New York Unspoken is a collection of fictitious stories of people on the streets of New York. The stories of 16 seemingly unrelated people are threaded by a mysterious girl’s journey in New York City. While the stories have their own dramatic moments, most of the narratives are soliloquies by the characters. We turn on the speakers directly connected to their minds and unmute the fleeting sentences that were never uttered. From their perspectives, we unlock the New York subconscious that remained Unspoken.
The portrait of each character makes an indispensable part of the storytelling. Even though the painting has no plot, it reflects personalities and spirits that are uniquely New York. Interwoven together, the stories and paintings complete each other.
I’m about to turn 20 in an hour, shown on the screen.
It’s been another whole night of painting and I’ve lost track of time. Painting during the night time feels great, since you can’t tell the day and night apart from scenes outside of the window —- it’s open to a shaft. This is a New York thing, here both the light and air feels especially thick and heavy. I can hear water dripping, but can’t tell whether it is the rain or just the AC units above. In an old walk-up like this where you can reach your neighbor’s counter for paper towels, it’s better off to just seal the room with curtains.
I’m about to turn 20 in 51 minutes, it beeps again. Today is supposed to be the day of my final presentation, but I don’t plan to go. It all stopped making sense to me. All these years I spent here for art school were very much wasted. The only thing they taught me was to BS, to self promote, to make up some sort of far fetched stories or bold statements with extravagant words no one understands. And yet I still failed to master it. I have painted every night ever since I was a kid. Volume of my portfolio fills thousands of pages. They were all amazed by it, as well as the style I developed over the years. But they consider me silly. There are more than enough people who can paint, they say, art is about concepts. What concept? Truth is, none of them can explain. They would just throw a bunch of quotes of Marcel Duchamp and Andy Warhol, maybe Donald Judd too, and then switch topics.
They told me to spend less time painting and more time thinking, to come up with an appealing narrative for my expressions. The key to success are the eye popping headlines and catchy instagram captions, not the paintings per se. They haunt me everyday with questions like: what’s the drive behind my art creation, and what’s the inspiration and aspiration of my works. Why ask so many questions? Why can’t my work speak for me? I did think about it, and it just became more absurd that I had to find an explanation in retrospect for my creations.
In school, people add -ism and -ist to every word, but there are basically just four groups of them. There are the Philosophical Expressionists, who interpret two dots as Zoroastrian Dualism, parallel segments as Chinese I-Ching, an empty canvas as Nihilism. Quotes of Plato, Kant and Foucault are their pocket tools for every circumstance even though they’ve never read more than five pages of anything. There are the tried and true Copyists who love to either expand an object to humongous size or replicating it a hundred times. They are not one-trick ponies though. The latest branch they developed has reached a huge success. You can almost rename them “Logoist”, as they only need to design an unforgettable logo and stamp it on everything to make it theirs, be it an object or a cartoon character, or other people’s art. There are the Affirmative Actionists who arbitrage political correctness using their minority identity and indigenious culture. Last but not least are the Spiritualists, who are also part-time psychics. They wear dreadlocks, they burn incense, and they never bother to explain themselves, because they create art through some sort of supernatural channeling.
I’m a complete outcast, not belonging or welcomed to any of these groups. But I didn’t care. They act maverick and beatnik, but deep inside they are just like the group in Dostoevsky’s Demons, pseudo-revolutionary. They lack originality, their eyes are on the already validated paths to success. What they really want are the instagram tricks to gain more followers, more connections with curators and collectors, more nomination and media coverage, and befriends with celebrities that can bring them instant popularity.
Fuck that. I’m not playing this game.
My phone shows nice weather outside, and it’s counting down to wish me a happy birthday. I’m going to take a walk. It might be my last day, you never know, or just any regular day. And I’m off to find out on my own.
Everyday at 7 am., I’d lay out my tiny kiosk at the Northwest corner of 42nd and 6th Ave crossroad.
There will be around 10 people who come by and say hello routinely, and get some newspaper, I guess this counts as some kind of subscription. Besides that, occasional eye contact also gets me extra business. The resultant awkwardness obliges these passersby to make a purchase. Normally I only carry 20 papers with me. As long as there’s 30 something bucks earned, I’m good for the day. Even in New York City, a simple and healthy living costs surprisingly small amounts of money if no drug or alcohol is involved. Of course one has to be desensitized to all those ferocious ads.
