Beyond NYC: The Wildflower Sculpture Park

“The Essex Column” by Eric Beckerich is designed to be a living piece of work; continually evolving alongside its surroundings. It's one of nine sculptures that welcomes visitors to The Wildflower and Forest Preserve in the suburban town of Maplewood, New Jersey. 

The hollow, grey 8-foot column of repurposed construction materials and concrete stands at the entrance of the property. From one side, the backdrop is the mixed wood forest that continues into the larger Essex County South Mountain Reservation for thousands of acres. Its towering trees serve as the home for deer, wild turkeys, foxes, spotted salamanders, screech owls and hundreds of other critters. From the other side, the sculpture is framed by a trimmed lawn, planted paper birch trees and a parking lot.

Both environments, the manmade and the natural, are represented. "I asked Eric to keep the environment in mind when creating his sculpture," said Curator of The Wildflower Sculpture Park Tricia Zimic, “The background was something he considered when he made it."

Five cubes made of grey concrete, reminiscent of the material used for sidewalks, are displayed symmetrically atop a grey, rectangular platform. The material is industrial and the geometry is intentional like the paved areas of the park. The concrete skeletons of the cubes are embedded with a variety of rocks and glass fragments that look as though they have been found nearby. They range from about one to five inches wide and consist of every color in the immediate geological palette: burnt orange, off-white, light grey, dark grey, black and terracotta. The sides of the cubes have vertical bars of rusting wires and sticks positioned like a poorly built prison cell. They peer into the center of the column at a pole made of emerald green beer bottles held together by sticks and wire. The sticks are light brown and cut like the little pieces of wood that are picked up in large bags from construction stores to cover playgrounds. It blends in with the material used to build the walkway through the sculpture park. The wires look like the metal used to build the generic, silver fence that is around the preserve.

The layers of material intersect creating different patterns depending on where the viewer stands. The straight sticks criss-cross and zig-zag. The wires curve and twist. The unpredictable placement of these materials mirrors the untamed fields of wildflowers and tall, bending trees in the nearby preserve.

The column is designed to be permeable from the sides and the top so that it can interact with the natural surroundings. Leaves fall from the branches or blow through the wind and are caught inside the sculpture until they are broken down and dispersed. Rain pours through the center and out the sides. Spiders build webs in between the sticks and wire, living inside the sculpture until they move on. As the environment around the sculpture evolves every moment, and more dramatically with the seasons, the work itself is constantly changing too.

New Orleans: The Magic of the Bywater

               

A neglected telephone booth stands in contrast to a whimsical grid of pastel-colored homes. It would seamlessly blend into many neighborhoods in New Orleans, but on this well-maintained block it beckons curiosity. Sure enough, inside, is a television flashing a collage of abstract images and static. The significance, like most contemporary art, is left to the interpretation of the observer. There’s no title, website or sign. It’s likely unaffiliated with a museum and unregistered with the city, but it’s clearly intentional.

Random tidbits of creativity are dispersed throughout the Bywater; a neighborhood two miles east of The French Quarter that’s become an artistic haven for New Orleans transplants. It’s also at the center of a debate about how outsiders who came to help rebuild after Hurricane Katrina, and never left, are changing the city.

Shotgun homes with quaint stoops are covered in a mish-mash of repurposed junk that makes them look like the entrances to an amusement park ride for Treasure Island. Rickety banisters are weighed down by fading Mardi Gras beads that have endured countless rainstorms. Porches look like artful yard sales covered in tired floral couches, quirky coffee tables, rocking chairs, fake gold picture frames, potted plants and dozens of other trinkets picked up for free around the city or for a bargain at the thrift store. The only rule about what you can do on your property is that there is no rule.

These creative exteriors are only a glimpse into what goes on behind them. Makeshift theatres serve up cheap red wine and hot toddys, open mics showcase songwriters testing out vulnerability in front of a gentle and attentive crowd, barbeques fill the air with smoke in muddy and unkempt yards of weeds and dandelions, abandoned warehouses are illegally occupied for strange performances of questionable quality, but delivered with powerful conviction. 

The Bywater is a no man’s land. It’s all waiting to be discovered a short walk from the neon madness of Bourbon Street. The entrance lies just beyond the hefty train tracks that carry the heart and soul of our country’s industry to the end of its migration on land and the beginning of its journey down the Mississippi.

"The Rusty Rainbow" --- a bridge on Chartres Street that leads to the Mississippi

Keep walking and eventually you’ll come face to face with what locals call “the end of the world;” a grassy hill that leads to a lookout over the river. It’s where all sorts of unimaginable New Orleans characters go to get away. There’s a rusty metal tower with a precarious ladder at the very tip of the trail. Like a bathroom at a concert venue, it’s been graffitied from the base to the roof with intentions; musings, messages of compassion, desperate cries and dates to commemorate an unknown event. In a crevice behind the tower there’s dozens of cigarette butts and smoked joints. The trail of emotions is fuel for the imagination as steamboats poetically chug by in the distance. This is where I first fell in love with the Bywater; a magical playground of off-beat gatherings, unexpected personalities and creative freedom.

