Babbling Brooklyn

The following are the numbers of hours sleep I got during the week of Sundance:

3, 7, 4, 4, 2, 8, 20.

That first number is the night before I left. My flight was at 7am, my taxi at 5am. I finished packing at midnight but it took me a full two hours to get to sleep: two hours of grinning at my ceiling, thinking about the films, the parties, the celebrities, my first proper film festival, my first actual business trip and my incredible luck. After all, Sundance is the Paris Fashion Week of the film industry calendar. The Sundance stamp of approval reverberates across the marketing material of independent film releases for the rest of the year. For fans of cerebral (read: pretentious), independent (read: cheaply-made) films, it’s Mecca. 

The night I arrived I got a full seven hours sleep, mostly because my first day featured no parties, films or excitement whatsoever. It became quickly apparent that I was there to work. Specifically I was my company’s official designated driver. (Of course, I told the guy next to me on the plane I was working in acquisitions, but this simply resulted in him pitching his documentary to me - a novel, thrilling experience for the first ten minutes, but much less exciting one hour later).

After 20,000 film types descend on the small resort town of Park City for the festival, there is no parking left whatsoever. So my job was to be johnny-on-the-spot with the rental car so that our execs could move swiftly between screenings and meetings. A small role, but essential nonetheless - and frankly, I was happy to be there at all.

Our Head of Finance had literally laughed in my face when she found out that the CEO had aksed the one Brit from the office to be the driver. Besides minimal experience of driving on the right, I also am not accustomed to driving in snow, or to Park City (which is decidedly non grid-system). That first night I only managed to nearly kill my CEO once, as a result of pulling out onto a dual carriage way without looking both ways. He saw the funny side, eventually.

Before last September, London and Edinburgh were the only major film festivals that existed for me in any tangible sense. Cannes and Berlin contained a certain potentiality. I might have known people who’d been to Toronto. But Sundance? Sundance was but a dream. It might as well have existed in my imagination: the best films, by the best film-makers, the coolest parties, surrounded by stunning mountains? For a lowly intern in London, this is just folklore.

And then we moved to the land of opportunity, to the centre of the independent film industry and it felt possible, maybe a few years away, but at least possible. Seeds were sown at one of my early networking meetings when a film exec I respect told me that the interns that his company tends to hire are the ones who show commitment by getting themselves to Sundance on their own dime.

At the time, I considered this fair enough. I doubted I would be able to afford it myself, but figured it was worth looking into. When Sundance was first mentioned around my office last December, I shared this piece of advice with my boss and told her that I would pay my own way if it meant getting to Sundance. I hoped in doing so that they’d let me sleep on the floor of our company’s rented apartment, or maybe in a tent in the snow outside. She just replied “What an *sshole! I can’t believe he said that!”. And then she smiled and said she’d do her best.

At a Christmas party a few weeks later, we’d been there a few hours when one of the other execs said to me: “Max, the CEO thinks you’re brilliant. And I saw some of your work. I want you to come to Sundance. And if I want you to come to Sundance, you’re gold! GOLD!” Before wandering off. My boss overheard and told me not to get my hopes up. So I didn’t.

Then everything went quiet. My boss went on her honeymoon and no one told me anything and I didn’t want to pester anyone so I just assumed it was off. Which brings me to last Monday, three days before the festival began. I actually sat on the subway that morning wondering what would happen if one of the execs contracted a temporary, totally curable paralysis that would leave me first in line for their plane ticket. That didn’t happen, thankfully (I would have a) felt awful, and b) wondered what else I could control with my mind), but the CEO did come marching up to my desk and said “What happened? This was your big chance! And you can’t make it?!” I knew immediately what he was talking about it, because he’d already been asking his secretary whether I was going to Sundance a week previously.

All I could think to say was “I don’t know” in a very small voice. And then he said “What? Hold on, I’m gonna go sort this out”. And that was that. Within 30 minutes I became the first intern in the history of my company to get taken to Sundance Film Festival. The dream became real. The doors to the film industry’s VIP room opened, and my name was on the list.

Ok, so I know I’m a bit behind but I realised I never finished blogging about Christmas in Seattle! So, in summary…

Breathtaking scenery/great vintage shops/the BEST spa experience of my life, fell asleep for about 20 mins during my massage and probably dribbled a bit but the therapist was so nice she just smiled adoringly/great food-Americans don’t eat brussels sprouts at Christmas (they actually eat them all year round-weird!)/babies are really cute but a FULL time job/insane Christmas lights/Starbucks addictions/America is huge/laughing til you cried with old friends and having a great time catching up. Phew. Thanks Elizabeth and Casey for making me feel so at home, come to NY soon!

