Browse Exhibits (131 total)
Camp John Marc: The Experience of "Sick Kid" Syndrome
Camp John Marc is an oasis for children with life altering illnesses and afflictions located in Meridian, Texas (about an hour outside of the Dallas-Fortworth area). The camp was dedicated in honor of of John Marc Myers, a nine year old who died from bone cancer, by his parents who first established the facility. It hosts different groups of people year round that live with illnesses and afflictions in order for them to spend just a few days within the year acting like the average kid. This Omeka will look at the items that contribute to the camp and the idea of empowerment it implements into its program. Along with this will be a lead discussion in video/podcast format of that empowerment with volunteer counselors from Camp John Marc and people living with their own illnesses.
John Lennon Memorial
Strawberry Fields in Central Park aims to preserve the memory of John Lennon by embracing what he stood for, and giving the public an area to remember him and his work. It epitomizes the legacy the late icon left behind in the peaceful escape it provides residents and visitors of the city with from the hectic world. His inspiration of hope for a better world through his music and activism are at the forefront of this memorial. Music, peace, and John’s spirit are all alive and well in Strawberry Fields. This exhibit aims to look at John Lennon, the man, and John Lennon, the sensationalized late star, and try to come to some consensus about who he was and how he should be remembered. Facing the ways in which we glorify those who have passed and recognizing how society can shape an internalized image of a person, only helps to break down the barrier between authentic humanity and blind worship.
From Founding Father to American Musical: Hamilton
In 1757 Alexander Hamilton was born on the Caribbean Island of Nevis. Come 2015, Hamilton the Musical premieres on Broadway and Hamilton is born once again, in New York City.
But who is Hamilton? Who was Hamilton? What do we want him to be? And what do we need from him now?
I hope to explore the impact that Hamilton the Musical has had on the public memory of Alexander Hamilton; founding father and musical sensation.
Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvin’ Vaux’s Philosophy Transformed
Central Park. A home to the vagabonds of New York, the athletes, the puppeteers, the performers, the actors, the lovers, the cheerful and the sad. the list goes on and could very well extend for pages upon pages with all the good and the bad. While all these different personalities mix to create a blob of a personality for Central Park, the park did in fact stand for a rather distinct philosophy at the beginning of its creation. Frederick Law Olmsted, one of America’s most influential of park designers, and Calvert Vaux, a British-American architect and landscape designer, transformed the swamp infested land into the well-crafted paradise that is Central Park. Its metamorphosis seems all too poetic in its pair up with Olmsted and Vaux’s plan: to create a place free of distinctions of social classes where everyone could come and get away from the tight living areas of the city. The philosophy was to create a park that would act as a filter to teach civilians on how to care for the park which in turn would be taken outside the park and civilize the city with proper manners. Take what you will from it, and whether their philosophy was problematic or not. The goal was rather clear: to teach city dwellers on how to care for nature and in turn learn something about themselves.
On an individual level, Olmsted and Vaux’s philosophy of properly treating a park has transcended time to teach New Yorkers and tourist alike the proper ways to treat nature. From my own personal memories, my favorite individual memory must be freshman year, Fall semester. Or perhaps it was Spring, maybe. Never mind. It doesn’t really matter all too much. All that you need to know that it was a dreary day—dark heavy clouds hung above and started trickling out a few droplets of rain here and there, but nothing enough to force any New Yorker to take refuge under an umbrella or a store front. I had just gotten done talking with my brother about potential career paths as a finance major. Yes, a finance major. The word ‘finance,’ even then, made my stomach twist. Not only did the subject horribly aggravate me, but the people aggravated and bored me. They weren’t fascinated by the wonders and curiosity of the world like I was. No, they wanted their education, their easy-to-get job from their parents or a relative and move on with this chapter of their life. The whole ordeal, really, was just draining.
The spirit of the English major in me yearned to break out. I just wanted to be a writer. But writing didn’t make money, or that’s what most people said. At least, not enough to get by. Or so that was the myth. The truth is, I have learned years down the line and, ironically, through my time as a business major, is that there are plenty of jobs in the city for writers. You just had to look. My brother, a money centric man fueled with a compassionate philosophy of love and happiness was the first person I confronted about my almost delusional dreams. At the time, when I told him I wanted to be a writer I assumed he’d just brush me off and lecture me about money. I thought he’d say, “that doesn’t make money.” But instead he said, “I understand making money isn’t as important to you. You do what makes you happy.” And quite honestly, I was shocked. Although, now that I look back on the situation, I didn’t really need his permission, but I did need his support. In truth, I was afraid of being a writer. I thought of all the times I’d be flustered about writing block (which I now know doesn’t actually exist), the many drafts being rewritten, and the countless number of pages being thrown away. Most importantly, I was afraid that no one would ever read my writing. Would it ever matter that I was a writer if no one ever read my work? That would certainly be a waste of a life. Anxious and afraid, I headed over to Central Park to be alone with my thoughts, to reconnect with who I am, and to straighten my head out as best I could.
