Artist Laura Anderson Barbata, in collaboration with the Brooklyn Jumbies, presented “Intervention: Wall Street” on Friday, November 18, 2011. The performance took place on Wall Street in New York City’s Financial District at approximately 12 pm.
As part of the Moko Jumbies project, Anderson Barbata and the Brooklyn Jumbies towered over the Financial District in a performance that incorporated stilt dancers wearing 12ft high business suits, music and a collaborative spirit.
Here is the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=84E877vGkpc&feature=g-upl
“Intervention: Wall Street” was conceived as a response to the dire economic crisis that became most evident in 2008 and which today afflicts not only Americans but has impacted 99% of the global population. Financial speculation and banking abuses by the largest and most powerful institutions on Wall Street have brought misery to individuals, institutions and to entire countries. In this public performance, Laura Anderson Barbata and the Brooklyn Jumbies brought to the Financial District of New York a world-wide practice to remind viewers of the global impact of this crisis and the urgent need to elevate and change the values and practices of the New York Financial Industry.
In Western Africa, Moko is a spirit who watches over his village, and due to his towering height, is able to foresee danger and evil. In Africa, the Moko Jumbie (stilt dancer) is traditionally called in to cleanse and ward off evil spirits that have brought with them disease and misfortune to a village. On the other side of the Atlantic, in Oaxaca, Mexico, the Zancudos (stilt dancers) perform once a year to call upon the power of their saints to receive protection, blessings, and miracles. In the same spirit of warding off evil and seeking a change in the mindset of those causing misfortune, Laura Anderson Barbata and the Brooklyn Jumbies intervened on Wall Street.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Friday, December 2, 2011
Short story, "Santa's Last Night"
Santa’s Last Night
Lutefisk has to be one of the most unappetizing foods – at least to a seven year old American. To me as a kid, it smelled badly – a sour aroma, looked ugly - a gelatinous mass and tasted awful - like eating something that should have been thrown out. Nonetheless it’s a traditional delicacy in Norway, and my Norwegian Grandmother always fixed it for Christmas Eve along with spareribs and some sort of sweet rolls. She did all this on a wooden cook stove before the family sat around the oil cloth covered table in her warm kitchen subtly permeated with smoke.
Throughout the meal, my year-younger cousin Clarence and I impatiently waited for Santa Claus to come to the door. Mysteriously, after this late afternoon dinner, our Dads disappeared. We didn’t pay much attention to their absence being riveted by the prospect of a gift from Santa, and we didn’t notice either when Clarence’s Mom - my Aunt Harriet, would become nervous and make calls on the telephone. She’d come away announcing that Santa was on his way, he’d come in fifteen-twenty minutes.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, there’d be footsteps on the front stoop, and we’d hear sleigh bells and a “Ho, ho, ho.” In he’d stomp in his red suit and white beard, looking like we expected but frightening us nonetheless.
“Can you sing a song for Santa?” he’d say, and Clarence and I would shyly sing something, maybe Jingle Bells or part of Silent Night. Then out of his bag, he’d produce a couple presents for each of us, and with more “ho ho’s” and “Merry Christmases” he’d be gone.
One of these nights, I became suspicious. I don’t remember why but I went out to the car where Dad was waiting and told him I didn’t think that was really Santa. It sounded like Uncle Ole, Clarence’s Dad to me. Dad not wanting to lie confirmed my suspicions.
When my Mother got in the car and realized he had told me the truth, she was furious. “Why did you tell her? Now she’s going to tell Clarence.”
But I was quiet when we drove Harriet and Clarence home. As it happened I didn’t have to tell him.
When they turned on their kitchen light, there was Santa passed out on the floor. Imagine how Clarence must have felt seeing his drunken father in a Santa Claus suit sprawled out unconscious.
Then we were told that Harriet had sewn the costume herself and after Ole started playing Santa, other people in our little Midwestern town having found out, invited him to come to their houses as well. Heavyset, jovial and unabashed at playing the role, Ole eventually accumulated maybe half dozen stops. At each place they gave him a beer or two and/or a few shots of whiskey. As the driver or “reindeer” my Dad also got snockered. My Grandmother’s home was Santa and Rudolph’s last stop, so by that time they were feeling no pain.
That time many years ago was Santa’s last night when we left a tender moment behind. Writing this, I’m looking at a picture of Clarence, another cousin Tootie, Santa and myself standing in front of a pretty scraggly looking tree – not one of today’s carefully manicured versions - in the living room of my Grandma’s house. I’m not sure if that was the night or not, but maybe it was.
Judy Collischan
New York, 11/11/11
Lutefisk has to be one of the most unappetizing foods – at least to a seven year old American. To me as a kid, it smelled badly – a sour aroma, looked ugly - a gelatinous mass and tasted awful - like eating something that should have been thrown out. Nonetheless it’s a traditional delicacy in Norway, and my Norwegian Grandmother always fixed it for Christmas Eve along with spareribs and some sort of sweet rolls. She did all this on a wooden cook stove before the family sat around the oil cloth covered table in her warm kitchen subtly permeated with smoke.
Throughout the meal, my year-younger cousin Clarence and I impatiently waited for Santa Claus to come to the door. Mysteriously, after this late afternoon dinner, our Dads disappeared. We didn’t pay much attention to their absence being riveted by the prospect of a gift from Santa, and we didn’t notice either when Clarence’s Mom - my Aunt Harriet, would become nervous and make calls on the telephone. She’d come away announcing that Santa was on his way, he’d come in fifteen-twenty minutes.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, there’d be footsteps on the front stoop, and we’d hear sleigh bells and a “Ho, ho, ho.” In he’d stomp in his red suit and white beard, looking like we expected but frightening us nonetheless.
“Can you sing a song for Santa?” he’d say, and Clarence and I would shyly sing something, maybe Jingle Bells or part of Silent Night. Then out of his bag, he’d produce a couple presents for each of us, and with more “ho ho’s” and “Merry Christmases” he’d be gone.
One of these nights, I became suspicious. I don’t remember why but I went out to the car where Dad was waiting and told him I didn’t think that was really Santa. It sounded like Uncle Ole, Clarence’s Dad to me. Dad not wanting to lie confirmed my suspicions.
When my Mother got in the car and realized he had told me the truth, she was furious. “Why did you tell her? Now she’s going to tell Clarence.”
But I was quiet when we drove Harriet and Clarence home. As it happened I didn’t have to tell him.
When they turned on their kitchen light, there was Santa passed out on the floor. Imagine how Clarence must have felt seeing his drunken father in a Santa Claus suit sprawled out unconscious.
Then we were told that Harriet had sewn the costume herself and after Ole started playing Santa, other people in our little Midwestern town having found out, invited him to come to their houses as well. Heavyset, jovial and unabashed at playing the role, Ole eventually accumulated maybe half dozen stops. At each place they gave him a beer or two and/or a few shots of whiskey. As the driver or “reindeer” my Dad also got snockered. My Grandmother’s home was Santa and Rudolph’s last stop, so by that time they were feeling no pain.
That time many years ago was Santa’s last night when we left a tender moment behind. Writing this, I’m looking at a picture of Clarence, another cousin Tootie, Santa and myself standing in front of a pretty scraggly looking tree – not one of today’s carefully manicured versions - in the living room of my Grandma’s house. I’m not sure if that was the night or not, but maybe it was.
Judy Collischan
New York, 11/11/11
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