My Turn 1

My Turn 1

The first in a series of reflections 

Inspired from a night at the MoMA PS1

By Bird

Community is hard, it requires sharing.

Sharing is hard, it requires communication.

Communication is hard, it requires connection.

Connection is hard, we are being trained to directly avoid it.

Now the world has turned into “My Turn”.

Everyone grabs at the last piece on the table.

They push through the hallways.

They fight over who gets to stand in front and see the painting.

Let me see!

Please?

I just want to see.

How are experiences changed due to selfishness?

I am in a rush, dammit! I can’t be expected to hold the door open for you.

Sorry, I am too busy sending a Snapchat to my sister.

What do you mean the dolphin died?! I didn’t get a chance to take a selfie with it!

What about MY turn?!?

If we put DOWN the phone, turn OFF the screen, unplug the IPOD

Where would we be?

Is that what an artist does?

Is an artist some sort of superhero? Able to jump back and listen and connect and create because they have rediscovered the power of SEEING and HEARING in person?

But then, if they do, is anyone really available to see or hear them?

Or are these souls alone, screaming into a void like madmen?

“Where do we draw the line for art? That’s my question.”

“So amazed at what they consider art.”

“I have some notes for this direction - just saying.”

“Are we so fucking lazy and our phones stuck in our faces so much that we believe this is art?”

“Does anyone get it? I don’t get it. You get it? Can you explain it to me? Cuz I don’t understand.”

When is it their turn?

A colorful collage of playbills relating to socialism covering a wall.

A box of eCigs with vibrant back lighting.

A room filled with Albert Baltrop’s photographs of the men on the New York Piers from the 70’s and 80’s.

It’s a message. It’s a statement. It is asking someone to stop and think and look.

But a lot of people giggled at the nudity and walked passed without a second glance.

Does a person have the power to see connections if they cannot truly connect, themselves?

Will they ever get the chance to see that the “thing” they call a mess is really someone else’s experience?
Will they ever understand how carefully each detail is planned - every word, color, angle - analyzed and considered?

Are they able to know that a message is being sent - trying to be sent?

Will I know? Can I know?

Or is it my turn?

My turn to shuffle around in a dark sphere?

My turn to not take in the beauty of the setting sun’s light shining on the petals of a rose, after it has been filtered by the green leaves of my maple tree?

My turn to question another’s motivation; reasoning to look and ask me to see it through their eyes?

My turn?

I am afraid.

I do not want it to be my turn.