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My visit to the Cooper-Hewitt design museum was slightly disappointing. I expected a lot more content in the vast mansion turned museum and found a lot of wasted space, small cramped rooms, and poorly displayed objects. Of course, I am a museum snob so the fact that I found the building itself more inspirational than the exhibits is not a suprise. I have unreasonably high expectations for museums.
I am delighted that such a museum even exists. I realize that budget constraints combined with the use of a historical building that cannot be altered much, provides a real challenge. It is only my dream that all museums be staffed and funded by creative people with phenomenal imaginations and unlimited funds that can design a space that engages me it's mission in every corner and crevice of it's canvas. A ridiculous request...or dream or wish, I know.
As I meandered through the museum I came upon one particular exhibit that inspired me to step outside my own little box and actually take a picture at a museum. A huge no-no in my book regardless of whether it is permitted or not. It's just so much sacrilege to me. I can't help this. It is the archaeologist/anthropologist/curator in me. The care and preservation of objects and information is an almost spiritual pursuit for those that endeavor and so I am solemn in my respect for their efforts even while I am unrestrained in my criticism.
So I am a hippocrite, breaking my own rules and simply having to capture and share these photos.
For details about this fabulous, sustainable design by Isaac Mizrahi, please read the Time Out New York article, and enjoy my lo res, flashless, camera photos.
I am delighted that such a museum even exists. I realize that budget constraints combined with the use of a historical building that cannot be altered much, provides a real challenge. It is only my dream that all museums be staffed and funded by creative people with phenomenal imaginations and unlimited funds that can design a space that engages me it's mission in every corner and crevice of it's canvas. A ridiculous request...or dream or wish, I know.
As I meandered through the museum I came upon one particular exhibit that inspired me to step outside my own little box and actually take a picture at a museum. A huge no-no in my book regardless of whether it is permitted or not. It's just so much sacrilege to me. I can't help this. It is the archaeologist/anthropologist/curator in me. The care and preservation of objects and information is an almost spiritual pursuit for those that endeavor and so I am solemn in my respect for their efforts even while I am unrestrained in my criticism.
So I am a hippocrite, breaking my own rules and simply having to capture and share these photos.
For details about this fabulous, sustainable design by Isaac Mizrahi, please read the Time Out New York article, and enjoy my lo res, flashless, camera photos.
My Returned Phone or The Turkish Cabbie Who Tried to Call Islamabad and Played Bubble Breaker on My BlackJack
Soon after I posted my first blog entry I did something I rarely do, I checked my voicemail on my home phone. There was a message from the cab driver I last saw when he dropped he off in Times Square. He had my phone, it had been dead but he charged it. Where could I meet him to retrieve it? After a little coordinating, and unreasonable favor asking I managed to get a friend to retrieve it for me. The cabbie seemed creepily disappointed that I was not there to retrieve it personally but he did deliver it after all.
When I received my phone in the mail I was excited, nostalgic. I quietly introduced her to her replacement. Her clunky windows interface frowned at the elegant and snobbish iPhone. She was in pretty good condition, considering her journey. When I finally got her all juiced up again and saw what had been going on, I felt bad. She had clearly been violated. Pictures were deleted (though most were fine), games were tried and failed, the weather and news in Isalamabad was displayed on her screen. Text messages were read and...gulp...attempted to respond to by heavens knows who.
She has now been cleaned and laid to rest but not without giving up some of her memories at least.
When I received my phone in the mail I was excited, nostalgic. I quietly introduced her to her replacement. Her clunky windows interface frowned at the elegant and snobbish iPhone. She was in pretty good condition, considering her journey. When I finally got her all juiced up again and saw what had been going on, I felt bad. She had clearly been violated. Pictures were deleted (though most were fine), games were tried and failed, the weather and news in Isalamabad was displayed on her screen. Text messages were read and...gulp...attempted to respond to by heavens knows who.
