Metropolitan Museum Takes A Look Back at the History of Photo Manipulation

The Metropolitan Museum of Art previewed “Faking It: Manipulated Photography Before Photoshop”, an exhibit that examines the history of photo doctoring before digital photography.

The collection features over 200 photographs from the 1840s to the 1990s; around 60 of these photos will be display in the Met’s Galleries for Drawings, Prints and Photographs from October 11^th, 2012 until January 27^th, 2013.

“In the 1840s, photographs were reality – people considered them magical images created by the light of the sun,” said showcase organizer Mia Fineman, “There have been various phases of how people look at photographs in their relation to the truth.”

In an effort to capture these phases, the exhibit is divided into seven sections, each one exploring a different type of photo tweaking.

The earlier works, in the section “Picture Perfect”, feature photographers adjusting technical aspects such as lighting or color, learning the tools of a new technology rather than trying to distort reality.

Moving forward in time, the manipulations become more familiar. The section entitled “Politics and Persuasion” features faked photos that were used as propaganda during historical periods. It includes a faked photograph of the Paris Commune massacre, manipulated to place famous generals in front of a firing squad.

The section entitled “Pictures in Print” showcases photographs that have been manipulated by newspapers and advertisers.  It includes doctored photographs of atomic bombs being dropped and prisoners executed by electric chair, images which were impossible for journalists to photograph.

One of the memorable photos in this section is of Elvis Presley, taken right after he was drafted, manipulated to make it seem like he had an army style buzz cut when in fact his iconic locks were still intact.

Other photos in the showcase had less of an agenda, such as the ones in “Novelties and Amusements”, where men held their own severed heads and ghosts were placed in everyday scenes.  

Also on display at the Met is “After Photoshop: Manipulated Photography in the Digital Age”, an addendum to “Faking it” that will be on display from September 25^th, 2012 to May 27^th, 2013.

Fair Folks & A Goat Serves Up a New Style of Coffee Shop

When you walk into the Fair Folks & A Goat café, it feels stumbled into someone’s living room. Owner Anthony Mazzei, 31, sits in one of two neon colored chairs, flipping through magazines on his iPad while his wife and business partner Aurora Stokowski, 29, mixes a fresh pot of coffee behind the bar nearby. Some patrons are sprawled comfortably on couches reading while others are settled at tables plugged into computers.

Anthony wanders around the café taking bets on how much chocolate bread will be consumed by the collective this month. “We’re getting the bread from the bakery next door and plan on selling it at a discounted price to members,” he says.

The couple has an innovative business plan when it comes to selling coffee. Fair Folks & A Goat is a membership café, for $25 a month visitors can have unlimited coffee, espresso, and tea and invitations to art events that are held at the café. According to the couple, Fair Folks & A Goat is supposed to be a home away from home for commuters. Members also chose one of two charities when they sign up and a portion of their membership fee goes to the cause. Customers who don’t want to be members can also purchase coffee a la carte.

In addition to subscription-based coffee, everything inside the café is for sale. Various pieces of art, furniture, and sculptures are spread around the space.

Some are designer originals, like the long dining table in the center created by an artisan in Brooklyn. Fair Folks is the only retail location his work is sold. Others, like the neon green comfy chair that Anthony is seated on, are bought in bundles from design shows in the city.

The pieces for the store are chosen by Aurora, who used to be a buyer for the Design Store at the Museum of Modern Art.

“The competition at the MoMa was tough for new designers because of all the hierarchy and politics,” says Aurora.

For her, Fair Folks & A Goat is a chance to showcase lesser-known New York City designers.

The couple perfected the membership café concept when they ran a coffee house in New Orleans.

“Here I stand outside and try and get people in, In New Orleans, I was like a bouncer keeping the rowdy ones out,” shares Anthony, “They always seemed angry that they couldn’t get a drink at a coffee place.”

Anthony pauses to tell the professor grading papers on the couch to get comfy, “If you fall asleep we’ll wake you up,” he says.

The pair is used to patrons passing out, the coffee house New Orleans doubled as a bed and breakfast. “There it was like ‘if you fall asleep we’ll have to charge you’,” jokes Anthony.

Once they realized the membership method was profitable, the couples moved the operation up to New York City. 

The last New York City location for the café was in a third floor loft in a residential area. With little visibility and signage, the café quickly had trouble turning a profit. Determined not to let lack of advertising be an issue again, Anthony negotiated with the landlord to have ads for Fair Folks placed in the windows for a few months before the café opened at it’s new Greenwich Village address in the fall. The extra marketing paid off and by the end of the summer the couple had 60 members signed up.

Only ten days after opening, Fair Folks & A Goat has already racked up 160 members willing to pay $25 a month for an unlimited supply of caffeine and seems to show no signs of stopping. “I think we’ll cap it at 300 here and if this level of interest continues we’ll open another location,” says Anthony.

