SELLING THE MONA LISA

SELLING T H E MONA L I S A

BY KATE CORCORAN

Lost in a daze of dollars, the average consumer spins around in search of art as it once was.

Lost in a daze of dollars, the average consumer spins around in search of art as it once was. What surrounds us now is advertising, the art form that dominates modern society. Glaring, neon advertisements are plastered on every wall, cheapening the significance of once-great masterpieces. What would the Renaissance’s creators and creations say of this evolution? What would the Mona Lisa say if she could listen to an advertiser try to pitch her sale? Looking out upon an oak-paneled boardroom, her soft smile would fade. Her eyes, which once watched art around us symbolize beauty, would glaze over at the sight of Times Square. Where the Louvre holds the knowledge of the ages, woven into artworks of the masters, Manhattan hypnotizes tourists with swirling patterns until they forget art ever had a deeper meaning. Where art once replenished, it now drains. “This is the ‘Mona Lisa,’” an advertiser would drone. “If you own her, you own originality. She redefined portraiture. Buy the ‘Mona Lisa,’ and you own the work that won the Renaissance. And this is ‘The David.’ Buy ‘The David,’ and you can be transported back to the days of your youth. Buy the statue of the boy, and you too will be young. Over here, we have the ‘Birth of Venus.’ The goddess of beauty. How could her owner not also be beautiful? Buy beauty.” And so the mad men work, pitching to every emotion and insecurity. They idealize false perfection; they lurk behind the mirror of every self-conscious buyer, they peer into pursuits of the public, and they sculpt the new-age masterpiece. Once finished, their attention-grabbing art is plastered on magazines, posters and screens. This masterpiece is an empty, stubborn serenade — a shallow song stuck in our heads. It twists through minds, playing over and over again. Potent but fleeting, no other thought remains untainted from its raucous chorus. The art around us is now a jungle of jingles, a gallery for gain.

But there had once been a higher purpose to art. Once, the daze of a dream had not been warped into the tool of the seller. Once, the thoughtful longing of nostalgia was not devoid of thought, broadcasted onto every brightly backlit commercial. Once, beauty was envisioned as the birth of Aphrodite, strength was marble sculpted into David, and happiness dwelt on the lips of the Mona Lisa.

Every brushstroke, chisel and carve of the Renaissance brimmed with intent. The artists glimpsed life’s intricacies and worked to show the world of meaning. They played with emotions, but they never preyed on them. Their work did not lead viewers to a storefront, but tangible beauty and truth. Where art once led to depths, it now absentmindedly splashes in a coin-filled fountain.

And so the Mona Lisa stares at the meeting of mad men. They sit in silly pursuits, toying with weapons they wield flippantly on an ever-lost public. She is being sold, and art no longer whispers of wonder. It just snakes around a greenback.

on an ever-lost public. And so the Mona Lisa stares at the meeting of

toying with weapons they wield flippantly

And so the Mona Lisa stares at the meeting of

toying with weapons they wield flippantly mad men. They sit in silly

THE CITY THAT’S NEVER SATED

BY CHARLOTTE DWYER

When my dream of college life with you didn’t come to fruition, I felt powerless. Did I really waste six years contorting myself for a place that did not even want me? I finally saw your flaws. I saw how hostile you could be to those who admired you the most. You stand tall with Lady Liberty, claiming to be a beacon of hope to the tired, to the poor, to the freedom-seekers. I saw how deceitful you were; your open arms were a front, and you would always turn away those who didn’t fit your vision. I felt as if I was standing on the Brooklyn Bridge, enamored

