something entirely disagreable or undesirable; A non-sequitor;

ie: "That's whack! "

 No way.  It's not whack, people...actually it's ***dope!

***dope: adj. cool, nice, awesome

Okay...enough.  Since I'm closer to the Woodstock Generation than the Hip Hop, allow me to step into someone else's generational lingo and tell you about my relationship with Grafitti.

Let me tell you that back in the early eighties, Graffiti saved my bacon!

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Three weeks before the inauguration of my gallery..the first to specialize in the artwork created by children... two of my artists got "cold feet" and cancelled. There was major press coverage planned, a vernissage (gallery opening party), the invitations (fortunately) were still sitting on my desk and I was faced with  20' X 20'  of blank wall space!

A real ***"bummer"...right?

***Bummer: A situation in which no desirable result can occur.

No way.  Wrong, again!

The phone rings and a teacher from a prestigious arts high school was asking me if I would consider one of their students for a future show at my gallery.

Hmmm...

The next morning, in walks a cute dark-eyed Hispanic kid,  clad in ***Girbauds and ***Reeboks, accompanied by his ***homie.

***Girbauds: Jeans that anybody can wear but mostly black people. (Girbaud has straps on it that says M+FG. M+FG is a name that stands for Marthé et François. Most of the girbauds r sold in the city. "The best f_cking pants or shorts you can have. Also apparently the most expensive too. The real ones have straps on both legs: 1 on each side for shorts and 2 on each side for pants. On the straps, the real ones, it says M+FGIRBAUD and it keeps saying that. If your sh_t says Girbaud in cursive your sh_t is fake. They can come in different colors for the pants and straps. And some stupid ass ni_gas be spelling them all wrong and sh_t cuz it's that's French sh_t." )

***Reeboks: Gangster shoes to wear with your girbauds.

***Homie: Shortened version of homeboy, homeboy being your close friend. 

ie: Friends ask you to write down your number. Homies have you on speed dial

The artist sat down and with dramatic flourish placed a small ***Black Book on my desk. I looked from my vacant 20' X 20' wall to the relatively teensy tiny black book and silently freaked out! You see, I had no idea of the significance of this small black book, having not yet been introduced to what had come to be called the ***Hip Hop Cutlure.

***Black Book: grafitti book used for sketching plans for large urban mural projects.

***Hip Hop: name for the 4 elements of the late 70's New York City renaissance which includes break dancing, emceeing, (rapping) graffiti, and turntablism.

The three of of stared at one another in silence.  A real....long... transgenerational moment...let me tell you.

Ramellzee et Basquiat

Realizing that yours truly was absoultely clueless as I looked through the intriguing extra-terrestrial-looking sketches, the author of the black book and his homie gave me a history lesson on the Graffiti movement and the urban Hip Hop Culture.

Until that day, the only impression I had of graffiti was an often vaguely annoying presence of various ***tag names on subway cars passing by in ever increasing frequency.

Tag: a personal signature, usually vandalism with spraypaint, but can be any graffitti.

This was different. Reminiscent of ***Diego Rivera and Expressionism!

Diego Rivera: (December 8, 1886 – November 24, 1957)a prominent Mexican painter and muralist.

"Don't look scared, Ms. T" he said, laughing as my eyes again looked again from the teensy tiny black book to the naked wall space.  "These are just sketches of what I have in my studio."

Then the author promised to deliver to my gallery the following day 3 of his huge, powerful grafitti pieces on strteched linen canvases!

Lee

He delivered the pieces and I sent out the newly designed invitations.

To make a long story short...as they say...I opened this inaugural show which featured this 17-year old Grafitti artist from the Bronx. Not only was it a major media event but this artist received a large commission to paint a mural in Queens.

I and many others agreed that the show was ***Fresh!

***Fresh: Of great quality; new; original 

Intrigued by the popularity of this art form, I exhibited a number of other Graffiti artists. During this period, due to the success of the gallery and the influence of the Hip Hop culture, I ironically discovered the South of France, and eventually moved here.

And as they say... the rest is history.

Walking through this exhibit in Monaco remindend me that Graffiti not only saved my bacon, it actually, in its own way, altered the course of my life.

Homage to Ramellzee

NOW FOR ANOTHER KIND OF ZEN ACROSS THE WAY:

The Japanese Gardens, Monaco



   

déjeuner