Sunday, January 31, 2010

The Dying Art of Artistry

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As Americans we’ve lost any artistry we once had, and you see that in the above photo. It’s a shot of Loew’s Grande Theatre in Cincinnati, Ohio, circa 1925. I went to that theatre when I was growing up in Cincy in the 70s, and it was torn down while I still lived there. It was an impressive building, with its cornices, arched window wells, and columned 3rd and 6th stories, but it was by no means unique. Most buildings erected in the early part of the 20th century, even those destined for the most prosaic of uses, looked just as... well, grand as the Grand Theatre. But not anymore.

You see this architectural decline everywhere you look, and you have to wonder what happened to us. Sure, there are still artful projects, but they are celebrated precisely because of their very strangeness, as if raising a ruckus over the odd structural gem somehow makes up for the fact that our urban spaces are losing their souls. Is this happening because the devil of capitalism has made builders beholden solely to profits? Ornamentation costs money, so for the sake of cash it’s gotta go. But why did citizens allow this to happen? We no longer expect beauty from our edifices. It’s enough these days to have convenience and perhaps safety. Inspirational design? Forget it.

The problem is most severe in the States, but isn’t confined there. Here in Europe I can see the same process altering the low skylines of the Basque country. Like a mouth losing a tooth, a perfectly integrated old block will lose a building, which is then replaced by some blank pale structure of cast concrete and polished marble. Only the French seem resistant to this process—not immune, but resistant, somewhat. Their urban spaces remain the most carefully crafted in the world. The hundreds of square miles that make up the vast center of Paris retain their character even as they evolve. And because of that, the city remains a living museum.

Anyway, the shot of the Grand Theatre came from a website called Shorpy that shows my birth city of Cincinnati, Ohio—and many other cities—around the 1920s and 1930s. The photos I've posted below aren't about architectural wonders, but the shape of the past. It was only the Grand shot that got me wondering why our civilization has reached the point where it expects so little nourishment for the brain, and respects nothing save the quest for capital. It seems a prefect encapsulation of a future that is to be dreaded. As for the other images, I think my father will get a kick out of them, since he may recognize some of the spots. And maybe, after he sees them, he can explain why we’ve changed so much, and the art in our souls has withered and died.

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Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Pamplona Calling

When I began reading about the world outside my little house in a little ghetto in Cincinnati, I learned of places like New York, London, Paris, and Rio, and they all seemed quite interesting, so I began traveling and I eventually saw them all. But thanks to Ernest Hemingway, another place I heard about at an early age was Pamplona, Spain. And I just went there last week.

Of course, this is not a big deal. I live in Spain. It takes an hour to drive to Pamplona from where I am. But, it was still a thrill. I had not seen photos of anything other than the bull run, so I had no clear idea what the place would look like. I knew the town was Basque, so I figured it would look like my town. Yes and no. It was similar, but the architecture was better preserved in the city center. That isn’t because Pamplonistas are more civic-minded than Donostiarras. It’s because the center of Donostia burned down two-hundred years ago and had to be rebuilt. They did it in a hurry, and sacrificed charm.

I walked the route of the bull run, which happens during the Festival of San Fermín. The bulls run through the oldest part of town and into the impressive old plaza de toros. I knew Spike Lee had made a Nike commercial of himself running with the bulls, and I learned from a Basque friend that Dennis Rodman had done it too. I watched both videos, and I think, at this moment—which is months before the festival begins—that if Spike and the Worm can run the bulls, I can do it too.

So that’s the goal for spring. I’ve done lots of things more dangerous than run with some bulls. If you’ve read this blog you know that. And though I’m not in top shape, nor in the prime of youth anymore, if I don’t have enough physical ability to manage this, I pretty much deserve to die. In the Rodman video, he laments not starting farther back in the pack. The bulls never got near him. So I know that to make the event worthwhile I’ll need to start back in the pack.

If I survive this, it’ll be like a constant gift to my fiancée. Anytime she gets mad at me, I can say, “At least I’m alive. That certainly doesn’t have to be the case.”

Honestly, the hardest part will be the fact that I’m making a spectacle of myself. Around friends, I will do anything. I mean anything. But around strangers, I am pathologically low key. The idea of being (almost certainly) the only black American making the run worries me more than the bulls. But fuck it—you only live once. If I do this, not only will I have another deathbed memory (possibly the same day)—it might actually help me with my fear of being observed.

Yeah, just keep talking yourself into it, dumbass.