The accidental Magritte

My dad emailed a picture of me that he took on his cell phone the other day. There were more than a few strange things about this photo. It looked like this:

That's me by the way

It would not necessarily be all that bizarre to see a picture like this, until one is made aware of the fact that it was entirely unedited. When prodded, my dad assured me that he had not manipulated the photo, which I believe, since I have never known him to be capable of using photo editing tools before. And I didn’t do anything to it either. This was simply a technological mishap. It must have been that two pictures were combined somehow—maybe the camera snapped two shots and uploaded them as one, or something like that. In any case, my dad’s phone took artistic liberties with an image that was intended to be, as is expected of a photo, an objective representation of what is seen through the lens.

But photos are never truly objective, as many artists and cultural critics have pointed out. They are literally snapshots from a perspective, an isolated moment, and often a pose. We tend to forget this. Painting, which for a minute there seemed like it might become obsolete when photography usurped its role as documentation, instead became associated with higher expression and commentary. René Magritte did with paintings what photographers seemingly could not, by playing with our perceptions of the spatial and temporal world that photos purported to present plainly.

But in this case, technological failure elevated the camera’s representation of an intended image to something resembling what we call art. And I wonder, if this is an accidental Magritte, then who is the artist? My dad or the camera itself? Or maybe we have reached the era of sci-fi fantasy when that kind of distinction becomes impossible and irrelevant. Either that or I’m looking for artistry in all the wrong places.

Summer Reading

This is something I wrote. It may or may not be semi-autobiographical.

I am reading a book. Here I am, sitting outside, reading on a balmy summer day. Any passerby could plainly see how smart I look—especially because I am wearing glasses right now—as I sit and hold this book in my hand. An observer might also note that the book I am reading won a Pulitzer Prize, which is indicated by the gold sticker on the cover. It is clear that, not only am I reading, but also that I am engaged with a particular caliber of book that puts me in a certain highbrow station of intellectual life. I hope everyone is able to recognize this. It’s a shame those stickers aren’t bigger. I will angle it in the direction of the street.

This book is pretty good. I like that there are footnotes. It might seem like it is taking me a long time to read each page. That’s not because I am slow, or because I am not plunging my soul into the cavernous depths of the language’s wisdom-spout. It is because I am reading ever so carefully and looking down at all of these footnotes. And as I do so, I can’t help but think to myself, “It’s readers like me who should be appreciated in this world. Unlike the pitiful masses, I bother to give each word due consideration, out of respect for the author. I am doing a very good job reading this book. Later I will treat myself to an ice cream sandwich as a reward.”

Now that I’m a college graduate—cum laude, but who’s counting, right?—nobody really knows how good a reader I am anymore. I’ve been reading ever since I was twelve, and I haven’t stopped since. Come to think of it, the longest thing I ever read was the first sentence of Swann’s Way by Marcy Proust. In a sense, it’s a shame that I won’t be writing papers ever again. How will anyone know about all of these notion explosions I have while I read? Sometimes they’re super insightful. I’m glad that reading is so fulfilling. It really gives me a chance to wade through my wisdom streams.

Not that I’m thinking to myself while I’m reading this book. Out of respect for the writer’s craft, I’m definitely giving the text my full and complete attention. But sometimes part of reading is actually not reading at all. It’s allowing a writing dollop to be smeared upon your cranium in some unexpected way, and lead you into personal thoughts that are not directly related to the book. I think that is a very healthy and valid approach to reading.

You might catch me at a moment when I am holding the book but staring into space. You’re catching me at one of those instants of personal insight. Obviously I am a voracious reader, and just pausing for a moment for very profound reflection.

I have so many books these days that I don’t even have enough room on my shelf to fit all of them. This kind of dedication to the written word is apparent to those of you who might pass me by, and see me reading here on this afternoon even though there is an America’s Next Top Model marathon on TV.

I think models should be shorter, and less skinny. As a short, not-so-skinny person, it’s often difficult for me to tell whether clothes will look good on me based on how they look on models. Don’t get me wrong, I am not all that concerned since I don’t care much about shopping anyway. Most of my time is spent reading. But a person has to buy clothes, obviously, and I think it would be more efficient if models had more varied body types so I wouldn’t have to spend so many hours trying on things that look terrible on me.

I wish I looked better in that dress I tried on the other day. It would have looked great with this book I am reading. I can see myself sitting here this afternoon, wearing that dress, and reading this book. And people would walk by and think, “That girl is so pretty and smart. Good for her! Some pretty girls don’t bother to intellectually elevate themselves by reading, but it sure is nice to see one who does.”

Anyway, back to the story. Wait—who is this character? I must have missed it when he was introduced. Oh well, time to turn the page.

