Canstruction 2018

I have always loved traditions, big or small. I love planning for the future and reflecting on the past, and traditions are reliable markers along the way. They give me something to look forward to each year, and are opportunities to compare where I am, with where I’ve been. The annual Canstruction competition may not seem like it would inspire sentimental feelings, but this was our fifth year attending and I’ve grown to appreciate this time of year and see the event as marking the transition from fall to winter.

Every year, design industry professionals build sculptures made entirely out of full cans of food, which are then donated to local food banks. The sculptures are judged on local and international levels and there are junior and university-level competitions as well. Citywide chapters find teams, fundraise and find a suitable venue to exhibit the sculptures. Teams are responsible for purchasing their own canned food and Canstruction events have raised 70 million pounds of food to date.

2018 is the 26th year for Canstruction, and more than 150 cities across North America and other countries hold competitions of their own. Sculptures can win in a number of different categories: structural ingenuity, best original design, best use of labels, best meal, people’s choice (vote here), and most cans used. NYC’s winner this year for most cans was the Grand CANyon which was built with 8,235 cans.

Every year my mom and I walk around the sculptures like they’re in a modern art museum, critiquing their creativity, complexity and overall impact as if we have any qualifications to do so. The past few years have been disappointing compared with the first year we went, but we both thought there were some real winners this year. I loved all of the animals—fox, squirrel(s) and orca especially—but my very favorites were the garden gnome and the two New York row houses.

Most of the time the sculpture’s inspiration is obvious, but sometimes the design is a bit abstract. We were surprised to see two squirrels and two timepieces this year, but somehow every year there is a whole new crop of 30 or so designs. Every sculpture is accompanied by a sign explaining the design and my favorite titles this year were “CANstruction Boot” and “Gnome More Hunger.”

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From the top: Let’s OutFOX Hunger / CANstruction Boot / Tools To End Hunger / My Kingdom For a CAN / Peeling Away Hunger / CAN Mahal / Time’s Up For Hunger / Sitting in a Tin Can / Hunger is Snot Cool / Grand CANyon / Outrunning Hunger / Interweave / Let’s OutFOX Hunger / Make Hunger Irr-elephant / Squirrel Away For Winter / Tackling a Whale of a Problem / Ralph the Squirrel / Our Pride and Joy (wow they really missed the obvious AmeriCAN, huh?) / CAN-un-DRUM / No More Hungry Kiddos! / Time’s Up For Hunger / Please Keep Your CANS and Feet Inside the Ride / Gnome More Hunger / Evict Hunger!

Past competitions: 2014, 2015, 2016 and 2017.

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Brookfield Place
230 Vesey Street
New York, NY
Canstruction 2018 sculptures will be dismantled 11/15 at 6pm.
The sculptures are exhibited each year for about two weeks in early November.

The Mad Ones

I watched a documentary about Mister Rogers recently, and I can't stop thinking about his message to people, particularly children: that he liked them just the way they are. I've thought a lot about authenticity, and I think most people can feel, instinctively, when someone or something is not genuine.

I often think of this quote from Jack Kerouac's On The Road: "the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!"

"The only people for me are the mad ones..." has become a sort of guiding philosophy in my life. I spent so many of my formative years feeling embarrassed for the things I enjoyed. I was made to feel less than for being soft spoken, for not liking dresses, for cutting my hair too short. I can't pinpoint the exact moment in my life when I decided to embrace my interests—even if they were considered "out there" or silly and trivial by others—but I do know that my life has been exponentially richer for it.

I enjoyed touring South of the Border more than Machu Picchu; my dream vacation is a trip to Chernobyl, not to an Instagram-worthy beach town; I don't particularly enjoy superhero movies or Beyoncé; I would rather watch Sophie's Choice than the latest Star Wars and I'll probably never watch Game of Thrones; I've read 20 books this year and I've run zero miles and that has to be OK. When I completed my reading challenge last year, the most common question that people asked me was "how did you read so much?" and the only answer I could come up with was, "I just wanted to."

I think a lot about why I write this blog and share my stories, and ultimately I want to be a positive force in people's lives—to encourage them to embrace their interests, whatever they may be. You won't be successful or happy doing something that doesn't interest you—and why would you want to be, anyway? I want people to notice the whimsy in the mundane, to appreciate the mad ones, to notice that there are things that "burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars" everywhere you look. To use another of my favorite quotes (from Death Becomes Her, natch) "these are the moments that make life worth living."

