Momentary Blindness Part one: ~en Roma~

The loss of sight in the Piazza Navona was almost a welcome gift. In prime tourist hour the open space felt like being lost upon a tumultuous ocean of stimulation that I could finally pull apart sitting on the curb in front of the Basilica of St. Agnes closing my eyes.

               As I descended into a self-imposed darkness the noise the sounds and smells gained a new significance in how I pieced together the Piazza. The first thing I noticed was the echoing of the many languages coming from all around me, because I did not understand much of what was said they seemed to join the sound of the water cascading from the Fountain of four rivers just behind me. However, as they became apart of the background some phrases and conversations in English would jump out at me as they were the few things that I could understand. Joining the chorus of the background noise in the Piazza, the sounds of screeching birds as they hunted for the scraps left by tourists seemed to accompany, and be nearly indistinguishable from, the sounds of crying babes being faced with long days around the city. To finalize this mass of noise that all seemed to belong together the long blasts of car horns echoed throughout the Piazza only being matched in volume and sporadicness by the echoing cries of vendors pushing their wares on the hordes of tourists.

               The smell of Navona seemed to be one unique, perhaps not to the Piazza, but to Rome. The ever-pervasive smell of the many people smoking seemed to create a base scent that was complimented, in a surprisingly enjoyable manner, by the sweet smells of Gelato and finely prepared foods. This smell seemed to be held in place from the moist air that was created from the three fountains creating a musk of the Piazza. The only difficulty I faced at all in enjoying the different senses of the Piazza was from myself. As I attempted to let them engulf me my sense of feeling also purveyed through my body: my sore legs against the hard concrete, the blisters on my feet that seemed to not be able to settle, and the sun complementing my lethargy in a way that made the pavement to be the most comfortable day bed I had ever experienced.

Piazza Navona: May 21^st at 3:00 PM.

Peter Maeder

Giornale

               Emerging to the graciously warm day, a welcome reprise from the brutal winter, we met for a restful drive to the Empire State Plaza. The drive was a welcome opportunity to forge deeper relationships with those I will be traveling with. It’s a trip I have made many times before and yet I still appreciate the beautiful monotony of the flashing forest and distant Adirondacks. We pulled into Albany and I almost instantly noticed the glaring concrete monoliths rising into the sky that we would soon be visiting. Arriving at the Cathedral parking lot, the seat of the Capital Distract Diocese, we unloaded from the cars coming back together to the stream of banter concerning the “tech” we would soon be receiving to prepare for our adventures in Rome. The tech itself provides an interesting experience for exploring as it rather mutes you from conversation with those around you and truly centers you in the best position to explore the space. Your mind is not distracted by minor conversation and is instead used to take in the space with the consistent dialogue in your ear purely regarding the space you are exploring. Upon emerging from the steps of the New York Museum I was confronted with the plaza, marble and concrete took a somber tone in the gray weather, but it was still a monumental spectacle. I was immediately confronted by the names of the four “agency” buildings which brought my mind into the nameless powerful bureaucracy seen in all too many dystopian scenarios. With the previous readings on Rockefeller I could see the ideas of autocratic democracy that he espoused. The structures being so close together and even conjoined underground he could easily negotiate all the agencies within the day micromanaging each decision. The structure that changed the most for me was the brutalist building of the museum which seemed to be a towering monstrosity of concrete up close but slowly, as we ventured away from it, seemed to become an agile structure about to take flight. As we ventured toward the far end of the plaza, approaching the state capitol we took a break from the group exploration for a chance at personal wandering and self-reflection. This was my favorite moment in this trip as it allowed me to explore the nooks and crannies of the Plaza. One of the most curious parts of this Plaza were the stairways to the Concourse. The Concourse, just as much of an impressive structure as the Plaza itself was only accessible off the Plaza by tiny stairways reminiscent of the sketchiest of New York City subway stops. Just in front of one of these entrances was my favorite personal discovery that emphasized the lack of humanity in the Plaza. “Phil’s Kitchen” was a bland structure built in the same style of the agency building that surrounded it. It was shuttered by off grey curtains with a silver-grey door and grey chairs within. I could easily picture the ant like men and women in suits filing in and out the door every day at lunch, having the same meal they have each day. This Plaza was a gorgeous monumental space that made one feel immensely small, not only in stature but also in soul