I don’t know why things in miniature hold a special place in our hearts. Babies, chihuahuas, Legoland… When we were visiting the Museum of New York (see previous posts) I turned a corner into a little darkened room and found…the most AMAZING dolls house I’ve ever seen. It was donated to the museum in 1945 by the bohemian Stettheimer family, who hosted literary salons in New York in the early part of the 20th century. Every single detail is perfect, from a tiny gramophone to a mini globe, to food in the kitchen and a card table scattered with the gnomic cards and more than a object of beauty it’s also a fantastic insight into the homes and lives of the upper classes of that time. On the walls there are even miniature artworks by celebrated friends of the family, including Marcel Duchamp.

It reminded me of my own dolls house, lovingly crafted by my extended family, and, in retrospect, probably the best present I’ll ever receive. The curtains made by Mum using fabric from my old dresses, Jilly (artist and potter extraordinaire and luckily for me, my aunt!) painted the pictures and everyone else helped out (Mum fill in the details if I’m missing people out). I think I’ll look at it slightly differently when I get home. 

The combination of being broke, tee-total and desperately lonely has recently led me to seek out alternative forms of entertainment around the five boroughs. This has mostly taken the form of free lectures on the most random possible subjects, kind of like a live version of the website TED, but delivered by slightly less daunting, although equally eccentric, intellectuals.

Last week I hauled ass to a tiny room at the back of a pub in Williamsburg to hear a man named Justin Duerr give a talk about his obsession with the Toynbee Tiles. The Toynbee Tiles are, in short, a three-decade long publicity campaign to promote the idea that in the film 2001: A Space Odyssey there are hidden messages that propose that one day the dead will be resurrected on the planet Jupiter, as was initially postulated by the astrologer Arnold Toynbee. The publicity campaign takes the form of linoleum tiles that have been implanted into the asphalt at road intersections of major cities all over North and South America. I’m not making this up. 

Mr. Duerr has dedicated the majority of his life to unravelling the mystery of these tiles. He even made a film about it with his friend Jon Foy, and together they won the best director prize for a documentary at Sundance Film festival a few years back. Again, not joking.

While the subject matter was fascinating in itself, it was the strange and beguiling Mr Duerr who really made it memorable. He had facial tattoos, and proudly  mentioned his obsession with Cyndi Lauper. During the talk he actually failed to describe basic elements of the mystery, meaning that the Q&A session afterwards was longer than the talk itself. At the end of the Q&A, he told us he was selling his own strange wall-sized art prints in order to cover the cost of his Greyhound bus return ticket from Philadelphia. It became clear that he wasn’t getting paid anything to give the talk, this was just another extension of his obsession. Additionally, he spent the entire lecture hidden behind a laptop, speaking into a microphone with a heavy reverb effect, thus giving the impression he himself was talking to us as a resurrected corpse on Planet Jupiter. Particularly strange as vocal amplification was completely unnecessary given that we were in a room about the size of an average family car. 

The whole evening was fascinating, and I have since spotted a few of the tiles on my travels around the city, including in places I’ve already walked past several times. Proof indeed New York is a strange city, one that will reveal itself differently depending on how you look at it. It is also a haven for grade-A crackpots.

Since working for Waris I have had some weird and wonderful experiences of New York City. I’ve been able to go into offices, studios, boutiques and see the inner workings and behind-the-scenes of the NY fashion industry. It’s great because it means I see a side of New York that would otherwise be unknown to me. On my meanderings, I discover new neighbourhoods, streets and places, and have the opportunity to see people in their place of work (some of which are at the top of their game in terms of the NY fashion scene). 

I’ve visited jewellery wholesalers: Metalliferous, where you can get any chain, clasp, fixture or fitting you could possibly imagine. The people behind the counter look as if they’ve been working there for 50 years (they probably have been) and are veritable walking suits of armour, followed by a jangling, clanking chorus of the bazillion bangles/earrings and necklaces that bejewel them. 

I’ve escaped in tact from the Diamond District on 47th St, which is like stepping into a parallel universe. One minute you’re sauntering along 6th ave, the next you’re surrounded by Russians and Orthodox Jews, shouting into their phones or gesticulating wildly to whomever they’re deep in conversation with. It seems that all the business is conducted on the street. Hawkers line the pavement, whispering, ‘anything to sell?’ into your ear as you walk past, whilst impeccably dressed businessmen with slicked back hair close multi-million dollar deals over the phone. Inside the diamond shops, tall, glamorous women look out of the windows, stiff with boredom but springing into life like wind-up toys and soon as you enter, surrounded by the aura of a possible sale. 

I’ve visited ‘Let there be Neon’, an incredible shop where everything from sales to production still happens in the heart of the city. They make every kind of neon sign imaginable and walking into their studio is to be lit up by the simple pleasure of bright lights.

