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Red Light District.
Posted by Caitlin Cortez
on
5:44 PM
Stepping out onto the street, rather than waiting on the curb is so New York. One small step for locals, one giant leap for a newbie.
I often find myself with my heels pressed against the curb as if it is some safe place in a game of tag, no one can touch me, I can't be it. From this place I can calculate my next move, get my bearings, plan my attack.
Red light.
Green Light.
Heel.
Toe.
Curb.
Street.
It has become devastatingly apparent that even when a New Yorker stops, they are still going. Odd as it seems, the notion of breaking, stopping, coming to a halt is as foreign to a New Yorker as a street without a Starbucks.
Life is in constant motion for New York. Stopping would throw off your balance, lessen your feelings of importance. If you can't order a latte while simultaneously emailing on your blackberry, reading page six, and confirming your reservations dinner- pack your bags you belong in Jersey, or anywhere else but Manhattan taking up precious space, for that matter.
Inhabiting this island is an art form. There is a method to the madness. A disillusionment of ease, like a splatter painting hanging in the MET. But behind that painting, behind that "glamorous" city life, is a sad story of a truly tortured soul married to their work. An insomniac with all the signs of corporate spousal abuse.
In city where some people have the depth of the ocean and others that of a puddle, I'm in constant search of a truly happy face, a face with laugh lines and forgiving eyes that pay homage to the joy found in the balance of life.
It has been a month since I landed on this planet, and with people in constant motion, I have only managed to capture one truly happy face.
She had blue hair, opaque skin, and shoulder pads. She had the swagger of someone who had been there, done that, and has a story to prove it. She was pretentious in just the right way. Pretentious for protection; if you look feeble people will chew you up and spit you out. She stood behind me at K-mart, in a line that could have put the Jonas Brothers Today Show crowd to shame. But her smile never wavered.
As we moved closer to the cashier, I noticed she only had one item for purchase and it was cradled in her veiny hands, held tight as if someone might try to take it.
Never one to take exclusion from a secret well, I couldn't leave without knowing her secret. Whatever she had in her hands made her smile, made her wait in line, made her day worth living.
Alas, there it was. On the counter. Clear as day.
Red lipstick.
How ironic, that the one thing that motivated a woman to stand in line, was red, the color of impedance. After over-analyzing the purchase of red lipstick, I came to determine that true happiness comes from the things in life that force you to stop. Creates in you a desire to dwell, meddle, and dissolve in the emotions that come with it.
That afternoon, as I stood in the Model as a Muse exhibit at the MET, I couldn't help but feel as if I was sinking into the floor as people passed by me. I didn't care if my mouth was open, I didn't care if I was drooling. It was as if the world kept moving around me and I somehow got stuck in limbo. Just like the woman with the red lipstick, I was content being still and reverent. Unconcerned with the squealing girls who salivate over designers and use hair flips in exchange for drinks. I was fixated on vintage Yves Saint Laurent, and ancient Harper's Bazaar, Vogue, and litany of other things that paralyzed me- just as red lipstick created a paralysis for the woman longing to feel the power red lipstick gave her as it stains her cracked lips.
Regardless of what others might think or say. It is not what your passion is that matters. It is your ability to have passion. It is the implication that passion has on your life. It is your ability to leave the safe zone and save the heels of your shoes by moving away from the curb and into the street. It is your ability to stop when everyone else moves on. It is your ability to accept a red light as just as much of an adventure as a green light.
Let your passion stain your lips and speak of it often.
I often find myself with my heels pressed against the curb as if it is some safe place in a game of tag, no one can touch me, I can't be it. From this place I can calculate my next move, get my bearings, plan my attack.
Red light.
Green Light.
Heel.
Toe.
Curb.
Street.
It has become devastatingly apparent that even when a New Yorker stops, they are still going. Odd as it seems, the notion of breaking, stopping, coming to a halt is as foreign to a New Yorker as a street without a Starbucks.
Life is in constant motion for New York. Stopping would throw off your balance, lessen your feelings of importance. If you can't order a latte while simultaneously emailing on your blackberry, reading page six, and confirming your reservations dinner- pack your bags you belong in Jersey, or anywhere else but Manhattan taking up precious space, for that matter.
Inhabiting this island is an art form. There is a method to the madness. A disillusionment of ease, like a splatter painting hanging in the MET. But behind that painting, behind that "glamorous" city life, is a sad story of a truly tortured soul married to their work. An insomniac with all the signs of corporate spousal abuse.
In city where some people have the depth of the ocean and others that of a puddle, I'm in constant search of a truly happy face, a face with laugh lines and forgiving eyes that pay homage to the joy found in the balance of life.
It has been a month since I landed on this planet, and with people in constant motion, I have only managed to capture one truly happy face.
She had blue hair, opaque skin, and shoulder pads. She had the swagger of someone who had been there, done that, and has a story to prove it. She was pretentious in just the right way. Pretentious for protection; if you look feeble people will chew you up and spit you out. She stood behind me at K-mart, in a line that could have put the Jonas Brothers Today Show crowd to shame. But her smile never wavered.
As we moved closer to the cashier, I noticed she only had one item for purchase and it was cradled in her veiny hands, held tight as if someone might try to take it.
Never one to take exclusion from a secret well, I couldn't leave without knowing her secret. Whatever she had in her hands made her smile, made her wait in line, made her day worth living.
Alas, there it was. On the counter. Clear as day.
Red lipstick.
How ironic, that the one thing that motivated a woman to stand in line, was red, the color of impedance. After over-analyzing the purchase of red lipstick, I came to determine that true happiness comes from the things in life that force you to stop. Creates in you a desire to dwell, meddle, and dissolve in the emotions that come with it.
That afternoon, as I stood in the Model as a Muse exhibit at the MET, I couldn't help but feel as if I was sinking into the floor as people passed by me. I didn't care if my mouth was open, I didn't care if I was drooling. It was as if the world kept moving around me and I somehow got stuck in limbo. Just like the woman with the red lipstick, I was content being still and reverent. Unconcerned with the squealing girls who salivate over designers and use hair flips in exchange for drinks. I was fixated on vintage Yves Saint Laurent, and ancient Harper's Bazaar, Vogue, and litany of other things that paralyzed me- just as red lipstick created a paralysis for the woman longing to feel the power red lipstick gave her as it stains her cracked lips.
Regardless of what others might think or say. It is not what your passion is that matters. It is your ability to have passion. It is the implication that passion has on your life. It is your ability to leave the safe zone and save the heels of your shoes by moving away from the curb and into the street. It is your ability to stop when everyone else moves on. It is your ability to accept a red light as just as much of an adventure as a green light.
Let your passion stain your lips and speak of it often.
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