FRRF Reflections

I didn’t know what it meant at first.

“The Far Rockaway Redevelopment Fund”. It sounds institutional, powerful in an authoritarian way; perfumed with the sentiment of rebuilding industry.

But then again, George Del Barrio (Founder, Creative Director) has a way of making us rethink our rhetoric. Right after the first Listening, George confessed to the delicate innocence and humor of his grand ideas, “I still don’t know what this means; maybe we’ll build teepees!”

My eventual teammate - Vanessa Bunster - had an immediate response: “Actually, the northeastern Natives lived in wigwams.”

After having the privilege to work closely with George on a variety of projects throughout 2012, I see brilliance in his impracticality. His outrageous suggestions take on the feeling of a Zen koan; he situates the creative producer on a tight-walk between staid and a joke. Honestly, if I hadn’t witnessed his work ethic and delivery, I would question if he took anything seriously! Our city had just experienced a natural disaster; hundreds of families had been displaced…

Teepees? In January?

In the stories we live there is a looping back to realizations of ourselves. We can’t explain it, but as long as we are paying attention, the characters and sequences of events follow an upward spiraling logic. In early December, on our first team scout in The Far Rockaways we took a lunch break at the local deli in Breezy Point. Soaking up unseasonal sunbeams, I sat on a metal bench as I ate my salad. Beside me was a local resident, an older gentleman wearing a metal badge and a self-possessed authority. Intermittently, he would stand to open a door for those passing by. “Hi Joe,” two women called as they walked on. Curious to understand the state of the community I asked Joe, “What changes have you seen since the storm?” Joe responded proverbially: “Change permeates performance. That is the definition of innovation.” He stood up and moved to what looked like an information table for residents.

On the Monday that Hurricane Sandy blew, flooded and burned NYC, I sat safely by my grandmother’s coffin. Eighty-six years is a life well lived. As I stared up at clear blue skies, I couldn’t help but to chuckle gratitude: my grandmother’s aptitude for worry would scoop me away to peaceful Southern California just as the storm hit.

From far away, the news reports on Sandy didn’t look promising. I called home to my housemates. Park Slope was nearly untouched; yet it was obvious in the pictures of flooding, blackouts and destroyed homes that many New Yorkers would experience long-term effects from the storm. Many would be at risk for respiratory health due to mold. Further, the economic impact on businesses and families seemed immeasurable. Then there are the unreported stories that are told through the shifted trajectory of personal lives: natural disasters can take on metaphoric, emotional proportions.

In my artistic practice, I regularly realize the full personal significance of my work after it has been created. I tend to see my life in patterns and, as I now connect the dots, I see symmetry in the fact that I found out about my Grandmother’s passing while watching the 2012 World Series. Further, after Sandy had passed, I nearly stayed in California. Although my Brooklyn home was intact I had neither job nor partnership to return to in NYC. I had even attended a successful interview in San Jose and had a place to stay gratis in the Berkeley hills. If I went back to NYC, I didn’t know what I was returning to or why.

So when George asked me to help produce the first Listening, I said, “Of course!” What better way to serve my community? At the end of the show, with our bellies full of soulful music and a budget to fund the first commission of The Far Rockaway Redevelopment Fund, George walked to the far end of the Loft to do a handstand. Upon returning, he pointed to TJ, Vanessa and I and declared — “a sculptor, a photographer, and a painter. You’re the artists.”

We went home thinking about what the project would look like: what was important for us to address? A friend and volunteer on our project, Sarah Quinter, stated the issue perfectly while in early conceptualization, “Sandy has ripped the lid off of all our social and environmental injustices.” When infrastructure collapses, there’s no hiding problems and issues.

Even as a career artist and staunch arts advocate, I questioned art’s value when people so visibly needed financial and physical relief. Couldn’t we better serve as volunteers to help clean up someone’s home? I began asking questions; I stopped by my local YMCA (that was housing displaced citizens) and inquired, “What do people need?” I was surprised by the response: “Entertainment, people are tired of focusing on the negative affects of the storm. They need emotional relief; something uplifting.” I shared this story with my friend, Jonah Bossowitch, who was the catalyst in designing the mental health guidebook for the Occupy Wall Street community. Jonah confirmed, “Yeah, people need something to ease their tension after trauma, it’s part of the healing process.”

Embedded in The Vanderbilt Republic’s DNA is the recognition of art’s power to heal and rebuild the human spirit. The founding project of the organization was the creation of a photographic body of iconic portraits titled, “Masters”, celebrating the performing arts masters of post-Khmer Rouge Cambodia. With the Far Rockaway Redevelopment Fund, VR is working to build something equally substantial, now using institutional language to help us realize how basic our need for the arts is.

Rather than ethereal, VR is matter-of-fact and bold — yet grounded with a soft gooey center. “The Far Rockaway Redevelopment Fund” is more frequently called FRRF (furf — emphasis on the warm fuzzy) and it never fails to light the speaker’s face with a smile.

So, really, what should we be taking seriously? Definitely the resilience of our spirits and the faith that we know how to change, adapt and move our stories forward.

Change, after all, permeates performance.

On January 4th we lifted our sculpture up on the shoreline of B138 in Far Rockaway. Situated in front of mansions turned to broken doll-houses, the work, House of Cards, stood twelve feet high. The seven panels that made up the “cards” were constructed of recovered housing material discarded from the storm. Every object had a story: on day one of the build, a welcoming neighbor on B138 donated the stained glass panel that we placed at the “House’s” apex.

And as the setting sun shined through this vision turned reality, I was reminded of how life is colored by the filters we choose - and I chuckled to myself. The triangle form on the beach just happened to share an approximate silhouette of a teepee.

—Athena Azevedo