A Wandering Weekend
I can hand-deliver this anywhere in NYC after April 30th when the show closes. If you need shipping, please send an email to mari@bymariandrew.com after purchasing :)
THE ART OF CONTEMPLATION: A Wandering Weekend
For this piece I used a technique called ‘felted wool painting.’ It is a laborious process, and each one takes upwards of 20 hours to complete. I source my wool from a small family farm in North Dakota which is committed to providing their beloved sheep with a natural and joyful life.
Inspiration:
My favorite activity in New York has always been wandering around. Aimlessness lends itself to serendipity, which has a particular flavor in NYC—“the New York magic,” as my friend calls it.
It’s not the kind of magic that you’d see on a safari or while chasing the Northern Lights; in fact it’s not really magic at all…just ordinary people doing ordinary things. But the difference is that in New York you get to witness it: a first kiss, an act of kindness, an outburst of emotion. Since so much of New Yorkers’ lives are lived outdoors in public on the streets, we get to see humans up-close, in all their wonderfulness and weirdness.
If you wander with your eyes wide-open, you’re sure to find something you’ve never seen before: funny graffiti, a secret garden, or a tiny cafe wedged between the post office and fancy spa. If you wander far enough in New York, you’ll inevitably discover 1) a bookstore, 2) a shoe repair, 3) and a shop selling a highly-specific product, like rubber stamps or novelty socks.
I mark these off my mental BINGO card every time I take a Saturday to go exploring, just like I did when I first moved here, and I realize that the city has become knowable and yet remains unknowable at the same time.
Meditation:
Put your phone on airplane mode and put your watch in your pocket. Today is your Sabbath, and you’re going to spend it by flexing your senses.
See: Or should I say Look. Not for anything specific—just look around. Look around a used bookstore and peer into a tome about Mesopotamian inventions (who would discard such a book??). Look at the rumpled and penned-up pages, look at man reading the paper behind the cash register, look at the lighting and appreciate the crooked sconce, look through the dirty window and see the West Village as a smudgy watercolor painting.
Smell: Take a whiff of the streets—not with dread, but curiosity. Does New York really smell bad, or does it smell like life? What does life smell like? Hot donuts mixed with dog feces mixed with sewage and a top note of luxury leather? You don’t have to wear it as a perfume, but maybe attempt to appreciate how distinct the smell of a city is, and how different from, say, a suburban shopping mall. Inhale a few used encyclopedias at the bookshop and ride the high all day.
Touch: Touch your way through town (bring hand sanitizer if you’re grimacing). How would a blind person navigate this block—by memorizing the patterns of wrought iron and brick? Run your fingers through racks of clothing and along the spines of the bookshop’s philosophy section. Read the physical newspaper and pick up litter; grab the cash out of your tote bag and give it to the mariachi band on the subway. We avoid the fact that we are human animals in a human city by refusing to touch it. But embracing a little filth in our midst helps us embrace our internal filth, that which makes us human and humanly connected to every person in this filthy majestic metropolis.
Hear: When the siren hurts your ears, pretend it’s a wild opera singer who has gone rogue in her final performance. When honking agitates you, pretend it’s an audience clapping for your latest accomplishment. Cafe chatter is the breeze through a wildflower pasture and a garbage truck beeping is staccato notes from a violin concerto.
Taste: Vow to buy a cheap snack or drink that you’ve never had before: Spanish hot chocolate from the churro cafe, a cup of cut mangoes from the corner stand, a vegan empanada, mystery dumpling, or the latest pastry abomination (croissant meets creme brûlée).