I don’t read any newspaper myself, all I care about is chilling out under the sun, and that’s the only reason why I’m doing this. Believe it or not, this spot right here, my spot, is the sunniest pedestrian spot in the entire Manhattan. The Bryant Park to the South splits the crowded sky of Midtown, so the stretchy shadows of surrounding towers wouldn’t come near me. One might say that Madison Sq Park, Union Sq etc. are just as sunny, and that Bryant Park isn’t the only great urban park. To that I would’ve said I agree, only if I had no wheelchair. My legs have gotten worse and worse in recent years due to the toxic 911 plume. Who would have thought those dusts would accumulate within your body, clog your vessels? Doctors advised me to amputate my leg. Hell no, I want my legs with me, but I have to rely on a wheelchair ever since. Only then I learned that only one third of the NY subway stations are accessible by wheelchair, and those places out of my reach have already been wiped out from my map.
To my Southwest across the street is a giant clock, with Rolex engraved at the center, 8:15, it says. At this time of the day, the luxurious watch shop beneath it still has not opened. The tides of Times Square tourists are still contained. Only office workers are flowing out from underground with the roaring trains. The giant Rolex is unheeded. People don’t need it for time anyway, they each have a fixed spot in the currents of time. They haven’t realized that they are all part of this clockwork machinery. They appear at the same time with the same group of people passing by the same place, day after day. That clock is only for me. The clock and I, we are the only two anchors in the currents.
When that girl struck up a conversation, in a black dress of thick dense gauze, carefree like a wandering dark cloud, I knew she’s new. She doesn’t belong to any of these scheduled flows. She asked to take a look at the paper. That’s quite rare these days, I have to say, normally people just pick up and go.
I let her suit herself, but couldn’t help to warn her, reading those crappy words is a total waste of life. They don’t help to inform you, they are just trying their best to manipulate you. She shrugged and said that she just wanted to know how the world is today.
— Well, in that case, I laughed, you should just drop these, they are morning posts talking about yesterday. Today has just begun.
I have been in New York for three years without going home. Situation is very volatile in Kharkiv, so my parents demanded that I just stay here. They also made it clear that if I want a family reunion, it’d better be in the States. They also wanted my brother to come here for university. It goes without saying that I would be the one to pay for it.
I was very lucky to be chosen by a New York agency after only a year of modeling in Moscow. They even told me I was a Victoria’s Secret angel material. Can you believe it? Victoria’s Secret! Their auditions are packed with supermodels. I can’t even begin to picture myself among them. But now the target is set and within my grasp. When other girls in my batch were partying all night in Chelsea, this target has kept me on track and my eyes on the prize. I was working super hard, trying to learn at every opportunity. I wasn’t drinking nor dating, instead I would study English when schedule allowed. I was told that I have a resting bitch face, so I had to be extra nice to accommodate that.
News about Victoria’s Secrets scandals were flying at the time, but when my agent told me I got the audition, I was so thrilled that I almost passed out. That night the girls brought me out to celebrate. They would ask every guy who came to flirt with us, who’s the VS angel among us. Then just burst into laughter before they said a word. What a scene! It must be all those flatters, or the number of shots, I felt afloat, and lost in the clouds of happiness.
One of the girls was busy making eyes at the pianist, and finally caught him in between sets. But he was checking me out. I knew that. He’s not really terrific looking, at least not to me, but there’s a flair of an old-time movie protagonist that’s eye-catching. He came over to introduce himself as an authentic New Yorker and offered to show us some real fun. He invited us to his recital at Carnegie Hall, happening the month later. Girls all got excited, he seemed like the winner of the night.
That’s how we met, on my best and happiest day ever. We started to hang out more and more often, just the two of us. He’s a real man about town, with a distinguished family background in the field of environment law. His brother, a J.D. from Harvard, was working for the Trump administration. The inside man, he dubbed him. His mother is a dedicated art collector, the paintings hung about his bed were from national museum level artists. He liked to joke about how he had been bound to the upper west side his whole life, growing up, going to Juilliard, even now performing, and that’s why he defected to Brooklyn. He also encouraged me to be a defector. To break free of the shackles of Russian dictatorship and settle here permanently in the land of freedom. He had the urge of talking about politics even on the most trivial things, and badgered me about the feeling of being oppressed under Soviet years in Ukraine. I don’t really know? I wasn’t born then for god’s sake.