She has now been cleaned and laid to rest but not without giving up some of her memories at least.
Please excuse the mess while I build (rebuild?) my journal.
I was excited to learn that a major element of this class is keeping a design journal. Not so much because I love sharing inspiration but because I was already keeping one and considered myself a step ahead. Believe me when I say I needed to be a step ahead because shortly before class started I found my life turning into a spanish soap opera and I needed all the breaks I could get.
My trusty little phone kept all my important and frivolous information safe inside a sim card for me. I was especially proud of the photos of Grand Central Station, the NYC subway, the Guggenheim, my visit to the Cooper-Hewitt National Design Museum and my critique of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. That little Blackjack II also stored photos of the WTC site from ground view and from far above at the Millennium Hilton. The site was surrounded by media and propaganda assuring folks that they were hard at work on the site. The message stretched for blocks, with slogans and URLs to visit to read more about how much they are doing to the giant hole in the heart of the Financial District. Truly interesting stuff.
And there was the more personal media too. The frivolous-notes on wines I kept as I discovered new ones that I liked;the joyful-pictures of my nieces' baptism and video of her playing happily with her grandfather; and the sad-photos of my father's grave nestled beside the resting places of his brothers and so many other family members I didn't know I had lost until I gazed upon the warm, grey stones with their names etched matter-of-factly upon them.
The phone documented my journey, my coming home, my search for family, for justice for my father and all the little things in between that I saw, felt and heard.
It was all too much for me as I walked in the rain from the towering Wall Street office of my attorney. I was wishing it wasn't so hard to get a cab when it rains in the city when a shiny yellow beacon of hope appeared. I headed back to the garage where my car was waiting for me to take it back to Indiana.
Times Square. How much more New Media can you be? I fished for my trusty phone to take a few last pictures, despite the rain and how poorly dressed for it I was, I stood in the middle of Times Square and looked up at the rainbow of flashing lights and marketing, marketing, marketing, only to find myself empty handed and the cab long gone, with my trusty phone who was always there for me on my journey but was now left to journey on its own.
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I was excited to learn that a major element of this class is keeping a design journal. Not so much because I love sharing inspiration but because I was already keeping one and considered myself a step ahead. Believe me when I say I needed to be a step ahead because shortly before class started I found my life turning into a spanish soap opera and I needed all the breaks I could get.
My trusty little phone kept all my important and frivolous information safe inside a sim card for me. I was especially proud of the photos of Grand Central Station, the NYC subway, the Guggenheim, my visit to the Cooper-Hewitt National Design Museum and my critique of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. That little Blackjack II also stored photos of the WTC site from ground view and from far above at the Millennium Hilton. The site was surrounded by media and propaganda assuring folks that they were hard at work on the site. The message stretched for blocks, with slogans and URLs to visit to read more about how much they are doing to the giant hole in the heart of the Financial District. Truly interesting stuff.
And there was the more personal media too. The frivolous-notes on wines I kept as I discovered new ones that I liked;the joyful-pictures of my nieces' baptism and video of her playing happily with her grandfather; and the sad-photos of my father's grave nestled beside the resting places of his brothers and so many other family members I didn't know I had lost until I gazed upon the warm, grey stones with their names etched matter-of-factly upon them.
The phone documented my journey, my coming home, my search for family, for justice for my father and all the little things in between that I saw, felt and heard.
It was all too much for me as I walked in the rain from the towering Wall Street office of my attorney. I was wishing it wasn't so hard to get a cab when it rains in the city when a shiny yellow beacon of hope appeared. I headed back to the garage where my car was waiting for me to take it back to Indiana.
Times Square. How much more New Media can you be? I fished for my trusty phone to take a few last pictures, despite the rain and how poorly dressed for it I was, I stood in the middle of Times Square and looked up at the rainbow of flashing lights and marketing, marketing, marketing, only to find myself empty handed and the cab long gone, with my trusty phone who was always there for me on my journey but was now left to journey on its own.