with your beauty but forced to leave. Your skyline of success started to seem like a facade, hiding the struggles of those within their walls. Your grit can destroy the spirit of those you deem “weak,” while it allows the obedient others to flourish. I know I have much of my life ahead of me. There will be plenty of moments for Park Avenue walks and rainy nights at a dive diner. However, no life is without moments of disappointment, and I know you will not always be there to rescue me with your charm. I can no longer plan my life according to my idealized version of you. I may not be New Yorker Charlotte, and with that comes dismay. Sometimes I feel as if I’m in a cab cruising down Madison Avenue, entirely fulfilled. But, more often, I feel as if I’m hailing a taxi that will never come. Nonetheless, I’m starting to admire who I’m becoming: a person who adores you but is no longer dependent upon you. I’ve begun envisioning how I could still be fortunate enough to build an accomplished life with others, free of your demands. You are Dear New York City, I had always heard about you. My dad would call from gilded Manhattan hotels while on business trips and, at Thanksgiving dinner, my eldest cousin — and idol — would rave about her enchanting life in the East Village. You were a far-off land to me, a place for adults to slowly sip cocktails in dimly-lit bars and frantically attend meetings, not a place for a 6-year-old girl just growing out of her princess gowns. I’m embarrassed to admit that I was 12-years-old when I first saw you as something I wanted for myself, as I watched you become the unexpected main character on “Gossip Girl.” You were the formidable backdrop for my favorite characters to navigate their young-adult years. You made the struggles of growing up look chic, as you allowed heartbroken divas to strut to the Met in Chanel dresses with a stomach full of hors d’oeuvres. I outlined my life with you: walking on Fifth Avenue to my glamorous office space, Prada handbag on my arm, leaving my flawlessly restored brownstone. It was an unconventional dream for a fresh-faced middle schooler, but it pushed me to transform myself into what I assumed would be the “better” version of myself — someone you would be proud of. You pushed me to play piano and morph into a marvel in the kitchen because all good New Yorkers had to be multifaceted; I could not just be Julia Child or Beethoven — I had to be both. Once I had the talents, it was time for a makeover. I tossed my Abercrombie graphic tees and told my mom I would need more sophisticated pieces since, obviously, your streets were only open to those in proper attire. After all, you only wanted the best for me; I needed to be ready to live among your ominous alleyways and faceless criminals. Not everyone could make it with you. I became the best for you. I forced myself into an “Empire State of Mind,” which meant speeding up or getting out of the way. I’d cry from burnout after inundating myself with countless classes and responsibilities. As my framed photo of you taunted me, I would lie awake, flipping through textbooks and crossing my fingers that what I had done was enough. I’d reassure myself the stress was worth it because, after high school, I’d move and be the person I thought I was supposed to be: New Yorker Charlotte, someone who embraced the New York minute as she lived a life of endless energy and opportunity. Your delectable duality would surround me with inspiring professionals and crummy cafe croissants 24/7. It seemed you could offer me everything. alluring as ever, with your tailored cuisines and awe-inspiring architecture, but you aren’t my lifeline. I’m choosing to release myself from your grip. I no longer need to reflect on what went wrong to separate us. Instead, I’d much rather focus on the person I can be now; someone who would make that 6-yearold girl cheer from her toy castle in astonishment. You’re imperfect, despite the success stories and Pinterest boards that insist otherwise. No matter where I end up, I know I’ll make that starry-eyed little girl smile with pride one day — maybe with you, but certainly not for you.

She turns and gives one last gaze to the emulation on her wall. The real audience appears. Hiding behind anonymous names and screens, she can’t make any of them out. They envelop her as they close in on the work. She has nothing else to give. She’s depleted.

Iam everything and nothing. My mind is littered with selfdoubt and polluted by the perfection I will never achieve. My work is the only morsel of light in my life, yet I can only create in darkness. I take the road less traveled to my motel, whereby on my weary way the ravens mock my misery, and the ghosts of poetry’s past demand I meet their egregious expectations. I bite my tongue, clench my typewriter, and reject that my success is the product of sorrow and solitude.

My chamber of creativity welcomes me with a warm embrace that thaws the frustration of my frostbitten heart. I close the door, and I shut the rest of the world out with it.

At last, I am alone. Perhaps I am too alone. The mattress cradles me amid the chaos. Its springs absorb the weight of my burdens. It begs me to rest. I won’t. I can’t. I don’t deserve such a delicacy, for I haven’t created enough. I am not enough. I am, however, sinking slowly into the silence. The whirring of the world ceases, and I am complete.

I am completely alone.

Isolation breeds imagination, or so my depression insists. My anxiety inspires my thoughts to spiral. My eyes wander. They stare at the mangled papers and broken promises of my past life. My eyes water. The unaddressed love letters, the infinite array of incomplete ideas, the dew on documents I desperately drew during yet another creative drought. They glare at me. Their scribbles scoff knowing that, despite their unfinished business, they are fuller than I. Instead of serving as centerpieces in the libraries and livelihoods they ought to enrich, my creations pose as companions to the crumbs of my motel room. They forsake my friendship, though. I am alone. I am accompanied only by the affliction of my thoughts and the agony of my inadequacy. The dreary drafts decorating my room multiply as the voice in my head roars louder. Be quiet, I’m begging. I can’t focus. I must finish. I haven’t started. This time will be different. No, it won’t, but I will be. Or will I? Certainly not. I mute the mayhem long enough to fixate myself to my typewriter; my reason for breathing, my reason for bleeding. I humble myself before its blank pages, which are abundant with a bleak beauty I know all too well. Its paint chippings remind me of the artistic downfalls I’ve overcome, and its dust reminds me of the ones yet to come. Inhale. The lights dim. Exhale. The room closes in.