Of course, it's hard not to compare yourself to others, and everything looks better through the Gaussian blur of social media. I'm at the age where everyone I know is either engaged, married, having kids or buying a house and I am doing ... none of those things. I once thought I wanted children, but I realize now that what I wanted was an outlet to make people feel special—I wanted to write lunchbox notes and throw birthday parties and have a tangible excuse to go through corn mazes in the fall. But the farther away I get from that childhood dream of a big family, the more I realize that I can fulfill that need in other ways—I can carve pumpkins and go to storybook parks and buy lamps shaped like dinosaurs, without sacrificing my autonomy.

There is enough negativity and deceit in the world—comprising hatred and jealousy and fear—that I want to seek out the people and places that breed authentic joy. I want this blog to be a gathering place for, and an ode to "the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time."

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These photos were taken last month at Bergdorf Goodman. These window displays were celebrating Iris Apfel—a fabulous yellow roman candle of a person—and her new book.

Desert Christ Park

Desert Christ Park, located in Yucca Valley, a high desert town near Joshua Tree in southeastern California, was the vision of one man. Eddie Garver, also known as the Desert Parson, conceived of Desert Christ Park with the help of sculptor Frank Antone Martin and the park was dedicated on Easter Sunday, 1951. 

Garver was granted five acres of land by the US Government for his park, and offered up his land to Martin, who had just been denied permission to erect his Christ statue on the edge of the Grand Canyon. Martin died in 1961, but not before creating the more than forty white, steel-reinforced plaster and concrete statues that still dot the desert landscape.

The statues portray Christ and other biblical figures, including a three-story, 125-ton bas-relief of The Last Supper. The website states that they "welcome all to remember and celebrate not only the visionary and the artist, but most importantly, the life and teachings of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ." 

I'm not at all religious, and I'll admit that I originally planned to go to the park because I had read that a lot of the statues had fallen into disrepair. I love abandoned places and I expected to find a macabre scene of limbless, crumbling figures. While a few had indeed seen better days, a group of volunteers is currently working to restore the sculptures and their progress is obvious. 

Desert Christ Park was one of three desert installations that we saw on this trip—including Salvation Mountain and Noah Purifoy's Outdoor Desert Art Museum. The desert is the perfect canvas for spiritual, artistic expressions like these and I will always appreciate the need that people have to just create. 

The park is open year-round, free of charge during daylight hours. It's maintained by the Desert Christ Park Foundation, and the restoration work is funded through donations and grants. We went at sunset and the light was incredible—I can't think of a better exhibition space for a man's life work. 

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Desert Christ Park
56200 Sunnyslope Drive
Yucca Valley, CA

The Jim Henson Exhibition

I frequently say that I don't like movies that involve real live humans interacting with cartoons or puppets. There's something about the suspension of reality that is demanded from the audience and the implied ignorance of the actor that is just off-putting to me (I know this is a crazy thing to think/care about).

So when I told David that I wanted to go see the Jim Henson exhibit at the Museum of the Moving Image, he was understandably surprised. But just because I don't love humans interacting with puppets, doesn't mean I don't like the puppets themselves or appreciate the artistry and creativity that goes into making and animating them (I do very much!). 

The Museum of the Moving Image is located in Astoria, Queens. They have a modest permanent collection of movie memorabilia—it's worth the price of admission to me just to see Meryl's wig from Sophie's Choice and Robin William's Mrs. Doubtfire face—but their special exhibitions are always top-notch. I went and saw their excellent Mad Men exhibit before I'd even seen a single episode of the show, so I knew that Jim Henson's extraordinary life would be in good hands. 

Jim Henson is of course famous for his Muppets, but he packed so much more into his tragically short life (he died after a short illness in 1990, when he was just 53). He began experimenting with puppetry while he was still in high school, and in 1969 he started work on Sesame Street. I was somehow unaware that Henson had anything to do with Sesame Street, but in hindsight I don't know how I didn't know that.

The exhibition features nearly 300 objects and 47 puppets, donated by Henson's family—including Kermit the Frog, Miss Piggy, Big Bird, Elmo, Cookie Monster, Rowlf, The Swedish Chef, my spirit animals Statler and Waldorf, Emmett Otter and others—and it's easy to see how they are all related and evolved through the years.  

