I had planned to sleep the entire flight but I sat next to a very talkative (and lovely) Hasidic lady with a beautiful baby on her lap. My eyelids were heavy, though, and at one point I just... dozed off. I awoke every hour-ish, wishing I had bought on of the pillows Jet Blue had been selling.
And then, as travel changes our relationship to time, suddenly I was in New York. I hopped into my shuttle from the airport to the hotel, sitting in the back with my sunglasses on, as I do when I'm still tired, sand in my eyes. The driver looked at me before officially leaving the airport, crammed all the way in the very back, and he said, "You're staying at the Roger Williams, right?" I said, "yes," and he said, "why don't you sit up front." I looked around in surprise. Why had he asked me? Of course, my mind went right to, I'm a single lady. But there was some putrid smell in the back of that van, and so I said, "okay."
Once upfront, the driver said, "I rescued you from a bad smell in the back." I said, "I noticed that! Thank you."
The families in back chatted happily with one another. The driver was a man of undeterminable age, but I'd guess on either side of 40. His accent was not distinguishable, but it sounded like when a character in a movie practices Santeria. His short cropped hair was receding a little at the temples and his eyes were scrutinizing even though his smile presented a welcome. He listened to classical music on the radio and he kept looking at me curiously.
After a few moments he inquired, "and what is your business?" To which I responded, "I'm an actor and a writer." He asked what I write and I told him about "Near Death," the short film that was in the film festival, the whole reason for my being in NYC at all. He said, "ah, you write science fiction?" And I answered, "sometimes." And then he asked what I thought about aliens. I knew instantly where this conversation was going.
It was certainly not my first- and probably not my last- rodeo with alien conspiracy theorists. All of my experiences with alien conspiracy theorists, including friends, including one guy who told me all about his (self-reported) alien abduction.... I have noticed a few traits they all seem to share: 1) bright intelligence 2) a chip on their shoulder 3) a certainty of being right 4) creativity that seems to have been thwarted somewhere along the line and 5) at some point in the conversation, everyone of them seems to be looking for supportive co-conspirators, and upon learning that I neither believe nor disbelieve, they start trying to convince me.
So, from a conversation about my short film about a priest who undergoes a near death experience and wakes up with a psychic ability to remote view tragedies as they happen... came a intense lecture about aliens; about how there is no God; about how demons are aliens, miracles are aliens, angels are aliens, etc.
Eventually, getting no reaction from me, he searched again.
"And why do you not paint your face and not paint your nails?" he asked.
"Oh, I do paint my face," I said, "but I just got off a red eye flight."
"Oh," he answered. He seemed almost disappointed I wasn't mad at his question. "And your nails?
"Well, I'm an actress, so, if I keep my nails painted and I get a last minute audition or booking for a role where the woman wouldn't paint her nails... like the last role I played, she was a preacher's wife, she wouldn't have painted her nails... so I only do it if it's for a role."
He seemed to like that answer.
"So you do it if your work demands it of you," he said.
"Yeah," I said.
"I think also, it means you are secure with yourself. Women paint their nails because they are not secure in themselves."
"Or for fun," I countered, offering another suggestion. "Like, it might be an expression of beauty. We've adorned ourselves since the dawn of time, lots of animals do, too."
"No," he said. "Definitely it's about being secure with yourself."
I shrugged, and inwardly I was chuckling to myself
Welcome back to New York City, I thought.
We spent the rest of the ride talking about his daughters, and whether or not parents should impose adult dreams on kids. I thought to myself how desperately I begged my parents to move to Los Angeles when I was little so I could be a child actor. I don't talk about it often. For some reason, it stings a little to think about, even. Actually for many reasons.
A lot of people want things to be different than the way they are, maybe most of us, maybe all of us, at least some of the time. That's never a recipe for happiness. Of course, in 2019, we prize happiness as a spiritual trait, a sign of spiritual goodness and enlightenment. In Europe during medieval times, Christians prized sorrow and the gift of tears for the same reason. For me, I'm just looking to change my life. Again. :)
***
At my hotel there were no rooms open yet, so I stopped in at the tea shop next door, did a little work on my secret (not so secret, but still, yeah, secret) novel/ screenplay. I texted some NY friends to start setting up dates. And then I went to the Whitney Museum over by the Highline.
***
The thing about art museums is, I love them, but especially when I have time to surrender to them. I like to find something that moves me and get lost in it, romance it, pull back, see how I feel. The Whitney has a lot to offer, especially during the Biennial, which was going on. But there were a few pieces that hurt my head- that's normal for me- I am very sensitive- and then there was a Georgia O'Keefe painting and a Laura Ortman video piece that swallowed me up.
First, Georgia. I know there is so much to discover in that museum, tons of great painters who are maybe slightly less famous than the flowers and animal skulls of O'Keefe. But I love her. I just love her work. I don't know if it's because my mother loved her? Maybe. And maybe because I've had some intensely bizarre and meaningful experiences in Albuquerque and Santa Fe in New Mexico and the plateaus of Hopi land in Arizona. Her neighborhood. Her subject matter.
And I've always loved flowers, too. I love to lean in, drink them in, inhale them and whisper back nurturing carbon dioxide, sing a little opera if I'm alone enough or with those who also understand.
So I was drawn in to (posting, but not sure if that's legal for me, so, hopefully someone will let me know if I gotta take it down):
Georgia O’Keeffe Flower Abstraction, 1924
Oil on canvas, 48 x 30 in. (121.9 x 76.2 cm) Whitney Museum of American Art, New York
50th Anniversary Gift of Sandra Payson 85.47
Copyright Georgia O’Keeffe Museum/Artist Rights Society (ARS), New York
It's like we can dive in and swim around. An expansive femininity. An integrity within the delicate textures. I love it.
And then, a Laura Ortman video, My Soul Remainer, which I stood in front of for several viewings. In this video, she's playing Mendelssohn (on violin) in concert attire but in different locations in the Southwest (she is a White Mountain Apache, and her crew and fellow collaborators were also from various Native American Nations.) I just wanted to watch it for hours. I want to watch it now.
Ortman's video has me entranced, and I don't know why. Yes, it's dynamic, and beautiful, and full of tension. But also, it just seems to express- for me- the beautiful anguish between our nature roots and the human couturing of beauty through music and hair and clothes and.... I can never say it in words, not like she presented in the video. Just go find it and watch it.
***
That night we screened at the Chain NYC Film Festival in a block titled "Faith." It seems we, collectively we, I mean, have a fascination with the pain of the priesthood as there were several different explorations into their lives. Honestly I was surprised! I felt that we were unique in using a priest as a hero, because, well, you know. The church scandals that have been coming to light, again and again, as they should. We address this only a little in our short film, but we do address it a lot in the longer piece we've written (Carlo and I) (a TV pilot) because I feel it's a copout not to. And it's great character development and story telling and needs to be opened up and addressed both directly AND indirectly so that we can stop the abuse and heal the victims. But we were the only film that DID mention that part of the priesthood.
There was a real standout- a Croation short called "In the Name of the Strawberry, the Chocolate and the Holy Spirit." (2018) 20min | Short, Comedy | 27 April 2018 (USA) One Sunday after the mass, in an overly Christian village, Petar, a priest devoted to his profession, wants just one thing: enjoy an ice cream. The film goes on to hilariously show his many struggles in this endeavor. I laughed out loud.
When our film screened, it was fun to watch the audience. There was a moment with a collective GASP. That was gratifying. I also watched for where they were drawn in, where they were checking out, who, and why, etc. You can learn so much about storytelling watching audiences in theaters as much as you can learn about the film itself.