My space gets smaller, and the walls grow thinner. Words begin to whirl around my room, with my unoriginality as their axis. The silence starts to shriek. The ceiling fan spins with a turbine’s intensity. A dog’s distant howl and a child’s careless laughter pierce my ears. Even the faucet’s drip distracts me from my dreams.

I experience everything, yet I feel nothing. The sensations overpower who I am and what I yearn to create. All but the clicking of the typewriter strips my sanctuary of its beloved silence. Here, I crumble in a hurricane that was once a haven. I’ve created nothing, and I’ve lost everything.

My manuscript meets the fate of its master, complete with defeat.

Ihad a panic attack the night before my first college paper was due.

My hands shook violently as I compiled the research I’d been staring at for 12 hours. I couldn’t remember how long it had been since I’d last eaten or slept. I wanted to collapse — I needed to — but I was bolstered upright by the empty coffee cups scattered across my desk and the deep-seated panic grasping my throat. Having spent so long confined in my own words, I could only think of everything I should’ve done better. “I can’t believe how sloppy the language is in this paragraph,” “This argument is so contrived and pointless,” “My professor is going to read this garbage; he must despise me.” The critiques pounded against my chest as tears welled in my eyes. No matter how much effort I exerted, my work would never be good enough to quell the self-loathing thoughts scraping at my insides.

I allowed myself to sob hysterically for a half-hour, no more or less, before returning to my writing. We’ve been taught to believe in the value of hard work. From building volcanoes for elementary school science projects to running laps around the neighborhood to train for a 5K, the more effort we invest into a task, the stronger the payoff. This truth is ingrained in our brains from the moment we’re born. As soon as our feet brush the ground, we’re encouraged to push ourselves forward until we walk into our families’ arms.

Given the Pavlovian-style positive reinforcement we receive upon performing well on a task — whether that’s the shiny gold star your teacher stuck to your A+ book report or the joyful pride that inflates your chest when someone says they’re proud of you— it’s natural to push for perfection.

However, the fast-paced expectations of modern-day life have forged a culture of self-destructive productivity. We’re expected to adhere to tight deadlines and prioritize work over all else; we’re encouraged to pull all-nighters, skip meals and forgo social interaction to finish projects on time; we’re berated and stripped of our achievements when we can’t reach the high expectations set for us. Rather than putting extra time into our work to succeed, the pressure placed on us by the productivity-obsessed status quo twists our perfectionism into crushing anxiety over the possibility of failure. Above all, we’re petrified of how this failure reflects our worth.

Like my essay-induced panic attack, when we internalize the harsh judgment we face from superiors, we convince ourselves that the expectations for our success represent who we are. If you’re only praised for your talent or skill while at work, it’s easy to trick yourself into thinking it’s your only worthwhile attribute. This can spur oversensitivity, where a teacher’s simple critique of your short story’s prose transforms into a targeted attack — someone’s opinion of your work warps into a reflection of their opinion of you. The pressure of perpetual precision can trap you in a toxic headspace. Internalizing criticism harbors self-doubt, disparaging you from pursuing any of your goals. Worse yet, you may find yourself unable to stop working, trapping yourself in a lifeless, windowless room for hours on end, floundering to prove yourself worthy of the praise you so desperately seek. But perfection isn’t real. No matter how many sleepless nights we spend relentlessly pursuing it, nothing — not even the most meticulously calculated supercomputer — is free of flaws. It’s unhealthy and unrealistic to expect anything, including your most praiseworthy products, to ever be perfect — even if you replicate every crevice and crinkle of your portrait subject’s face, someone will despise your delicate brushwork. When we grind for hours to surpass others’ standards, we risk spiraling into self-loathing if we fall short. Work is but a moment of your multifaceted life. You are so much more than what you make — your relationships, your love and your happiness are just as essential to who you are. Don’t define your worth by your work; define it by the smile that lit up your elderly neighbor’s rosy cheeks after you baked him banana bread, the way you embraced your crying best friend in a warm hug, the wet kisses your dog plants on your face every time you give her belly rubs, or whatever else in life brings you joy.