At the end of the exhibition is a theater playing an episode of The Muppet Show and a short documentary about Henson's work. It's mesmerizing to see the puppets in person and then brought to life on the screen, but what I loved most was the behind-the-scenes footage—what's happening below the camera is often more interesting than the finished product.

I find that seeing things in person—paintings, set pieces, actors—versus seeing them on screen or in a photograph can be a jarring experience. Without the gloss of the big (or the small) screen, the Muppets look a little dingy, a little shabby and very much like puppets. It made me appreciate the work of puppeteers more than I ever thought to, especially Henson and his alter ego, Kermit. In a display case, he's just a simple, frog-like patchwork of felt and wires—but imbued with Henson's spirit (and hand and voice), he became Kermit The Frog (and blessed the world with a gif for every scenario).

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The Museum of the Moving Image
36-01 35 Avenue
Astoria, NY 11106
$15 adults (18+) 
Admission is free every Friday, 4:00 to 8:00 p.m. 
The Jim Henson Exhibition is ongoing

World Famous Crochet Museum

Before Jim and I headed into Joshua Tree, we stopped at the visitors center, located right off of Twentynine Palms Highway. After we had grabbed a map, I suggested that we try to locate the World Famous Crochet Museum before heading into the park, and luckily it was right across the street from the visitors center. 

The (perhaps hyperbolically-named) World Famous Crochet Museum is owned by artist Shari Elf, and housed inside of tiny photo-processing booth. Elf has been collecting crocheted items since the early '90s and after purchasing the photo booth, she built shelves to display her collection, painted it green and moved it to Joshua Tree. The museum is free and the door was open when we arrived. It's a quick stop—it was really hot and stuffy inside of the booth, even with the door open—but one that I knew we couldn't pass up. 

I can definitively say that Elf's collection is the largest collection of crocheted items I've ever seen in one place, although it may also be the only crochet collection I've ever seen. It's certainly deserving of its own exhibition space, and although you may be thinking that you don't need to go to the desert to see a bunch of crocheted poodles, I assure you that it's worth the detour. 

If you can name it, chances are that Elf has a crocheted version in her museum—corn cobs, poodles, dolls, flowers, cats, a banana split, waffles, a toilet, a sink, alligators, fruit, eggs, gingerbread men, cupcakes and even a complete nativity set. Although Elf is responsible for creating the museum, the official curator is a crocheted alligator named Bunny, who would like to remind potential visitors that "we are always open, even though we may not be there."

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World Famous Crochet Museum
61855 CA-62
Joshua Tree, CA 92252

NYC Ballet Art Series

It's nearly impossible to browse Instagram and not be aware of Jihan Zencirli, a Turkish-American artist who creates incredible, large-scale art installations under the name Geronimo. Her installations are made entirely of balloons—which are definitely having a moment, probably due at least in part to Zencirli. Starting in January, Zencirli installed thousands of compostable, biodegradable balloons inside of the New York City Ballet as part of their ongoing NYCB Art Series. 

The exhibition opened in January, but the first free public viewing hours were on Saturday. I went to Lincoln Center right at 10am, hoping to view the installation with as few other people as possible (always my goal). Luckily, there weren't too many people, but I do wish there had been fewer toddlers running through the installations, smacking balloons to the ground without any guidance from their parents (PSA: please, don't be these parents).

Zencirli's signature style is loads of colorful, round balloons in varying sizes, undulating and cascading over various buildings and objects. But instead of the rainbow installation that I had seen all over Instagram, I was surprised to find an entirely new, silvery set of mylar balloons. When I asked a volunteer, "where are the other ones—the rainbow balloons?" she told me that they had deflated and Zencirli had decided to change up the exhibition entirely. While I was initially disappointed that I had missed out on seeing the first iteration, it was hard not to be dazzled by the new set.

In fact, the ephemeral nature of balloons is what Zencirli's work is all about—she explains, "Balloons are only for a moment. They disappear and vanish. So rooted in my work is this reminder that you will only have this experience at this particular time. You’re here, you’re seeing it, you’re alive."

