Author: Mazen

My collage supports Palestinians in Gaza, with focus on families stuck at the Rafah border with Egypt. I grew up in Alexandria, so the border between my country and Gaza is not an abstract line to me. The article I read covered the Columbia University pro-Palestine protests and the students who built banners overnight before their demonstrations. Layal, a Columbia student quoted in the piece, said their network and signage carried their message. I put her words at the center of my collage because she names the exact thing I was doing on the page, using visual language to speak for people getting silenced.

The images show three things. First, families trying to leave Gaza, including the boy in the hoodie running down what looks like an airport ramp. Second, the border itself, with the photo of a masked man standing between Egypt and Gaza. Third, an injured child, because the story does not end once someone crosses into safety. I added the Palestinian flag in the corner as an anchor and the “Help!” cutout because the word is small but loud on the page.

The cause matters to me because Egypt sits right next to what is happening, and my family talks about the border closings often. Watching people my age get shut out of safety while I sit in a classroom in New York feels wrong to ignore.

If I had different supplies, I would have added Arabic text next to the English words so the piece spoke to both audiences at once. Red paint or red thread across the “BE THE VOICE” letters would have pulled the eye toward the message faster. With more time, I would have layered the images more carefully and written a short paragraph in Arabic under Layal’s quote to tie the two languages together.

On my way home from class one afternoon, I stepped off the A train at 14th Street and stopped to look at the small bronze figures scattered around the station. The piece is called “Life Underground” by Tom Otterness, installed in 2001. I have walked past these sculptures dozens of times without paying attention, but this week I finally slowed down and took photos.

The figures are tiny cartoonish characters made of bronze. Some climb pillars, others carry giant bags of money, and a few are being eaten by alligators crawling out of manhole covers. One of my favorites shows a small man sawing through a subway bench. The whole scene feels playful and a little dark at the same time.

There is signage near the mezzanine explaining the artwork, and the MTA Arts and Design website has more background. Otterness spent about ten years on the project and installed over one hundred figures throughout the station. The piece comments on class, money, and power in New York City. The alligator coming out of the sewer references an old urban legend about pet alligators flushed down toilets, which I found hilarious.

What drew me in was how the sculptures reward you for looking carefully. Most riders rush past without noticing, but if you slow down you find small stories hidden in corners of the station.

Public art matters because it gives everyone access to something creative during ordinary moments. You do not need a museum ticket or an art background to enjoy a sculpture in a subway station. For someone like me who commutes daily, running into art like this turns a boring transfer into something worth remembering. It also makes you feel like the city itself is trying to tell you something, if you are willing to pause and listen. That is a rare feeling in  , and worth holding onto.

I asked Julio Anta two questions during his visit, and both conversations shaped how I think about his work.

My first question was about where his characters come from. A lot of writers pull from imagination alone, but I wanted to know if his characters came from people he had seen in his own life. His answer was honest. He did not hide behind a writer’s persona or dress up the response. He spoke about his characters as pieces of real observation, not pure invention. I appreciated how open he was, even if I do not remember his exact words.

My second question was more personal, and I told him upfront he did not have to answer if he found it too political. He had been talking about Palestinian kids earlier, so I asked him if he would consider writing a comic centered on a Palestinian child in Gaza, and whether such a comic would find a publisher. His answer stayed with me. He said two years ago, the answer would have been no. Today, he believes it might be possible. He was clear about where he stands, and I understood he sees the Palestinian side of the story with empathy.

What struck me most was his maturity. He did not dodge hard questions or hide behind polite answers. He treated every question, mine and my classmates’, with the same seriousness. His willingness to sit with a difficult political question and answer it honestly, without performance, showed me something about the kind of artist he is. It reinforced my sense of graphic novels as a form suited for these kinds of stories, the ones mainstream publishing avoids until the political climate shifts.

Hearing him speak changed how I read his work. The honesty on the page comes from the same place as the honesty in the room.

I visited the Alice Austen House. Clear Comfort sits right on the water on Staten Island, a small cottage where Alice lived most of her life and took most of her 8,000 photographs.

For the workshop they handed us polaroid cameras and copies of Alice’s original photos. The task was to walk the property, find the spots where she stood over a hundred years ago, and match her shots. Not reinterpret, match. Same angle, same framing, same light if we were lucky.

The photo of the two people on the wooden steps is one of them. I am the one on the left. We were working off one of Alice’s originals, lining up the trees, the railing, the position of the bodies on the stairs. Standing where she had her tripod. Looking at what she saw.

Alice was born in 1866 and lived at Clear Comfort with her partner Gertrude Tate for around 30 years. She photographed her friends, her garden, the harbor, immigrants at the Staten Island quarantine station, working women in the streets. She was doing documentary work before people had a word for it. She lost the house in 1945 after going broke and ended up in a poorhouse before her friends got her out, right before she died.

Trying to remake her photos changes how you see her. She was not aiming her camera at random. Every shot she took here was of her home and her people, and every angle had a reason behind it. When we recreated the one on the steps, my classmates became the subjects, but the frame was still hers.

Her community stood on those steps first. Ours followed her outline.

I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art by myself on Monday, June 29th. I never been to the Met before and honestly I’m not really a museum or art person. I didn’t plan anything or prepare, I kind of walked in blind.

The second I found the Egyptian wing I forgot about the rest of the museum. I spent a full hour in there and didn’t even bother going anywhere else. I was genuinely shocked at how big the Egyptian section is. It takes up a huge part of the museum. You walk through room after room of statues, coffins, carvings, jewelry, and then you hit the Temple of Dendur sitting in this massive glass room with sunlight coming through the ceiling. The Met gave Egyptian history serious real estate and I respect that.

For me this was not like looking at random old stuff behind glass. I am from Alexandria, Egypt. These are my people. I stood in front of the Hatshepsut statues and the Head of King Amenmesse and I felt something I didn’t expect to feel. Pride. Real pride. I recognized the symbols and the hieroglyphs because this is my culture and my history. Somewhere way back in my bloodline, I am connected to these people. Standing that close to a statue carved over three thousand years ago and knowing it came from the same soil I grew up on is a feeling I don’t know how to put into words.

Lindauer talks about being a “critical museum visitor” instead of someone who accepts everything a museum shows you at face value (Lindauer 203). I tried to do that. One thing I noticed is that a lot of the labels say objects were “acquired” through funds or excavations but don’t explain how they actually ended up in New York. The Temple of Dendur was a gift from the Egyptian government in 1965 and the Met is clear about that. But for other pieces, that part of the story stays quiet. That silence is worth paying attention to.