THE WEEK: AUGUST 15-19.

PROJECT FUKUSHIMA! BENEFIT CONCERTS @ THE STONE.
8/15 Monday  8 and 10pm

PROJECT FUKUSHIMA! BENEFIT CONCERTS
John Zorn, Ned Rothenberg (sax) Uri Caine, Shoko Nagai, Karl Berger (piano) Ikue Mori (electronics) Ha Yang Kim (cello) Nels Cline, David Watson (guitar) Yuka Honda (keyboards) Satoshi Takeishi (drums) Shayna Dunkelman (percussion) Chuck Bettis, Michael Carter (electronics) Kato Hideki (bass) and many special guests!
TWO SPECIAL SETS OF IMPROVISED MUSIC AS PART OF A WORLD-WIDE INITIATIVE FOR THE LAND AND PEOPLE OF FUKUSHIMA. ALL PROCEEDS WILL GO TO PROJECT FUKUSHIMA!—TWENTY DOLLARS

THIS NIGHT WILL BE BROADCAST LIVE OVER WEBSYN RADIO BY DOMINIQUE BALAY—THE LINK http://droitdecites.org/2011/06/08/websynradio-en-direct-de-the-stone-new-york-fukushima/

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The New York International Fringe Festival
Friday, Saturday and SundayFringeNYC? The New York International Fringe Festival (FringeNYC) is the largest multi-arts festival in North America, with more than 200 companies from all over the world performing for 16 days in more than 20 venues. In addition to 1200 incredible performances, FringeNYC includes…..(READ MORE.)


Maya Zack: Living Room

The Jewish Museum
July 31, 2011 – October 30, 2011

In the installation, Living Room, artist and filmmaker Maya Zack uses large-scale computer-generated 3D images accompanied by sound to evoke a Jewish family’s apartment from 1930s Berlin. While listening to the stories and memories of Manfred Nomburg, visitors can experience the apartment visually. 3D glasses enhance the oversized images reimagining rooms in the apartment and give them immediacy and depth.

Everybody Loves the Monster!
Thursday, August 18, 2011, 10 a.m.

In 1818, when Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus was published for the first time, Mary Shelley could not have imagined the monster she was unleashing on the world. The creature in Shelley’s novel is remarkably sympathetic and an eloquent speaker, capable of measured, intelligent, and articulate argument.  But based on Boris Karloff’s 1931 film performance and confirmed by countless other films, comics, and illustrations, the general perception today is that Frankenstein’s creature is a “monster” who grunts or speaks—if he talks at all—in disjointed monosyllables.

Why has popular culture largely denied the creature his reasonable voice? This symposium brings together four scholars and the curator and bibliographer of The New York Public Library’s Carl H. Pforzheimer Collection to reflect on graphic and film representations of the “monster” from the past two centuries. The first half of the day will feature presentations on key visual adaptations of the creature, while the latter half will engage questions about what these appearances mean for understanding him as a political and historical subject.

Yana Dimitrova and Angela Washko: Cheap Paradise of Familiar Tasks and Places
Opening reception: August 19th, 6:30 pm on
Flux Factory 

Consider escaping your common, everyday tasks and places without using your common, everyday devices. Through installation, painting, drawing, and video, Yana Dimitrova and Angela Washko portray the mundane patterns and structures of everyday experience and consider models of living that exist outside of our “to-buy-is-to-gratify” mentality. Stripping fast food architecture and smart phone technology of it’s branding and context, Washko and Dimitrova present what remains – hollow monuments to consumer culture.

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Yana Sakellion

My Father’s Letters (by Yana Sakellion)


My love for letters as objects started even before I could read. The first time I saw one was at the very tender age of 4. I knew exactly what I was looking at because my family collected correspondence (postcards, letters, cards and scraps) sent by my father from Greece. Every time a new addition arrived, my mother and grandmother would gather around and read it aloud so that I could hear. Long at first, the messages got shorter and shorter as the “Father-pile” grew. Nonetheless, those envelopes were still carefully placed in a specially allocated drawer and kept, more or less, in chronological order.

Sometimes I would be allowed access to the “Father-pile”, although someone else would remove of the letters and put them back in place. There were a small number of holiday cards, the most beautiful things I‘d ever seen on paper by that age. They seemed impossible compared to the poorly produced, plain, unimaginative postcards we got from our relatives from Ukraine; not for the lack of taste on their part, but due to the decline of print industry funding.

I remember one card in particular. Even till this day the image is very sharp in my mind.Printed on a snow-white heavy weight paper, there was an embossed illustration of a spring cherry grove – flowers blooming, petals falling, little birds flying. Under a tree stood a young beautiful couple, holding hands. A handsome dark-haired man, and a fair woman with a delicate profile were looking into each other’s eyes, smiling tenderly. Everyone at home (my mother included) noted that those happy lovers looked just like my parents. It must have been an anniversary card my father sent. Devoid of cynicism in those days, I loved picking this card out of the pile, examine the watercolor illustration and every bit of the glitter on it, open the cover and feel the insides of embossed cavities with my fingers.

Not being able to read yet and having forgotten the context of the letter, I just let the intricate weaving of blue ink wash over me. Starting at the very first symbol I’d follow each thread, letting my eyes flow with the curves or jump over mysterious obstacles left by my father’s pen. Once I reached the end of the letter, I would start right back at the first mark again. It became a sort of a meditative practice.

Somehow I believed that by the sheer repetition of this process and my good sense, I would be able to will the meaning into existence. I can’t recall if it actually ever happened, but I did experience waves of euphoria whenever I seemed to have recognized something familiar in the lines of ink. It was real to me, and that was good enough. Eventually, I stopped my love affair with the “father’s pile”. It happened in a space of a year or so of those imaginations, when I finally learned to read, or perhaps when I saw my father that same year on his first visit back, which lasted a few days and left no significant memories.