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New York City Ballet
Free public viewing hours now thru February 25th
Mon-Fri 10 AM – 6 PM
Sat-Sun 10 AM – 12 PM

Noah Purifoy's Outdoor Desert Art Museum

Right before I left to visit my friend Jim in California in December, I decided that I wanted to add one extra day to the road trip we had planned. I was getting nervous that we wouldn't have time to see everything on my list (the eternal concern) and I knew that I wouldn't have a problem finding things to fill the extra day. One of the extra stops i was most excited about adding was Noah Purifoy's Outdoor Desert Art museum in Joshua Tree. 

I first became aware of Purifoy's art when I saw Kaylah's post, and it was one of the first things that popped into my head when I realized we'd be close to Joshua Tree. Noah Purifoy lived for most of his life in Los Angeles and Joshua Tree, and died in 2004. One of his first sculptures was made from charred debris from the notorious 1965 Watts riots, and he was a founding director of the Watts Towers Art Center. 

He lived the last 15 years of his life in Joshua Tree, where he created ten acres of large-scale sculptures outside in the desert. The sculptures are made from salvaged materials, and vary widely in size, scale, style and type of material used. The "museum" is run by a private, non-profit foundation and it's open every day of the year, from sunset to sundown. There were only a few people roaming around the entire time we were there, and there is no admission price, but donations are appreciated.

To get to Purifoy's art, we followed Google's directions which took us down some rickety, unpaved roads. On the way out, we took a more direct path but just be aware that it's not the easiest place in the world to access. But it's so, so worth all of the work because seeing Purifoy's art in person was nothing short of a transformative experience.

Just the day before, we visited Salvation Mountain and although the two sites are very different in style and message, they are both physical manifestations of the vision of a single man. The desert is the perfect backdrop for these types of installations, and looking back over my photos had me missing that gorgeous desert light. We spent hours roaming the property—which is much bigger than I initially thought—and photos really can't do it justice.

I love the ingenuity and vision that Purifoy had—making beautiful, thought-provoking pieces from discarded tires, old clothes, toilets, bowling balls, rusty paint cans, wood scraps, instruments, machine parts, metal shavings, mannequin pieces, lunch trays and pretty much anything else he could find. I'm so glad that Purifoy's art has outlived him, and hopefully it continues to wow those who are brave enough to travel the dusty back roads in search of something more than just a Salvation Mountain selfie. 

Canstruction 2017

This is the fourth year that my mom and I have gone to see the Canstruction exhibit in downtown Manhattan (see how this year compares to: 2014 / 2015 / 2016). It’s a quick and technically free—although a food donation is appreciated— thing to do on a chilly weekend afternoon, and by now it's definitely a tradition. We get diner breakfast—the best one within walking distance is the Square Diner—and wander through Brookfield Place, judging all of the sculptures and reminiscing on years past. Every year we agree that the first year was the best, but perhaps what we’re fondly remembering is the novelty or the emptiness of Brookfield Place.

Brookfield Place is essentially a large mall, and the changes over the years have been dramatic. It was nearly empty the first year but is now full of high-end retail, food and offices. This year was the 25th anniversary of Canstruction, NYC, a part of the (now) international non-profit that was founded in 1992.

Competitors come from the design and construction industries, and there are competitions held in 150 cities across the world. The sculptures are created entirely from canned goods, which are then donated to local food banks and relief organizations—more than 50 million pounds of food has been collected since Canstruction began.

My mom and I have realized over the years that a lot of the sculptures are more quickly identifiable when viewed through a camera lens or a phone screen—like a pointillism painting they can be hard to decipher from close-up. I love seeing what teams come up with each year, and some sculptures are topical, some are classics, and some are a bit of a snooze. I always appreciate the way people manage to work food or can puns into their titles, and while some are more successful than others, I’m still waiting for a team to top my all-time favorite, The Sta”tuna” of Liberty (although "Beauty and the Feast" came close this year).

From the top: pretzel, Pixar lamp, Pac CAN, jellyfish, subway train emerging from a tunnel, jack-o-lantern, Pokemon character (I forget which one), Popeye the Sailor CAN, "coexist" rainbow, triangle, Giving Tree, Fearless in the Face of Hunger, Beauty and the Feast, Duck Hunt, On Track to End Hunger, lotus flower, and Pining to End Hunger.