I got a B+ on the paper. My professor thought it was perfectly serviceable — nothing to write home about, thoroughly adequate. After flipping through the barebones rubric he’d filled out, which was empty aside from my name and score, I realized I’d spent more time panicking about his reaction to the paper than he spent grading it. That night, I reminded myself what it felt like to think about something other than work: I facetimed my best friend, inhaled a bag of popcorn and spent hours giggling over “Brooklyn 99.” It was the most alive I’d felt in weeks.

STRIKE MAGAZINE | ISSUE 06 | 50Beautiful art is often molded out of melancholic emotions. Sadness is the center of many wonderful creative works, as we recognize ourselves in emotion. Despair is a collective feeling– not one of us escapes it. Paradoxically, we often lean further into it. Kurt Cobain, the late frontman of Nirvana, sang, “I miss the comfort in being sad.” Alluding to emptiness, feeling numb can be worse than feeling sad. In sorrow, there is a familiarity. You have felt it before, and you’ve weathered it. Emptiness deprives us of the human experience. Though it may not be pleasant, there is something to make out of despair. You grow through these feelings, and you recognize what weighs on your heart. More of yourself is to be found in every emotion you face. Let them shake you. Why can we find solace in something associated with hurt? Happiness is a happening. It is not a destination. Once we release the pressure and disappointment in ourselves to not feel sad, we see and experience emotions at face value. They are the only guide to yourself that you have. You experience the world through your emotions, even sorrow. This is where we push into them; we turn on our sad playlists and rewatch movies that make us cry. We hear ourselves in lyrics and see ourselves in characters. There is a richness in human emotion, even if it isn’t an explicitly positive one. We’re left with connection. That character on the screen knows the same defeat, and so do the people around you. To feel is to learn, both more about life and yourself. Charles Bukowski — a German American poet and novelist — wrote, “If you don’t have much soul left and you know it, you still got soul.” Bukowski scribed this in a story speaking of dullness, “dull days and nights and no meaning, no chance.” Even when you feel hurt so sharp that you feel you are slipping away from yourself, the ability to recognize this as an emotion and as an experience is how you can reshape your reality. Bukowski infers that despair is just as close to the soul as joy. Life is dull without it; it is something that can be recognized instead for proof of life. As it often brings bliss, joy can sedate the anxieties hiding in the corners of your mind. It’s easy to stay in the flow of life when things are going well. But when the euphoria fades, and premonitions of depression creep in, you connect with yourself in a way independent of elated emotion. It is an opportunity to explore why you’re experiencing these feelings and, thus, you can become more in tune with your emotions. It might feel like dirty work, but only you can get the grime out. Pull out a journal or a canvas. Make those playlists, watch the sappy movie, call a friend, family member, or a therapist. These acts are toughest in the moment but, when given the chance, can lead you to utmost gratification. When we get in touch with these feelings, we are able to find a light in them. It becomes less about escaping the discomfort linked with unhappiness. Sadness tunes you back into what you hold dearest; you ache over the things closest to your heart. As the intricacies of your feelings unwind, you face them. You observe them. You’re able to work through them in new ways. There is a breath of relief in these recognitions. You are uncovering more of yourself. Sylvia Plath, an American poet and novelist, wrote, “It was comforting to know I had fallen and could fall no farther.” Written in Plath’s novel, “The Bell Jar,” this ode to depression focuses on the odd relief in defeat. Plath prefaces this line in noting how “wonderfully solid” the floor seemed. It’s easy to expect the worst when you’re sad — you are almost prepared for it. In this preparation, we aren’t blindsighted by disappointment. We familiarize ourselves with sadness, and so it becomes easier to swallow. We level our expectations, and we befriend harsh realities and stubborn complexities. However, this comes with bravely exposing and embracing such sadness, as you will not know how solid the floor is unless you feel it yourself. We’re doomed to meet despair; we often create an opening for it. It can help to let your emotions guide you, instead of feeling like you have to guide them. We’re able to find balance and feelings of ease, even when it may feel as though we’ve hit rock bottom. A life with meaning and love doesn’t exist withholding sorrow. We recognize this and find that, with a little practice, sorrow can be advantageous, allowing us to grow our emotional range.

The lamp’s glare jolted my head to attention.

Is it morning? Shit, I’m late.

Sleep spindles. 1:58 a.m. It was due four hours ago.

This shirt smells like cigarettes and stale beer.

These jeans are stained. Is that blood or wine?

When was my last shower?

Only a byline.

I got it! Wait, that’s already been done.

Themes are themes because they’ve been done.

