Is there really a method—a method to art? Is there a reason why someone stroked the paintbrush vertically rather than diagonally? If art is an expression of what a human feels or wants to tell, and is to be interpreted by the audience, then I would say yes to the previous question. Whether a classical piece of work is displayed for viewers to pay to see, or street art is made illegally, the person who created the piece had an intension. After rolling eyes with my friend and wondering, “When will this lady shut up and let us play with some clay?” in my high school art class, this concept of intension is actually becoming relevant. I now see why one can’t just play with clay and expect a masterpiece. An artist needs a plan and has to know what he or she is doing in order to have a successful work of art. Parts of a Whole encompasses this essential tactic to creating, executing, and connecting.
I’ve heard someone once say, “Art is expression, until you sell it. Then it’s a business.” I’m not sure if I completely agree with this statement, but it can be applied to street art. The artists are spending money and taking risks to create this art. There is something valuable in that. More importantly, there is something authentic within this practice. The art is raw. It’s real. It’s truly from within someone’s soul. Each work in the gallery has a purpose for being included because as a curator I had to have an intention as well as the artists who created the pieces. Each member varies in color, style, and medium—this replicates the theme of the gallery. This is so the viewers can see that each part creates the holistic view on the elements of art possibly without even realizing it.
Some have asked me, ”Do you just write songs about everything?” And I reply, slightly insecure, “Yes.” Then I ask myself, why am I taking the time to write critically about my everyday situations. Like the boy I am secretly crushing on and hoping I stop on the sixth floor of Brittany so I have the chance of striking up a conversation with him. Is he there? Never, but I know he lives on the sixth floor because the last time we spoke was when he got on the elevator. Why? Why? Why? Why am I taking this time? Am I selling these songs? No, but it’s my raw expression that makes it an authentic piece of art, despite it being “off-the-record.” As a musical artist, I can identify with all artists—official or unofficial—in that it is difficult to reveal yourself. This revealing is our method, our plan; therefore it is necessary in order to be authentic.
Going back to the little details, I carefully compose each song, each line, and rhyme with the aspects from both my friends’ lives and mine. Everything is a process, a creative one, but no song just plops on the paper with the snap of a couple fingers. The sentences just flow out of my mind, into my mouth, and out in the echoing room. But once out, it now has to fit with the other surrounding thoughts. This is where I compose, like a street artist would plan his or her compositional space among the canvas—a brick building, lamppost, or the side walk. Just as I fiddle with details and, choose to put words in certain places, the artists included in my gallery of the East Village did the same. Each had an idea, and executed it into a visual stimulation.
With the little Michael Jacksons, the artist replicated the singer, but in an abstract manner. When drawing his afro, the artist chose to draw a squiggle here, and not there—creating negative space to balance and complement the positive space. This vandalism is repeated and repeated throughout the Village. This act of repetition, this act of illegal repetition reminds me of the time my floor mates and I got written up last month for posting little stick figures on every door in Brittany Hall. Yes, all sixteen floors. Who knew you can’t use Scotch tape in the dorm? We just wanted to display our art for everyone to see—I guess the RA’s aren’t that appreciative of our artistic abilities, nor the use of Scotch tape.
Maybe if we were more secretive, we wouldn’t have gotten written up. Maybe if we were more like the artist of the Black Tear painting. In the close up photo you can see the broad messy brush strokes. The ivory and black balance each other. With only two colors the artist manages to attain value in the image. The work is titled Black Tear because the painting is clearly centered on the form of the black glob dropping down and out of the wall. Here, the artist manipulated the paint into being something three dimensional with a smooth texture. I can touch and feel the tear. I can see the movement of it falling, dripping, dropping, and running down the ivory face. The tear is essentially exploding out of the pupil. It’s a spitting image of me leaving my Math for Econ midterm last week.
The upside down face balances the Black Tear mural composed next to it. By turning my head I can see an “L” above the face, but normally it would read as a “7.” Lucky number 7?
You can see the grain of the wood peaking through the painted stripes. I see a resemblance of a face in the top left corner, and a hand with three fingers on the bottom left. A blatant arrow pointing left is in the center. Why do I see these images? Is it just my imagination or is it the artist’s objective? As I write I can see the face I spotted yesterday, in the grains of the wood in my desk. I swear it is there. It’s casted by a mix of shadows and my imagination. I blink and it’s still there. I move around and it’s gone. Carpet is another good material to see faces. The artist chose to put these small details within the piece. Even if the artist slapped paint on the wood, it was for a reason. Shall we compare it to Jackson Pollock‘s splattered paint on white canvas?
The final piece in my street gallery—a glittery, colorful, eye-catching, mosaic stands tall and thin on First Avenue in the East Village. The hues of the art are juxtaposed to the concrete and brick surroundings. Even with a graffiti plastered mailbox, the detailed, carefully crafted lamppost outshines anything in its proximity. The sun is reflected off of the piece making it have a shimmering sensation, thus compelling me to photograph it, multiple times.
Facing east, “THEATRE 60” is written in the same way “GANGSTER” was formed with the white broken tiles. Beneath it says in smaller letters, “FLORENCE OTWAY.” Below the words is a human face—one that looks similar to Elvis Presley. The jet-black hair looks as if it was gelled to a smooth point at the top of his head. What is the connection to this face and the words? Off to the side, in smaller letters is the name, “JOHN MOSA,”—a possible artist, or even an inspiration.
Looking at the alluring art, the word “GANGSTER” is formed vertically on the post. “Why does it say “GANGSTER” on the left side of the post?” But then when looking on the same side, towards the very bottom of the post the name “Henry Hill” is placed. By searching his name I find multiple articles about this “gangster” who grew up in Brooklyn and became part of the Mafia. Putting pieces together makes the piece even more complicated. Now I ask, “Why did the artist juxtapose a shoe designer with a criminal?” There are multiple parts of this whole that remain a mystery.
An artist, especially when making a mosaic or collage, choses to put certain pieces in particular places. There is black, white, and all colors in between the spectrum that create the final image. The artist went as far to even break a mirror and place the pieces along side the colored ones. But the one that stands out the most is a ceramic tile that displays a water-colored magenta tulip. The absence of many tulip painted tiles draws the viewer’s eye to the only one in the piece. Each ceramic tile was glued and pushed onto the original bare street furniture. By taking a closer look at the varying tile shapes, sizes, colors, and patterns the piece is even more worthy of appreciation.