Madame Talbot

I can't recall when I first discovered Madame Talbot's incredible "Victorian Lowbrow" style or saw her intricate (and completely hand drawn!) posters, but I've been a huge fan of her work for some time. If you're a fellow fan of the macabre, you've probably seen her artwork in museum gift shops—the Mütter Museum, the New Orleans Pharmacy Museum, the International Museum of Surgical Science—or curiosity shops like Evolution (or even knock-offs of her work—seriously, don't steal people's artwork, ok???).

I've never met Ashleigh Talbot, and in an interview posted on her site, she describes herself as "a reclusive artist" who doesn't "take part in the gallery scene," but lives with her "husband and five cats in a 140-year-old haunted house located on the edge of the Oregon Coast." However, thanks to the magic of the Internet (and specifically Instagram), we've become friendly and I am awed at the glimpses into her process and madly jealous of her top-notch private collection of oddities.

Her posters are so intricate and incredibly detailed, a fact that becomes even more impressive when you take into account that she does every step by hand. You can see photos of her process here, but she is very adamant that no computers are involved—from pencil sketch to inking, to the final printing process, everything is done without the aid of digital technology. I'm a graphic designer, but I've never considered myself an artist and I'm continually in awe of anyone who can produce art using only their hands and a pencil.

When I moved into my new apartment—and even though I was losing wall space—I decided to treat myself to a Madame Talbot print. I'd had my eye on the Halloween print for some time, and I always forget that they're so wildly affordable ($14.95 with free shipping and it arrived in two days). When I posted on Instagram about the order, Madame Talbot responded almost immediately with the kindest note, offering to send me another print of my choosing as a housewarming gift. Choosing from her inventory is always difficult—I want them all!—but the Antique Prosthetics poster was the ultimate winner.

Madame Talbot didn't send me the poster so I would blog about it (to my five followers, lolz) but because she's just a nice person. The Internet can be a dark and scary place full of trolls and instant Web MD cancer self-diagnoses, but occasionally it can be a magical place that connects people with similar interests that would otherwise never meet. I never imagined when I first tagged Madame Talbot's work in a photo of my gallery wall that she'd respond or turn out to be so kind—we'll probably never meet in person, but her artwork enriches me on a daily basis.

Mosaic House

I first stumbled upon Susan Gardner's mosaic house in Boerum Hill sometime last year when I was walking from my apartment in Prospect Heights to Brooklyn Bridge Park. It stopped me dead in my tracks but I was too embarrassed to take any photos of it—I'm getting better at not caring what people think, but my confidence comes in waves.

Recently I spent a Sunday wandering somewhat aimlessly around Brooklyn, eager to soak in as much of the borough as I could before I moved. I remembered the mosaic house and how I had been meaning to come back and photograph it, so I made my way to 108 Wyckoff Street. Luckily it's easy to find and googling "mosaic house Brooklyn" gave me the exact location.

Gardner began gluing trinkets, beads and bits of tile to the front of her home as a form of art therapy after 9/11. It's not just Gardner that contributes to the display, and visitors are encouraged to "enjoy, look, touch, but don't take objects." There are so many tiny pieces that you could spend hours poring over her work—it's interesting both from far away as well as up close. Bits of mirrors and beads trace the architectural details of the house's facade, but it's the tiny plastic animals that I loved the most.

Her beautiful mosaic work reminds me a lot of Philly's Magic Gardens, and her house would fit right in on South Street. New York can be a crazy place—peacocks ride the subway and no one even pays attention—but I never want to be desensitized or get too cynical and miss how incredibly beautiful and unique this city can be. I'm so thankful I get to share it with people like Susan Gardner and the joy and whimsy they bring to the world around them.

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Susan Gardner's Mosaic House
108 Wycoff Street,
Brooklyn, NY 11201
Closest to the F/G to Bergen Street

NYBG: Chihuly

My mom and I recently went to the New York Botanical Garden in the Bronx to check out the Chihuly exhibit. Dale Chihuly is an American glass sculptor (with an eye patch!), and even if you don't realize it you've probably seen his work which appears in permanent collections around the world.

I first became aware of Chihuly when I was in college and saw an exhibition of his at the Phipps Conservatory in Pittsburgh. The NYBG show is similar to that one in that it intersperses Chihuly sculptures with the garden's own plant collections and natural surroundings. Chihuly pieces are so fluid and organic-looking that they fit perfectly into a garden setting. There were actually some pieces that fit in so seamlessly that it was hard at first to discern what was glass and what was plant—and vice versa. 