Do I create a new motif? A work of originality? A view-altering stroke of genius?

Can I do that?

The washed-up poet, the drunk author. Hemingway, Poe, Faulkner.

Already been done. Even my life is unoriginal.

A ring from the phone. The shrill makes my ears buzz. I hate that song.

My glazed eyes snap into focus.

If I answer, a lecture: “Are my chapters coming? Are you working?”

If I don’t, I keep gazing at my page.

I strain to not break eye contact, I lose.

Perhaps, a walk? A drive around the block?

Get some air, clear my mind. Sober up.

Will I see someone? Will they know I failed? Will they know I have no thoughts?

The page is blank. Three years of nothing.

I was a best-seller, an award-winner, a city park bench-namer.

Now, a dog could write better.

Where is my inspiration?

Elsewhere. I will stay here,

in the discomfort of my own home, where books scream and pens sigh.

I am a sellout, a burnout.

Reviews framed on the walls: “A breath of originality.” “A voice to break the silence of monotony in literature.”

I was a breath, a voice.

Balls of rejected hooks and plotlines scattered near the trash can. Scars on my desk from counting my attempts. Forty-three.

I will start from scratch.

Or, maybe not. What about a sequel?

That’s not an original thought. A prequel? How cliché.

Should I quit while I’m behind?

The phone rings again.

This time I pick up. Will I disappoint? Have I disappointed?

STRIKE MAGAZINE | ISSUE 06 | 64

HAR MON NY

A NARRATIVE PIECE

“Dinner’s ready!” The table is set. Guests are arriving. Libations are being poured. However, disengagement is at an all-time high. The journey to harmony is starting. It’s one of the most enchanting states of being to attain, but harmony is not static. The very moment we find it nestled in our grasp is often the same second it slips away. It’s cyclical in nature, and its waxes and wanes create a process of disengagement and discourse in the attempt to find fullness. How can we construct this state of harmony and hold onto it? Our story is only beginning. As the patrons pour in, they plop into their chairs. Their avant-garde attire accents the chaos brewing within, but the room’s demeanor is still. The guests are guarded. They’ve set up smokescreens that cloud their outward perspective, each individual teeming with toxic introspection. Hell, they don’t want to be at this dinner — there are other lively places to be and other like-minded people to talk to. The room’s silence amplifies small sounds to nuclear levels. Small clicks bloat the room as a gala guest types madly at their keyboard and fills their void with bluelight. Fabric rubbing on leather, eye blinks turn to rolls, muffles morph into snores. It’s all a bore. The host sits discontented; his guests haven’t acknowledged his existence since his entrance. The disengagement encapsulates one of the most cumbersome obstacles to achieving harmony: the preoccupation of one’s own issues and internal feelings, thus causing them to be disinterested about others’. The consequences of this can be cataclysmic, manifesting as a lack of understanding for our peers. It plants the seed for discord to flourish. STRIKE MAGAZINE | ISSUE 06 | 65In a brazen attempt to grab his guests’ attention, even if for a fleeting second, the host tenderly raises his glass and taps it with his steak knife. The pitiful clink reverberates through the room and, as if out of obligation, all guests but one toast to the source. A slight nudge aims to wake the straggler from an enviable slumber. His awakening sends a glass of liquid courage cascading. The simple spill sets the choreographed chaos in motion. A particularly perturbed dinner-goer backs away from the blunder, grating the ground with their seat legs. They switch from indifference to the offensive, desecrating the spiller’s plate of room-temperature hors d’oeuvres. Another guest joins the turmoil — they grab the grub on someone else’s plate, licking it with more enthusiasm than the banquet has held all night. Harmony inhibited, it’s animosity for the sake of it. The table vibrates with tantalizing tension. An oblivious waiter carts in an array of guilty pleasures, from spunky jello to saccharine cake, diverse as those dining on them. All now attentive, the guests share a collective stare. The sweets are served. An eager eater cuts a precise slice, and a moist mouthful sheds crumbs from their fork as they go to indulge. But, instead, they feed a friend — and it’s divine for both sides. As more pieces are dished out, more forks meet foreign mouths. Delicious delight takes hold of the crowd, and the dinner’s a communion now. A high of sugar and companionship expels them from their seats, sent into a raving sway as they join hands in dance.

Here, even through dining detachment and disaster, we taste tranquility in all its deliciousness. There need not be a curfew for it — if we relish in it as one, in favor and forgiveness of vanity and hostility, harmony might just stick around for dessert.