Miss Subways Reunite to Celebrate New Book

Shirley Martin with her Miss Subway poster.

Former Miss Subways gathered with their families in Ellen’s Stardust Diner to toast the launch of the new book “Meet Miss Subways: New York’s Beauty Queens 1941-76.”

The Miss Subways contest was a program launched by New York Subways Advertising in 1941. The New York City woman that won the contest would appear on posters in NYC Subways. A new winner was chosen every few months until 1976.  

Of the 200 total women who won Miss Subway, around 60 are still living and well enough to travel. Around 30 former winners were at the event. The oldest attendee was Ruth Mate, who won Miss Subway in 1942.

Owner of the Stardust Diner Ellen Hart was herself a Miss Subway in 1959. The diner features a collection of Miss Subway posters on the windows.

“I was a Miss Subway so I decided to start hanging the posters up, this was 1982,” said Hart, “after that we just kept having reunions and collecting posters from the women.”

Author Fiona Gardner attended one of these reunions. After seeing Hart’s Miss Subway posters and meeting the Miss Subways, Gardner decided to turn their stories into a book. Funded by KickStarter, Gardner wrote “Meet the Miss Subways.”

All the former beauty queens brought the poster version of themselves that hung in the subways decades ago. Each one was given Miss Subway sashes to wear and looked just as glamorous as they had in black and white.

Event organizers collected donations from the guests, all proceeds from the reunion were used to purchase metro cards for victims of Hurricane Sandy.

Not every attendee was a Miss Subway. Patty and Jeff Barnett came with a poster of their mother won Miss Subway in 1943. “We’re here to represent her memory,” said Patty.

When the final photo of all the former winners was taken, organized made sure the poster of Patty and Jeff’s mother was included. “It’s the sisterhood of Miss Subways,” said Hart.

In addition to the book, there will also be a Meet the Miss Subways exhibition at the New York Transit Museum from October 23 to March 25.

Discussing Rape in Conflict and How Men Can Help

Feminist activist from around the globe gathered for a discussion panel with six leaders of The International Campaign to Stop Rape & Gender Violence in Conflict attempting to answer the question “Is it possible to stop rape in conflict?”

The event, held in the TriBeCa Performing Arts Center on Monday, featured two of the six living female Nobel Peace Laureates, Dr. Shirin Ebadi and Jody Williams. Ebadi was award the prize in 2003 for her fight to protect human rights in Iran. Williams won in 1997 for her International Campaign to Ban Landmines.

Rounding out the panel were Patricia Guerrero, director of the League of Displaced Women in Colombia; Susanna Sirkin, creator of Physicians for Human Rights’ Program against Sexual Violence in Conflict Zones; and Dr. Denis Mukwege, founder of Panzi Hospital in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, one of the few hospitals in the region that treats rape victims.

Before the discussion began, feminist author Robin Morgan offered some context, reminding the mostly female audience that, “there is a direct correlation between the violence of a state and the treatment of it’s women”.

Guerroro discussed how rape is a part of the power struggle in Columbia.

Ebadi explained how female political prisoners in Iran are raped in jail to further humiliate them.

Mukwege shared stories of mass rape in the DRC, where women, sometimes 300 or more, are raped in village centers.

“Rape is not just a weapon of war, but a strategy of war” he said.

Mukwege has performed approximately 15,000 operations on women for rape related injuries.  

Rape in patriarchal societies becomes a way to insult the males, explains Ebadi, “part of our work is to change this culture.”

The only male member of the panel, Mukwege encouraged other men to speak out against rape.

Audience member Joanna Hoffman, from Women Deliver, appreciated this appeal saying, “By not speaking up, [men] contribute to the silencing that often happens.”

Moving forward, the initiative intends to mobilize males.

“One component of the campaign will be male leaders who will publically discuss a man’s role in intervening,” said Birkin. 

Mumbai Music

I grew up living in a city of 20.5 million people, living in 230 square miles. Thirty two percent are living under the poverty line, surviving, on less that a dollar a day. The human spirit is literally palpable in the heavy humid air of Bombay, an odorous mix of sweat and the city.

My best friend, a born and bred New Yorker who moved to Bombay when she was twelve, now acts as a faux advisor to fellow foreigners. She tells the incoming immigrants how you have to tune out the sound of the starving. The begging taps on the car window, homeless children playing in the street, you have to forget about the melody of Mumbai for a while.

The high school we went to, the American School of Bombay, was for all of the city’s foreign nationals or expat Indians (other Indians who’d forgotten how to be Indian like me). It was in what would be considered a commercial district. Large open grounds with a few shiny business buildings springing out of them. It was where the stock exchange was, two of the most well known private schools, and the new U.S. embassy was in construction. Yet none of these is what the neighborhood was known for. A few blocks from our school is Dharavi, with an estimated population of between 600 thousand and over a million people, they can’t really say for sure. So, every day when we would leave school through security gates, where security was Indian men wearing U.S. flag pins on their uniforms, and take the drive home. There was always a red light at the end of the road, and in Bombay a red light means you turn away from the windows, and ready yourself for the possibly barrage of the poor. Near one of the largest slums in Asia, this light always guarantees them. That combined with rush hour traffic, meant a good five minutes at this light every school day. This is why my friend has learned so well how to tune out the tapping.