Chihuly pieces aren't exclusively based on flora—there were ones that looked like cranes and rock candy—and I was surprised at how many different styles are on display in the garden. He's probably best known for his twisting, curling, spikey concoctions as well as his undulating bowls, but there were more modern, simple pieces placed near water so that their reflections were as integral to the art as the actual glass panes.  

I was very impressed with his work back when I saw it at Phipps, but ever since I feel like I've very badly wanted to hate on Chihuly for being too commercial or write off his work as faux-opulent (he has a lot of work in Vegas and a store at the Bellagio), but I'm won over every time I see a piece in person. 

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The New York Botanical Garden
2900 Southern Boulevard
Bronx, NY 10458-5126
Tues-Sun 10am-6pm, Closed Mondays
"Chihuly" is on view until October 29, 2017

8 'Till Late

I was still in South America when I first heard about Lucy Sparrow's 8 'Till Late exhibition. Taking place in the Standard Hotel (under the High Line), 8 'Till Late is a replica New York bodega—where everything is made out of felt. There's a deli counter full of sausages, a meat slicer, a hot dog cart, ice cream, a freezer full of pizzas and nuggets, pizza by the slice, two felt cash registers, a soda case, cigarettes behind the counter and an ATM. The shelves are stocked with bodega staples—cereal, canned goods, candy, produce and toiletries—and everything in the store is for sale. 

As soon as I read about the installation I knew I had to see it in person. Since opening in the beginning of June, it's been so popular that it was closed for restocking on Monday and Tuesday of last week. On Wednesday we tried to go after work only to find it closed early for a private party. On Thursday I tried again but was discouraged by the long line and decided to invoke my favorite New York hack and go as soon as they opened on Friday morning (no one does anything early in New York). 

As the name suggests, the installation is open at 8am (until 8pm), and I saw a total of maybe five people in the half hour I spent browsing before work. One of which was the artist herself, and she was answering questions about her work in addition to working the (felt) cash register. I overheard her say that even with the restocking, the store was half the size as it was when it first opened. It closed again on Monday for yet another restock, and yesterday she announced on Instagram that today would be the last day for the installation (the original end date was June 30th). If you can't make it in person, or if you do and find that they're sold out of your favorite food, most of the items are also available online (and will start shipping in August).

Although done in a different medium, Sparrow's work reminds me a lot of Liza Lou's beaded Kitchen and Backyard. Lou's work had such an impact on me that when I was 16, I made a beaded portrait of Rosie O'Donnell (it was the early 2000s, she was popular!), which was so insane that it got me briefly mentioned on her show. I loved everything about the 8 'Till Late exhibition for the same reasons—it's silly and fun and impressive in its scope, scale and attention to detail. I knew I had to take a small piece of the bodega home with me, and after careful consideration I officially adopted a little smiling potato. As Sparrow was lovingly wrapping it for me she said "I hope it brings you joy!" and I replied, "Oh, it already has."

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8 'Till Late
69 Little West 12th Street
New York, New York
(right across from Hector's diner, under the High Line)
Open 8am-8pm, last day is Wednesday June 21st

Jeff Koons: Seated Ballerina

I feel like I have a conflicted relationship with "modern art," or "installation art." I'm sure it's unsophisticated of me to say so, but a lot of contemporary art is just totally lost on me. My eyes can't roll far enough into the back of my head when I go to MOMA and see an entire gallery filled with blank canvasses (or ones with light pencil lines, or one stroke of color, etc.) regarded as "Art" with a capital A. I realize that there is sometimes method to the madness—and I welcome people who are smarter than I am to explain to me why certain pieces are museum-worthy–but I do try to recognize and respect the completely subjective nature of what counts as "art." 

When the Whitney was moving downtown a few years ago, their final exhibition housed on the UES (before the MET Breuer moved in) was a Jeff Koons retrospective. I went because I had never been to the Whitney, and it was a pay-what-you-wish night. Koons is arguably one of the most famous living artists today, but to me a lot of his work inspires multiple of those muscle-straining eye rolls. 

I remember walking into one of the rooms and just seeing a stack of lawn chairs—a scene repeating itself a million times over at Wal-Marts across the country. But even as ridiculous as some of his "work" is, I can't deny the fact that I just really love his balloon animal sculptures. Sure, he didn't invent the balloon animal, and I'm sure he's so far removed from his actual work at this point in his career that everything is manufactured by minions à la the Warhol factory system, BUT I just can't hate those stupid sculptures. They're an everyday, ephemeral object, made larger and more permanent by design. They're whimsical and shiny and funny-looking and they make me smile in spite of myself. 