I intended to head off to the Bethesda Terrace, my favorite part in Central Park. I thought maybe I could rent a row boat, only fifteen dollars in cash for an hour, just alone. Just so I could drift around in the lake and observe everything around me. The little ducks splashing around, the small turtles occasionally popping their head in and out of the water. I thought I could just become the boat, a cog in the machine in charge of the direction of the boat, drifting aimlessly with no direction other than the direction of the current. No thinking. No feeling. Just me being the boat.
But I never made it to the Bethesda Terrace. Never made it to the boats. Never became part of the boats. Just a few paces in from the south-west entrance of the park, or more specifically the Columbus circle entrance, I, in the fashion of an over exhausted college student, got tired. And I don’t know exactly what particularly possessed me to believe that this was a good idea, but I found a rock, just off the side of one of the roads, and I sat down. Now, before you think me stupid for even thinking about taking a nap, I did not actually intend on napping. When I came into the city, I intended to go to Central Park to write. I brought my satchel and with it a single notebook and a pen. I wanted to just observe the park and practice my descriptive writing. But my head was a jumbled mess from the lack of sleep, what I was going to do to my C history paper where the teacher never gave A’s, and what my future was going to be like. Like a college student would, I took a nap. Don’t worry. I found a rock where other people were sitting, including about four people and one hobo also taking naps. They were my nap buddies. Now, I didn’t think I was going to fall asleep like a college student would because, like a college student, the anxieties of not doing any work normally kept me up all hours of the day and night. But, in a very romantic and poetic manner, I got to take a nap in Central Park. Alone. And then in hindsight I realized my parents yelling at me when I told them now made some sense. But, as I said, I had my nap buddies and the busy road was right there. Of course, I was aware of the stories of people falling asleep on the train and getting stabbed in the head or being set on fire, but I thought I was safe. To be honest, it was a 50/50 bet.
I fell asleep there on the rock with the hobo and my four other napping buddies right by the busy street, and then felt an unusual sensation. No, it was not someone robbing me, or stabbing me in the head, or setting me on fire. It was a lightweight feeling, the same one when you were a kid and you’d fall asleep in the car and wake up after parked outside the house and you would swear you only fell asleep for a minute. Or when you lie your head down on a week end in the morning, hoping to get a few hours of sleep. And you dream of the wildest, most thought out dreams to the point where it feels like a three-hour movie, but you wake to find that only thirty minutes had passed. For me, it was both of those feelings at the same time. And instead of a two-hour movie, well thought out and without any plot holes, my mind expanded like an infinite mold of clay out to the boundaries of the park, in between the trees and the bushes, and even the small crevices where only the little furry critters crawl. I did not, however, dare to go where those damn millipedes go, the one’s where you stomp the back part, and, for some God forsaken reason, they can still walk alive. And no, I never, ever smoked weed before. Or took any drugs. So that was not that.
Instead, it was a transcending experience where I was reminded of how I small I am in the world; how the world, at any given random and wild moment, could snuff you out right where you stood. I felt part of a collective of people who transcended and recognized a greater good beyond themselves. And all these people, the biker, the puppeteer, the annoying jogger with his obnoxiously short shorts in weather that was too cold for that sort of thing, and even the screaming, crying baby who, due to the unfortunate forces of gravity, dropped their candy bar on to the pavement and decided wailing about it was going to reverse the permanence of time. Despite what they all needed to do, whether it be something as small as grocery shopping or something as big as helping construct an eighty floor office building, and, despite, in the instance of the child, what they were expected to do, they all took the time out of their day to come here to the park in order to get away from the overcrowded, dirt stained, and fume spewing city. And, perhaps I hope, they’d take that little piece of tranquility and quietness within their hearts and spread it to someone outside the city. That day I left the park not just with a piece of personality of the park, but a full and complete version of myself. I was reminded by the park of why I write, and the importance of telling stories. I wrote stories so that someone could understand themselves just a bit more by the end to the very last period, so they can come to the end and say, “ah, I’m not alone in the feeling.” I write so that some people could take that small piece of me away from my writing and add it to the bits that make them themselves. And if that someone is just me, then so be it.
What’s funny is I never did make it to the boats that day, and, quite honestly, I’m not exactly sure they were open. But I did get to myself. And, like Olmsted wanted, I took a piece of the park into myself and took myself into the city and shared it with the rest of the city.
The National September 11th Memorial & Museum
On September 11th, 2001 the deadliest terrorist attack on U.S soil stuck. 2,977 souls were taken all within 102 minutes and left not only America but the world frightened and confused.In the aftermath of 9/11 the immediate question was, “how will we rebuild our city and memorialize those who were lost?”. When creating a memorial for the horrendous days of September 11th, 2001 and February 26th, 1993 there were many stakeholders. Not only did this memorial have to memorialize all the innocent victims who were taken from this world to soon, it also had to be conscious of the space it was going to be taking up. Not only did the 16 acres have to include a memorial it also had to include a museum which would help educate future generations on the attacks. Within this Omeka we will be looking at the attacks as a whole and the years following and showing how the National September 11th Memorial & Museum has and will continue memorializing the innocent lost and teaching future generations.