Click here to read the  obituary of its’ founder, a legend of light installation. If you’re ever in Tribeca with some time to kill…

I have also been to the far more impersonal and less interesting offices of Marie Claire, Vogue, Harpers and many other magazines whose offices tower above the city, great shards of glass and light. All the prestige but no soul.

And then there are the magazines that you think are prestigious but are actually housed in someone’s tiny apartment, a five floor walk up a dirty staircase above chicken shops in Chinatown. Upon entering, the entire ‘office’ space consists of two people perched at the kitchen table surrounded by haute couture on racks and fine jewellery spilling out of boxes amongst scummy coffee cups and half eaten biscuits. The not-so-glamorous world of fashion.

I think that phrase was invented by this gentleman. Strolling nonchalantly down Fashion Avenue, unaware of the crowds trailing him to get a shot. Only in New York.

Just an update on the crazy landlord situation (feel free to revisit our posts from October if you are unaware of what I am referring to):

We’ve sent him two letters requesting our security deposits back (he still owes us $2000, and our lovely housemate Amy $1400). Just before Christmas he called Amy to say that he would be sending the cheques. Amy spoke to him again after New Year’s and he had changed his mind. He said that instead he would wait to speak to our lawyer. On Friday we met with a friend of a friend who is a housing attorney and she advised us of the procedure for the Brooklyn small claims court where we can claim up to $5000 from him. Which is exactly what we are going to do: $2000 for our deposit, $100 for moving expenses, and $2900 for emotional damages. For us, and for Amy.

Any interaction we have with this guy is filled with dread, fear and extreme anger. He is unstable, irrational and clearly disturbed. However, he did give me one good belly laugh this morning with a particularly inspired text message. He had already called to ask me whether I regretted calling the police when he attempted breaking into our flat while drunk at 5am one Friday morning. I told him he could speak to my lawyer about that if he wanted to. Minutes after the phone call I received this:

Letter of apology: 750 words. Please send to 10th st. As soon as u are able. Also return all sets of keys. - Mateo

Brilliant. Of course Mateo, I’ll get my best writing paper ready. Off I go….

On my way back from Vermont I shared a ride with a guy called Rudolphe Champagne. (It being half way between Christmas and New Years, his name seemed particularly fantastic.) He got to talking to me about how he had seen the Flatiron building (pictured above) at the intersection of Broadway, 5th Avenue and 23rd street and he though it was kind of “sarcastic”. I walk past the Flatiron every day on my way into work, and I’ve never really considered this. I’d never really considered that a building could be sarcastic at all actually. But thinking about it, he’s right. The building is like a big middle finger, facing up Broadway to Times Square. It says “F you” to the grid system. It says “Look what you made me do, NYC. Look how you squeezed this beautiful sky scraper out of the tiniest space possible.” It’s so impractical it’s pretty much a political statement.

I also think it’s a bit of an affront to human perception. It’s vast, and beautifully detailed, but you turn the corner and suddenly you’re plunged into a world of uncertainty. Your consistent experience of skyscrapers as cubed is called into question, it’s as though you might bump into a mirror at the next step. I think New York challenges my perception of the real world every day, I guess that’s why I came here.

Steph, Rudolphe Champagne and I subsequently visited the Museum of The City Of New York with to see the History of the Grid System exhibition. We left agreeing that it’s probably the best exhibition we’ve seen, and I highly recommend it to any visitor or resident. It will make you appreciate the sheer bravado of the grid system, a dramatic and confident scheme that forced farmers off their land, and architects into acts of extreme ingenuity, like the Flatiron. Read more about the exhibition here.

(At the end of the exhibition they show proposals from modern architectural firms about how the grid system can be developed and extended in the future. My favourite idea was to cut Manhattan from the bedrock and let it float free around the world’s oceans like an iceberg, or Noah’s Ark.)

Excuse me, am I a person?

- Women on train platform at 66th St, outraged because I didn’t move out of her way fast enough

If anyone can spare a dollar, I’d really appreciate it. And if just one Asian person gives me any change at all, I’ll be absolutely amazed.

- Tramp on the subway

More available at overheardinny.com

My suspicion seems to be …. that Manhattan, the great secular-commercial metropolis, the world’s first and greatest city founded on concepts other than religious or national identity - and therefore a kind of science-fiction city, a conceptual project, a place unnaturally subject to the distorting forces of capital, ideology, projection, wish-fulfilment and so on - has become in effect the human tribe’s dry run for virtual reality: a place both persistently real and unreal. Or, an unreal place where real people are living out their existence. So, now that the rest of the world is becoming partly virtual, we’re the canary in the coal-mine here in New York. What’s gone wrong and right in this place has a special amount to tell us.

- Jonathan Lethem