"The End of the World"

Like most arts communities, it first started blossoming about ten years ago when it was dirt cheap. Now, it’s fallen prey to accusations of gentrification. A handful of chef-driven tapas restaurants have popped up in the neighborhood. Booty’s Street Food serves dishes like octopus skewers with Korean fermented chiles along with artisanal cocktails and coffee from the trendy Portland-based Stumptown coffee roasters. Oxalis opened at the end of last year with an extensive whiskey menu and innovative bites from around the world. It’s happened in Oakland, Brooklyn, and, now, New Orleans.

Booty's Street Food

There was an article a few months ago in The New York Times discussing the transformation of the city. A journalist for the paper came to New Orleans to find out what’s seduced musicians, actors and writers to migrate here by the thousands. She mentioned Satsuma Café (a vegetarian-friendly spot that serves $6.00 juices) and Sylvain (a restaurant with a curated rustic feel that features modern Creole cuisine) as signs of the changing times. She failed to capture the essence of what inspires artists, struggling and successful, to call New Orleans home.

This was illuminated by the outburst of criticism that caught the attention of local and national media when her piece was published with a quote saying New Orleans isn’t cosmopolitan, because it doesn’t have kale. As many were quick to point out, New Orleans does have kale. The second Whole Foods just opened in town, but I get the point and that’s not it. The article was intended to get to the core of what so many transplants who enjoyed the luxuries of healthy living in cities like New York, Los Angeles and San Francisco find appealing about a humid town in the south some think is still struggling to recover from Hurricane Katrina. It’s true, unbeknownst to many, New Orleans now offers several yoga studios, a co-op grocery store with organic offerings and seasonally-driven fine dining. It’s also true that many newcomers (at least the ones who can afford it) do enjoy the nicer establishments that have opened in previously undeveloped neighborhoods. They’re there – and making money – for a reason.

Most importantly, the artists who move here, regardless of whether they enjoy kale, weren’t attracted to the city’s transformation. In fact, they were inspired by what’s been here for centuries; Creole spices seasoning the air, the timeless seduction of soulful southern melodies, the sweet humidity blurring into delirium, the canopy of overgrown banana leaves and winding vines around the iron gates of canary yellow and coral homes…the New Orleans that has inspired generations of romantics to abandon everything and relocate. The Bywater, post-Katrina, was a haven for the newest generation of creators who fell in love with the city as a place that is largely defined by its celebration of art. The city where in the 1700s, slaves were allowed to come dance, sing and play music on Sundays in Congo Square and where every Sunday hundreds still ceremoniously parade through the streets to the passionate beats of brass bands. The town where talented musicians can come knowing no one and start up a band that gets gigs every night in a few months, jewelers can pay their rent selling accessories at art markets and painters can sell their work to the millions of tourists that pass through each year.

The Antenna Gallery, a participant in the Bywater's monthly art walk on St.Claude Avenue

New Orleans is freedom for artists who have been chewed up and spit out by cities like New York and Los Angeles. It’s also inspirational to those who made it elsewhere, but craved a change of pace. While the Bywater is a classic case of gentrification, it’s not at the hands of people who came here to be “cosmopolitan.” Fresh produce is not the primary draw of New Orleans and it never will be. Artists, of all kinds, come here for the inexplicable magic that one can only begin to understand through intense study of a complex and unique history unlike anywhere else in America. It’s also one that can only be felt by people who immerse themselves fully in the traditions of this city; second lines, crawfish boils and Cajun fais do-dos. There’s also a different kind of magic, not to be dismissed, happening right across the train tracks in the Bywater. Art, theatre and music that’s being created from a genuine place of soulfulness and passion. This perceived counter-culture is not happening with disregard for New Orleans culture, it’s a reinvention of it by people who respect and love all the artists who came before them and made this great city what it is today.  

Israel: The Mysticism in Judaism

Tzfat rests 3000 feet above sea level in the abundant, green region of the Galilee in northern Israel. It's the highest city in the country --- and one of the four most holy places in Judaism.

Narrow alleyways of smooth ivory-colored stones and ancient walls forge a gateway for introspective strolling. Uneven paths open into quaint courtyards. The soft pitter patter of feet shuffle to synagogue. Wind chimes play a sweet and hypnotizing cacophony. It's easy to understand how Tzvat became the home of Jewish mysticism and why it is known as the city of wind.