The last winter break

my snowy street

As far as I know, this is the last winter vacation from school I’ll ever have. Sure, I might have time off for the holidays in the future. But it will never be quite the same as this. Winter break is more than a pause in the school year; it’s a destination, an attitude, and an excuse. Winter break is my time to decompress and to give thought to all the things I don’t have a moment to consider in the day-to-day routine of doing them.  It’s a collapse onto my parents’ couch, where I can remain for hours without any desire to move whatsoever. It’s the allowance to eat chocolate twice a day. And when it snows, as it is right now, I’m snug in the warm house. Every kid loves this feeling, and of all of the ways I’m becoming less of a kid, this is one of the strangest and hardest to wrap my mind around: life without winter breaks.

I know I should be spending this time looking for jobs, but I also have a fierce desire to slip into tremendous nylon snow pants and make angels in the backyard. Going home from school always comes with a feeling of regression to my younger self, but now there’s also the nostalgia I already feel for something soon to disappear. And when the snow falls over the town, and the white fluffy mounds pile up on the roads, everything stops. We remain for hours with no desire to move whatsoever, we’re all on a break.  So it feels like the whole town is on pause with me, and if I could hold it all still for just a little bit longer I would.  Maybe I would make a snow angel or something.

Sometimes I think I’ve got it pretty good

I took a chance, and this week, it paid off. For a change of pace, a challenge, and one last giant hurrah of college, I’ll be writing the Varsity Show. I have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into, and I’m glad.

For now, there’s this:

 

Thomas made it, and made me smile.

These are new kinds of writing for both of us, and they’re giving me a good feeling.

I am the sandwich I’ve been waiting for

There are times in life when you realize what’s really important. What’s important, of course, is having good sandwiches. But beyond that, there are those crystallizing moments when you think, “This is not just some regular old sandwich, this sandwich was meant for me.”  And then you feel warm as your hand touches the bread, and your heart fills with joy, because you appreciate something very simple. Something that can make you happy regardless of what else is going on in your life, something that you can share with anyone (unless they’re kosher), something that you can buy for $7 and know you’ve gotten your money’s worth: a  special sandwich. In this case, a sandwich literally bore my name. It’s called “The Betsy.”

 

freshly prepared Betsy sandwich

It all started a couple of days ago when my friend Phil ghcatted me to ask if I heard about this new sandwich at Hamdel, a.k.a. Hamilton Deli, a.k.a. Meghan McCain’s favorite off-campus sandwich place.  Phil is a funny guy, so I thought maybe he was joking with me when he said they invented a new Betsy sandwich. I didn’t believe it when he told me:

phil: dude did you know that there is a new hamdel sandwich

called the betsy

me: wat

phil: yeah dude

me: what does it have on it

phil: uh

chicken cutlet avocado

something else

me: wat

I dunno if I believe you

phil: dude go to hamdel check it out

But I didn’t go.  It’s midterms, I’ve got work at The New Yorker, I wrote an article for Spec…I already had a lot on my plate, as it were.

But then today the stars aligned to bring me (Betsy) and the sandwich (The Betsy) together. Every Thursday afternoon I have an anthropology seminar, but today’s was cancelled unexpectedly when my professor got sick. So at 3:00, instead of sitting in class discussing the ethnographic strategies employed by Melville and Kracauer, I was watching videos on the internet and reading Twitter posts. Serendipitously, I checked my @Mentions—which I never think to do—and there was a post from my friend Amanda, “@BetsyMorais There is a new ‘Betsy’ sandwich at HamDel! It has avocados, therefore is a supreme sandwich.”

“So it really is true!” I thought to myself. Well how about that.

That’s when I knew I had to go see about this sandwich.

After my philosophy class, I walked with great purpose over to Hamdel.  As soon as I arrived, I spotted the new sign, freshly printed in black on white computer paper and taped to the wall—the signature Hamdel menu. The ingredients: chicken cutlet, avocado, cheddar cheese, vinegar, salt, and pepper. Looked good. I was sold.

“Next!” called the man behind the counter.

“Hey there,” I said. “I have a question. Is that Betsy sandwich named after anybody in particular?”

“Uh?” he replied.

“Is it named after someone named Betsy?” I asked, trying to use my journalism skills to get to the truth of the matter.

“I don’t know? What? Did you want to order the sandwich?”

“Well, yeah,” I said. “But also, my name is Betsy, so do you think it could be named after me?”

“So, you want the sandwich?”

“Yes I would like to order the Betsy sandwich.”

And that’s how it happened.

Once I got home, I unwrapped the sandwich and felt its warm bread on my hands. As I was separating the two halves that were cut so Solomon-like, a string of melted cheese drooped delicately between them. At first bite, the taste of chicket cutlet really came through, complemented by the creamy cheese and avocado. A delightful balance of textures. The paper that wrapped the sandwich was greasy to the touch, the mark of wholesome dinner. I took another bite, this time mostly of avocado, and I could taste the flavor of the vinegar. By the end of my first half, I was so full that I had to take a break to write this blog post before starting in on the second half.  The Betsy is one hearty sandwich.