So, when I heard that Koons had a new balloon sculpture on display in Rockefeller Center, I couldn't help but be excited about it. Seated Ballerina is just that—a 45-foot-tall seated ballerina balloon sculpture—but unlike the works that made him famous, this one is an actual balloon (tethered to a pedestal and on view until June 2nd). 

According to a press release, the sculpture "is based on a small porcelain figurine and acts as a contemporary iteration of the goddess Venus," but it's also larger than it's supposed to be and just plain fun to look at. I wouldn't say that Seated Ballerina made me think deeply about National Missing Children’s Month—which Koons claims is an objective—but it did bring me more joy than an entire gallery of blank canvasses ever could.

Greenwich Locksmiths

There are certain areas of New York that I know better than others, and 7th Ave South around Bleecker Street in the West Village is one of them. Before I ever moved here I found myself in this part of town often for various reasons, but mainly to eat. There seems to be an unusually high concentration of delicious restaurants on Bleecker in particular between 7th and 6th Avenues, including John's Pizzeria, my favorite New York pizza place. One day, however, I found myself walking just a bit further down 7th Avenue for some reason and was stopped dead in my tracks by Greenwich Locksmiths.

The 125-square-foot stand alone shop was opened in 1970, and has miraculously remained open and intact in an area that has experienced mind-boggling change and sky-rocketing property values in the last 47 years. But the most amazing thing about Greenwich Locksmiths isn't its staying power, but the fact that its facade is covered in the most wonderful art installation—made entirely of keys.

The amazing display is relatively new—created around 2010—but covers nearly every surface of the shop. There's even a chair made of keys, and a collection of old keys and padlocks in the window like a mini-key museum. 

Philip Mortillaro, the owner and master locksmith, owns the building and despite lucrative offers to sell, he insists that he—and his tiny shop—will remain on 7th Avenue until he dies. 

Second Avenue Subway

I definitely self-identify as a transit nerd, and the subway system is one of my very favorite things about living in New York. For some reason, I wasn't highly anticipating the long-awaited opening of the first phase of the Second Avenue subway line like a lot of people. Maybe, after a hundred years of broken promises and false starts, I subconsciously wasn't allowing myself to get my hopes up. But then on Tuesday night, I took the Q from 96th Street (I work at 92nd and Lex Ave) all the way to my apartment in Brooklyn (steps from the 7th Ave stop) and I was immediately sold.

While obviously not such a game-changer for everyone, the Second Avenue Q extension is expected to relieve some of the crowding on the 4/5/6 line—three lines that carry more riders every single day than the entire DC Metro. Phase 1 includes three new stations at 96th, 86th and 72nd streets, and connects the Q to its existing route via the 63rd Street/Lexington Ave station (where you can transfer to the F). There was doubt that the stations would be ready for the January 1st deadline, and although they're indeed open they are still teeming with MTA workers making last-minute adjustments.

Because I'm endlessly fascinated by the New York City subway system, I visited the new Hudson Yards 7 train station earlier this year. The new Second Avenue stations feel similar in design to Hudson Yards, mixed with the newish stations along Lex Ave and on Roosevelt Island. The stations feel modern—everything is sleek, shiny and clean!—but in my opinion nothing can come close to the mosaic-tiled beauty of the original early-1900s stations.

But the stations do feature some pretty incredible new artwork by Chuck Close, Sarah Sze, Vik Muniz and Jean Shin. Sze's "Blueprint for a Landscape" blankets the entrance and the upstairs of the 96th Street Station with papers that look like they've been blown around by incoming trains. Huge portraits of Lou Reed, Philip Glass, Chuck Close, Kara Walker, Cecily Brown and Alex Katz (all by Close) adorn the 86th Street Station and are done in varying styles, including glass mosaic and painted tiles.

It's Vik Muniz's "Perfect Strangers" mosaics, however, that are the real standout. The mosaic-work is outstanding and the subjects are whimsical but ultimately perfectly ordinary, at least by New York standards. The mosaics feature people of every culture, size, age and class without any political context or agenda—just people being. They reach for balloons, take off their costume head, look at their cellphone, dash for their papers, stare blankly ahead or tenderly hold hands. If we have to sacrifice the tiled station names of yesteryear for art that so perfectly captures the spirit and humanity of New York City, then I think the MTA made the right choice.