Peter Maeder

Ekphrasis

               Blond hair hangs rigidly through the top of the frame to obscure the shaded depth of her eye. Her eyes are empty, lacking care or expression which is telling in itself. Her right eye being all the more obscured is shielded by a waterfall if sugar. The sugar itself cascades from above, playfully pink and comprised of dense chunks its steals the image as the background seems dark and morose. It seems to almost shimmer like glitter as it falls into her mouth. Her mouth holds your eye as the deep red of voluminous lips contrasts and interacts so well with the crisp white of her teeth. Under that her tongue is lolling from her mouth receiving the cascading sugar and waiting for more. The crystals are coating the surface of her tongue as those places not yet covered are glittering with moisture ready to hold the sugar in place. The sugar stacking upon her tongue continues to tumble off it, creating a barrier but not stopping the cascade from above. Her skin behind is slightly out of focus but nonetheless the flawlessness of her skin is apparent. Her expression and eyes come together to turn this perhaps childish action into one emitting sexuality. The sugar appearing glitter like adds to this image as it also ties this portrait into the playful world.

Chewing Pink 2009

Marilyn Minter

Peter Maeder

Voyeur

Due: 2/23/19

               Her tie-dye shirt is speckled with brown clay as it continuously sprays against her. She loves her work; her hands speak for her as she caresses the spinning creation. She is undivided in focus, the conversation buzzes all about her and she scarcely gives notice, even as the others call for her. The clay begins to take shape beneath her hand as leans down to it as if to kiss, watching her hands as they massage and pull the image in her mind into reality. As she finishes the her first triangular bowl and cuts it off her face is one of pure satisfaction and fascination at what her mind had been able to bring to earth. As she strides away out of my view, I see that unlike most of her counterparts around the table she has left her space immaculate, taken care of and cleaned with compassion. A hear a laugh echo from the space she had just entered and look up once more to see a face of joy that seems to emanate happiness. Followed by a few more ceramicists she sits once more to her wheel still wet with the last hour of work.

               What will her next work be I can only imagine. I find it hard to accept that the same love goes in to each and every work although I know it must. The physical nature of this work as she kneads the clay and pulls it into shape continuously astonishes me and I cannot help but be in awe of her work.

Blind in the library

Peter Maeder

4th Floor of the Library

Sunday, 4:30 PM

Closing my eyes in public is aided by the weight my eyelids seem to have put on within the last few days. My body settles back as the couch molds to my body, pulling me further back and daring me to even attempt to rise. The background noise grows in volume as my thoughts drift to what the cascade of key clicks, much like an orchestra of metronomes, could possibly be creating. So many people working with different rhythms but all bringing their new thoughts into the world. A table away from me a new noise breaches the peace as a river of murmured curses escape through the lips of a student who finds relief in the crumpling of their paper. The crumpling of paper fades into the cellophane rustling soon followed by the suspicious sent only created by a melody of vending machine snacks. Finally, harmony seems to settle once more allowing me to drift into the concord of typists. This sound encourages me to shift positions and fully lie down on the dust filled couch that has seen me far too many days and nights. As I settle in and perhaps drift a little beyond blind observation the elevator dings and think nothing of it. With my thoughts and nearing sleep not much of the external could permeate the relationship found between me and this sofa. However, the air around me stirs and a familiar scent reaches me nose bringing me back to reality. A warm flow carrying the kind smell of cheap coffee and cigarettes reaches my nose just as the words reach my ear telling me I’ve fallen asleep in the library once again.