Nestled in the grey depths of midtown, on a street that may never see sun, in a tiny midblock storefront, is a sweet man who lost his love years ago.
The lonely pain of loss is new in his eyes, even when he smiles, perhaps frozen by love’s daily traffic. The aromatics of his flowers are subtle, perhaps due to his dedication to them.
Omar the florist brings me back to the New York of my childhood, the one where everyone was not-so-secretly an artist and art splashed not-so-secretly on every surface. It was a place that was populated by people with open hearts and eyes, a city where chance encounters never were, a New York I’m bringing back.
The Vanderbilt Republic explores paradigm shifts. Presently, we’re examining the purpose and place of the artist in society.
Social and commercial systems of apartness have fostered an atmosphere of scarcity, a tiny fraction of artists thrive, the connecting power of art is bottled by dogma. This is the world we know.
Understanding the creative spirit to be an endless reserve of hope, information, and value, we’re exploring a new way: cooperative, vibrant, small-footprint platforms for artists connected to the soul of their craft.
A better world is ours for the making and the tools to do the job already exist. What remains is to dispel the illusion that the work belongs to anyone but ourselves.
I don’t ride the train too often anymore, but when I do, it tends to be the G. A few quick stops connect home and the shop, and the Metropolitan Avenue side of the trip is often host to buskers. Some good, some not so good, but the effort they put into coloring these in-between moments of city life are always appreciated.
And every once in a while, the wait for the train is mesmerizing; soulful. Last night was one — Zack Orion and his partner were the magic to hurry me home.
If I’m heading somewhere and the train hasn’t arrived then my banjo case, heart and mouth open up and I try to bring myself and others back to the mystery and awe of this world. No one truly knows what is right or wrong or good or bad or gorgeous or gross but there is always that feeling of warmth and fuzziness that comes from spontaneous human interaction, especially when harmony and melody is involved. I mentally dedicate a lot of my sounds to all the performers that inspired me—there always might be someone around the corner in any given town or city that will rip you open, fill you up with love and sew you shut with dental floss. This be why I busk.
—Z.O., in an email to Vijith Assar
I’ve been passively working on reasons to introduce live performance to Art From the Heart for a little while. Though we’ve traditionally done DJs — I know too many great ones not to — I love keeping options open for as long as I can, before production wheels hit the road.
And the evening of the day that I confirm the project space for AFTH2012, the case is made. It lands on my lap, like a leaf. Such is the mystery and awe of this world.
When you ask people about love, they tell you about heartbreak. When you ask them about belonging, they’ll tell you their most excruciating experiences of being excluded. And when I asked people about connection, the stories they told me were about disconnection. —Brené Brown