My friend had another way to survive the constant guilt. We had another rule. If we ever had food or drinks when we arrived at the light, we would hand them out the window immediately. We road home together after some sport practice, and as always the light caught us. A young boy, he looked twelve but with the malnutrition the children growing up in slums face he could have easily been fifteen or sixteen. He left a group of younger children and tapped on our car window. The moment we heard it my friend pointed at the large plastic bottle of water I had been drinking since after practice. I handed it to him immediately. He smiled, his eyes shown slightly hazel, blending with his tanned brown skin. But before he sipped the bottle, he took it over the young boys he had been standing with, making sure everyone one of them got the water they craved. By the time the bottle got to him, there wasn’t a drop left. Still he smiled, holding hands with the youngest boys and walking away down the side of the road.

My friend hadn’t noticed the aftermath of our gift, and I didn’t know how to begin explaining it to her. How sometimes the symphony of life holds hidden moments of joy, and that sometimes you have to open up blocked ears or you’ll miss the magic of the music.

From Bollywood to Russia (With Love)

A few days ago I was sitting in the room of my Azerbaijani friend Anar. Amidst other mindless catching we somehow land on the subject of Bollywood, the Indian film industry named after my home town Bombay.

"I've told you how Disco Dancer is my mother's favorite movie, right?" he said and began singing a song from the 1982 film, "Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy."

Let me put this into context. It would like travelling to Thailand to teach English, and finding your students in the small province of Chang Rai have not only heard of Across the Universe, but have their own critiques of each Beatles cover in the film.

I was floored.

Anar then explained the story behind his insider knowledge of the Indian film industry. When his mother was growing up in Azerbaijan, and indeed during much of his early life as well, the country was still part of the Soviet Union. In the USSR, as we all know, the West was the ultimate evil. In addition to no economic exchange, no culture was allowed to pass from the West to the East. So the films that were shown in movie halls all across the Soviet Union were imported from India. Bollywood movies have always been a celebration of color, melodramatic but never to be taken to seriously, and at no time in the film industries history was this truer than the 1980s. So Gorbachev placated his harrowed population with loud songs and disco dancing.

I thought of my own mother. When she was a child, growing up in Calcutta, India, Sound of Music was her favorite movie. Movies would only play on the weekend, she told me once. Her earliest childhood memories are of piling the whole family into a small, old Fiat and driving to the movie theater to see Sound of Music. She's fifty one years old now, and can still describe these trips with perfect accuracy.

Cinema, as a cornerstone of pop culture, is often considered a limited concept. Movies, only matter to those who's language they're in, or to those who live in the countries they're set it. It's so easy to assume that  the films of a nation stay within only that nation. I think it's because we forget that films, like most other art forms, are just stories. And stories are always something to be shared, whether it's across coffee tables or continents. 

On Music

There’s an ocean colored wall in Germany where the drain-pipes are placed so precisely that when rain water sprinkles from the skies, it provides a musical melody for passersby. It’s called the Funnel Wall and it’s located at the Kunsthof-Passage in Neustadt.
I’ve always envied the way music can be pleasing in all stages of it’s creation. Listening to musicians make their art can be magical. I can sit for hours listening to friends strumming their guitars. They start with simple notes, slowly adding slides and bends, building, shaping, spilling songs from their minds into their fingers. It’s like getting a glimpse of the journey they take before arriving at their destination.
Music can exist in the most miniscule of moments. All it takes is a few notes in just the right combination to convey even the most complex of emotions. Some friends of mine and I were listening to the Beatles the other day. One them commented on George Harrison’s title choice.
“I love how a guitar can weep, moan and howl,” he said.

It’s true, a guitar can guilt trip, a sax can be sexy, and violins can get violent. There’s an odd emotion instruments can carry in between notes. Music can move. A solo can make you shake sometimes. A favorite song can feel like a hug from an old friend. Music that moves exists only when the artist says something rather than does a series of trained actions. It’s not just the sound of a valve opening and closing, or a string being strummed but the placement of pauses and the communication of something more. One of my favorite song lyrics aptly explains this something more, “music is worthless unless it can make a complete stranger break down and cry”.
I think that’s what gives music such universality; everyone understands the emotion embodied in a note. We’re constantly exposed to new instruments we’ve never heard of. Yet, even those who’ve never set foot in Africa can understand the doldrums if played on a djembe. Music has an ability to transcend culture, creed, ethnicity, or whatever other barriers human create to close themselves off from each other. That makes it the most successful method of communication I’ve ever seen, or, in this case, heard.