World War II Memorial
As pedestrians travel south on Independence Avenue toward the Tidal Basin, on the left they will be greeted by the giant, white pencil looking monument that seems to touch the sky: The Washington Monument. However when they turn to the right they will be able to see down the stretch of the National Mall, all the way to the Lincoln Memorial. Yet, there is a very distinct memorial which rests between the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial.
The World War II Memorial is located in Washington D.C. on Independence Avenue and 17th Street. It is the first national memorial built in honor of the 16 million Americans who served in World War II. The space commemorates not only those who served but the effort and valor put forth by the nation as a whole.
Looking toward the Lincoln Memorial, on each side of the World War II Memorial stands white, fortress-like structures made of granite that represent the Pacific and the Atlantic. In a circle that connects with the larger structures, are smaller pillars of granite that are inscribed with the name of each of the fifty states, as well as the six U.S. territories during the time of World War II. The pillars are adorned with bronze wreaths and arranged by order of entry into the Union. The pillars are left open in the center for view into the memorial and it’s beautiful Rainbow Fountain, creating a sense of openness and inclusion.
The first thing that draws the eye to the memorial is the beauty of the white granite structure. The granite pillars each stand at 17 feet tall in an open space at the start of the National Mall. Their beauty and the openness invite visitors into the circular pavilion for a closer look.
Noteworthy and breathtaking, the Rainbow Fountain that flows into a large pool at the heart of the memorial. The pavillion is set above the fountain pool with steps down into the water, that invite guests to sit and relax and enjoy the cool breeze coming off the fountain.
It is important to note the difference between night and day at the World War II Memorial. There is a significant change in mood from daylight to night fall. In sunlight, the World War II Memorial is a vibrant and inviting space to congregate and cool off by the fountain. In daytime hours visitors stop to rest and enjoy the panoramic view of surrounding monuments that the memorial offers.
However, at night the pillars and fountain are flooded with light; while the beauty of the memorial is still breathtaking the remembering is quieter--by night the memorial becomes a space that is more somber and reflective. The change in tone upon sunset might possibly stem from the emphasis drawn to the pillars by nightfall. The eye is immediately drawn to the pillars, not for their white color and size in an open space, but for their brightness in the dark of the night. The light shining on each pillar draws the eye to their faces, which are adorned with the name of each state, territory, and a wreath.
This is a very interesting and important transition. Is it the daylight that provides the jubilant and celebratory ambiance to the monument? While the nighttime flood of lights on the memorial represent pensiveness and reflection? Can the true message of the memorial only be appreciated fully in the nighttime? Or is the point of the memorial to offer a communal space to symbolize the communal war effort of the nation?
Along with the white granite structure, the symmetry and neatness of the memorial also draw the eye. The tranquil nature of the symmetric design with the Rainbow Fountain pool in the center invite its visitors to come, remember and celebrate.
The most direct message emanated from the memorial is it’s honoring of the states and territories. The memorial includes each state and territory to acknowledge their valor and contribution to the war effort.
In World War II, a gold star was a symbol for family sacrifice. On the Freedom Wall located on the West side of the memorial are 4,000 sculpted bronze stars. These gold stars symbolize the 400,000 American soldiers that died with valor for the cause.
Amidst all the physical symbols for remembrance that the memorial includes, there are people who simply stop to rest and congregate by the fountain or take photos. It is not an unusual sight at the memorial to see children playing in the fountain or people sitting with their shoes off, feet dipped in the fountain pool. There are patrons that ride bikes and electric scooters through the memorial using the honorary ramps for easier access to bike paths along the National Mall.
There are visitors who pause to take photos. However, in most cases people first pause to take photos with the view that the memorial provides of the National Mall. They are not necessarily compelled to enter the pavillion and to look around at each of the pillars or read the many plaques surrounding the memorial. The memorial is therefore portrayed in media as a breathtaking view of the National Mall, but not for the remembrance it symbolizes.
Perhaps it is the communal space of the park surrounding the memorial, as well as its location on the National Mall across from the Lincoln Memorial that draw the crowds who come to rest with their feet in the Rainbow Fountain.
I think the memorial has this particularly central location among the other monuments because it is meant as a community space. The park surrounding it invites those passing by on any regular day to come in and appreciate the beauty. A single communal space to remember a war in which our country acted as a community.
Remembering Vietnam
This project is dedicated to my grandfather, Louis Balcer, who served in the Vietnam War as a First Class Air Force Rank Airman, stationed in Biên Hòa, Vietnam from September 1966 to September 1967. The site will serve to archive how America remembers the war and its veterans, but also how a veteran remembers America in the wars’ aftermath. The goal is to discover whether these two memories of the war are consistent and, if not, to understand where, how, and why they differ.