               

It's become a hub for young Jews looking to explore their religious identity in a new way. Jewish Mysticism, or Kabbalah, resonates with many who seek less of a regimented religion and more of a spirituality left open to interpretation. The parallels between this practice of Judaism and eastern philosophies like Buddhism and Daoism are astounding. Meditation is the first step towards self-awareness and the transcendence to something greater than one's ego.

A painting inspired by the Kabbalisitic meditations for each day of the week
(Tzvat artist Avraham Loewenthal, kabbalahart.com)

Tzfat, imbued with thousands of years of Jewish history and seemingly a world away from the political tension and tourism that defines Jerusalem, is an ideal place to begin looking inward. It's also attracted backpackers and artists inspired by the tranquility and majestic views of the surrounding Amud Valley, Mount Meron and Galilean Hills. Each summer the city transforms for the world-famous Safed Klezmer Festival where musicians from around the globe come to celebrate the unique genre born from the marriage between American jazz and European Jewish folk.

Orthodox jews gather in Tzvat's town center

There are programs through Kabbalah centers in the city that offer long-term retreats for minimal prices or even free in exchange for a curiosity and willingness to learn about Jewish mysticism. One of the most popular organizations, Ascent, plans jam sessions, hikes, classes and Shabbat dinners for temporary transplants. There's even a trendy cafe that's been established as a gathering place for young Jews looking for the balance of solitude and community that's embedded in the Jewish tradition.

A barista at Holy Village Coffee Company meticulously brews a cup of coffee

Holy Village Coffee Company serves up Zeh coffee roasted right outside Tzvat and popular in artisanal cafes around Israel. They take their time with pour overs rivaling the techniques of fine baristas in major cities internationally. While I drank my coffee, I enjoyed ambient indie tracks mixed with the sort of Jewish chanting and scales I'd grown up with in synagogue.





Turns out I was listening to the Kabbalah Dream Orchestra; an ancient Jewish jazz funk fusion band that splits its time between Tzvat and Philadelphia.




Tzfat makes Judaism cool. For the plethora of American and European Jews who were raised in non-religious homes and look to eastern religion for comfort in times of existential confusion, Kabbalah can be a revelation. They need not look outside their own blood and ancestry for the answers. The same ideas of oneness have existed in their own tradition for millenia. Instead of seeking clarity in ashrams in India, young Jews can and should look to Tzvat; a wealth of knowledge, tranquility and exploration awaiting to be discovered again and again.

New Orleans: Hop On, Hop Off, Enjoy!

They take photos as if one frame; one moment in time can begin to embody the soul.  Royal Parisian crests melded into cast iron and painted in a gooey tar black. The underbelly of balconies holding up rusty chains dangling with tangled manes of drooping green strands. The grey humidity weighs down saunters. A liberating slow motion; there’s no reason to move when the city lives on every block. The ones who do it right walk without intention. To feel the thigh stretch as their heels go click, their boots go clomp or their sandals go nick nack. The circus cruises by the circus in a gluttonous red bus that boasts “Hop on, Hop off, Enjoy!” Snap, Snap. Snap, Snap. The scenery changes like a scrolling film. One image after the next. Seen, but not observed. There’s too much so we pretend there’s too little. Too little of the inside of the inside and the outside of the outside; the inside of the outside and the outside of the inside. Just too much, certainly not worth our time! Snap! Hop on the bus. Snap! Hop off the bus. Snap! Order food. Snap! Get a drink. Snap! All the while a gaping internal space; as big as the universe; stagnates like the slow whirl of twigs and wrappers in a salty brown pool. And then, it’s over. 

New Orleans: The Hibernating City

Swirls of white frameworks and pastel-colored clapboards. Cotton candy streets and the merry go round melody of a majestic steamboat interspersed with the howling of industrial trains sweeping through town. The nostalgic soundtrack echoes through porches of swing benches covered in leaves and stoic rocking chairs.

Dozens of black cats scurry into the warm lairs of the hibernating city; the magic shacked up behind tightly closed doors adorned with little strands of colorful Tibetan flags. Smiling passersby huddle by space heaters from the drugstore in their haphazardly curated nooks of melted candles, used books and the local art they couldn’t afford, but couldn’t pass up. Louis Armstrong sauntering down Royal Street in the starry night humidity, the crooked grid of roads blurring into a whimsical, twisty-turny row of rainbow stoops lit by the soft orange glow of French street lamps, Mardi Gras Indians covered in neon feathers dancing with devotion to a life of festivity…reminders of the spirits that wait to be awoken as unbearable chills transform into seductive beads of alcoholic sweat and music, music, music blends into a delirium that reminds us we’re alive. Until then, we wait; masochistically embracing this cold as the opposite end of the twisted spectrum that fuels our desire to feel, even if it’s sadness. Dirty dishes, a wine glass stained with cheap Cabernet and a beckoning unmade bed. Tea steeps, incense burn, pens move across journals…the warmest town in America is frigid and so are our words.