Holiday Windows 2016: Bergdorf Goodman + Bloomingdale's

Every year Bergdorf Goodman hits it out of the park with their holiday windows. This year they are a bit underwhelming, but still leaps and bounds above any of the others. The theme this year is "Destination Extraordinary" with windows inspired by the dioramas at the American Museum of Natural History.

The windows use mostly the same greenish color palette (how on-trend) and each depicts a different imaginary destination (has 2016 gotten to me, or does the primate window seem Harambe-inspired??). The details in the Bergdorf windows are always next-level, and this year is no different. It's a shame that the sidewalks on Fifth Avenue are so crowded—especially with "White House North" nearby—it's difficult to linger long enough to really appreciate all of the special touches.

Bloomingdale's always has a few good windows and a few head-scratchers. This year's theme is "Light," but despite a unifying topic, the windows are mostly very different from one another. Crystal-studded windows have been done better by Bergdorf's, but I appreciate any display that includes multiple mannequin heads, beautiful tile work and a huge octopus chandelier.

Marine Air Terminal

As part of the Open House New York weekend back in October (before I visited the Treasures in the Trash collection), I finally got to see inside of the Marine Air Terminal at LaGuardia Airport. Originally built for seaplanes, the Marine Air Terminal is the only remaining active airport terminal in the US from the Golden Age of Flight. LaGuardia (a WPA project) opened in 1939, and the Marine Air Terminal opened the next year. It has been on the National Register of Historic Places since 1982, and since 1985 it has been used for shuttle flights between New York and Boston and Washington DC (currently through Delta).

The terminal is very small—especially compared with the current-day airport experience—but it's dripping with flight-themed Art Deco details. While certainly not as grand or unique as Eero Saarinen's TWA Flight Center masterpiece at JFK, the Marine Air Terminal still feels fancy in a way modern airports will never be able to replicate. Illusions to the miracle of flight are everywhere—in the outside tile work, on the entry doors and on nearly every surface of the lobby.

The lobby contains the largest mural curated under the Works Progress Administration—a 12-feet-tall, 237-feet-long painting depicting flight in various forms. It was painted over in the '50s by the Port Authority, but was thankfully restored in the '80s. The Art Deco lettering over the doorways indicating Departures, Restaurant and Telephones proves that lettering doesn't have to be overly complicated to be striking and that utilitarian signage can be beautiful as well as functional. I'm so grateful for Open House New York weekend, and the chance to be able to peek inside such a gem—if only I could go back to 1940 and hitch a ride on the Pan American Clipper.

Subway Therapy

A day after Donald Trump was elected president (a phrase I still can't believe is real), an artist set up "Subway therapy" in a 14th Street subway corridor. People were encouraged to write down their thoughts on a Post-it Note and stick it to the wall. It has since spread to other spots—a week later there are thousands of messages in Union Square, and people are still adding to the multi-layered, multi-surface creation.

I—like a lot of people I know—was devastated by the election results. We had gone to the Javits Center to celebrate what was sure to be a historic night, and left at midnight before any official announcement, but with heavy hearts. I barely slept at all that night, but I was actually glad to get up and go into work in the morning, knowing that I wouldn't be alone in my grief. As hard as this has been, I can only imagine how hard it would be to weather alone—a minuscule dot of blue in a red state—and I've never been more thankful to wake up in New York City.

The messages on the wall seem mostly positive, although the "Fuck Trump" sentiment is not underrepresented. Just scanning the messages made me tear up—I know I live in one of those "liberal bubbles" and I'm surrounded by "coastal elites," but it's comforting to know that New Yorkers are generally in agreement about our country's current (and terrifying) situation.

I've been feeling so many emotions this past week, but one of the main ones is helplessness. Everything that has gone wrong or every dreadful thing yet to come seems too large to even really comprehend, let alone stop. I know a few thousand Post-it Notes are not going to stop the fact that Donald Trump is our President-elect, but behind every Post-it is a real, live person—people that aren't willing to remain silent anymore, people that know that love is stronger than hate and people that I truly believe will prove that we are, indeed, stronger together.