 

lots of ingredients in that sandwich

I’m proud to share my name with a sandwich such as this. I’m so glad I found it. And ate it.

Day tripper

A couple of weeks ago I went on a road trip with my friends Thomas, Raphael, and Dino. We went up to Harvard for a “job fair” which was actually an internship/fellowship fair, as we should have expected going into one of these things for the journalism industry. We all agreed that regardless of what we got out of the fair, however unfair it may have seemed, we would enjoy the trip for its own sake. We enjoyed the drive up from New York to Boston, when we stopped off at a mall in Connecticut and one of us threw up in the parking lot. We enjoyed the pouring rain on the road at night, and then, in the streets the next morning as we walked around Cambridge. We enjoyed the burgers at the place across from Harvard’s campus (I got the People’s Republic of Cambridge burger). We enjoyed the naps we each took, sometimes involuntarily. But for me, it wasn’t easy to enjoy the passing time, because we were on this trip to think about the future and the best we could make of it was to appreciate the present. And even as I tried to enjoy the present, anxiety about the future clouded my thoughts.

But a trip is supposed to be a vacation from your typical conception of time, right? In strange surroundings, you feel motion at a different pace and you see attractions that fascinate you and pull you away from your everyday experiences. You perceive things in particular moments of transfixion, I think, that seem outside of time. You’re alienated from the place you visit, as a visitor, but also from the place you come from, having left it behind.

Only I can’t seem to leave all this behind when I go on a trip. Or for that matter, I can’t seem to properly imagine distancing myself from anything that is integral to my everyday life. Like journalism for example…

I need a vacation.

Where it’s at



A night with Charlie Rangel

Despite the thirteen ethics violation charges stacked up against him, it’s hard to deny the avuncular charm of 80 year-old Congressman Charlie Rangel. His gregariousness can uplift a crowd even in these tough times, as it did at an event I covered last night. Whether he’s a crook or a hero, he retains his likability. Which is why, I imagine, it must have been sad for those who deem him a political liability to turn down an invitation to his birthday party. Whatever else he’s done aside, he’ll probably throw himself a good party.

just look at that face

In any case, he’s one of my favorite characters to write about.

How I wound up watching the World Cup Final

I had my first World Cup experience this weekend. It was just in time for the final game. Somehow, I retained my American disinterest in soccer through the hype that, much to my muted surprise, was everywhere around me. I signed up for Twitter this summer, and I am nearly certain that I got more tweets about the World Cup than about the gulf oil spill and MIA’s penchant for fries combined. People’s priorities have been all out of wack, it seems. If for no other reason than good old fashioned American stubborness, I knew I had to maintain my longstanding apathy toward a sport that—even if I were a sports-person—couldn’t hold my attention much better than golf. And speaking of Tiger Woods, I think I got fewer tweets about him than the World Cup.

It took the invitation of a good friend recently back from Paris, who lured me in with the promise of wine and unlimited cheese, for me to agree to show up at a World Cup-related event. What really sold me was that the World Cup final itself had second-billing to Sunday’s feature event: Bastille Day at the Alliance Française.

Maybe someone planned the day’s festivities before France was out of the tournament. There were street vendors all the way across East 60th, selling crêpes and tartes and foie gras sandwiches. A woman onstage did her best Edith Piaf impression (in song, not drug habit). Inside the Alliance Française, there was wine tasting, brie, and camembert. And then, downstairs, people carried their cheese plates and Pinot Noir to a small theater, where they set up picnics on the carpet and watched the Spain-Netherlands game. I guess the theme of the afternoon was Europe?

Sipping my third glass of red, and shoveling in cheeses that are really too good to be shoveled in, I thought to myself that soccer isn’t so bad after all. But maybe only under the circumstances. So if I move to Paris someday, and start watching soccer, it won’t be because I’m fickle, and it definitely won’t be out of nostalgia for my elementary school soccer days. It will be because, with wine and cheese, I can be persuaded to watch a sport that’s consumed just as slowly as a 2005 Bordeaux.

Happy Sun Day

In my quaintest of quaint American towns, we celebrated the fourth of July on the fifth this year. We’ve got blue laws, which means that no unwholesome debauchery can go on in our quiet streets on a Sunday—no shoe-buying, no hair-cutting, and of course, no parade-marching. So the festivities took place on July 5th this year, a Monday, as the town gathered together along streets that had been lined with reserved beach chairs far in advance. The sun was unforgiving, as if reminding us that this parade was in fact a wild display of excess…

When I saw this on the Awl today, I found it so perfectly fitting:

baby it's hot outside

So happy sun-day, everybody!