Luckily, he was my New York Knight, a Good Samaritan for most of the time. He escorted me to those intimidating upper scale parties, taught me about music and art, and how to enjoy all sorts of culinary experiences like a real New Yorker. He always presented me proudly as a Victoria’s Secret Angel, though it was not confirmed yet. I had to give myself a pep talk every now and then that it’s all going to work out. I would definitely make it to THE runway, and I deserve him and all these happinesses. Until one day it all fell apart.
Victoria’s Secret canceled their show that year due to the spiking negative exposures. The one and only shortcut to becoming a supermodel was shut. I felt so defeated, and struggled to stay sober. Yet it was just the prelude of a long coming nightmare. All of a sudden my look became “outdated”, “too sexy”, and “typical Eastern European”. What does that even mean?! Some clients “politely” suggested I become an Instagram model, others didn’t even bother to give an excuse. While I was sitting there jobless, a lot of awkward looking girls unable to stand upright were easily booked! Ugh……
My contract with the model agency has reached an end, so did my visa. I was too desperate and terrified to face these all by myself. But I have to hide the truth from my family back in Kharkiv. There’s no way for them to help anyway. He was there when I totally broke down in tears, patting me gently, and assured me he wouldn’t let me get back to that land of no hope. I belong here, he told me, and I could apply for a green card after we get married. The restaurant owner, being an immigrant himself, overheard this and gave us free chicken masala as a gift, and encouraged us to go to City Hall the next day. It felt surreal, the nightmare that has haunted me till the last minute was wiped clean by him. He was like a real prince charming waving his sword marching towards me, telling me there’s nothing to be worried about. For me, it was bittersweet, this wasn’t the dream marriage proposal, but I was not in a spot to say no.
Only if I would have known better…… Only if……
In anticipation of USCIS interviews, I moved into his Brooklyn apartment. He didn’t inform his family, only a few friends knew about us. I overheard when they made fun of him for having the same type of wife as Trump’s. He didn’t take it well. That’s just a nasty old dude getting a trophy wife, according to him, how could that match to his noble act of rescuing me from Ukraine?
I was super grateful for his help, so I thought the least I could do was take care of all chores and bills for the two of us. It turned out that he was not all that glamorous as always, his hands were tight too when there were less gigs. And the so called intelligentsia around him was in fact just more struggling artists. We developed our own pattern, I almost became his maid. And when there were other girls, loads of disposable girls from those dating apps, I became his roommate.
This worked well for a couple of months. I was not entitled to scold him, as he never acknowledged this a marriage of love, yet it’s still very hard for me to listen to those baiting music and flirtations played for another girl. After repeating hundreds of times, I memorized all his tricks and lines by heart. This piece of music…… these paintings on the wall…… his father…… and his brother……Blah blah blah, same old stuff. And all of those girls were just as gullible as I was, rose to the bait giggling.
Having to witness all these made me the one being tortured by his hypocrisy, but I kept telling myself I was not one of those girls, at least I was going to get my green card. I just need to wait patiently for it to arrive. Last night he, with a new girl in his arms, headed straight to the bedroom, making quite some noise. Later he came to me, obviously high, asking me to join for a threesome, and it was not just an invite. I was terrified.
— Hey freeloader, he smirked, you gotta pay something for the ticket from Kharkiv to New York.
I have no clue how long I’ve been sitting here, the coffee is so cold, and so is morning in this city. There are so many words to shout out that they get congested in my chest. I want to tell my parents that I’ve really tried, I want to tear apart his sugarcoat and show the world what he’s truly made of, but I couldn’t say a word. This coffee is so bad, bitter and salty.
A girl passing by asked me whether I needed to talk, I shaked my head.
— Oh I do have one thing to share. Don’t date New Yorkers.
The authentic library users enter from 42rd Street. If one can precisely sneak into this side door among thousands of distracting entrances on New York’s capillary sidewalks, he or she deserves the most precious treasure in this city, tranquility.
I started a few months ago as a library page at the NYPL’s greatest Schwarzman branch, and I knew already I was never going back to work for a bookstore. To many the two jobs seem indistinguishable. Both are surrounded by books, occupied by organizing, searching and wayfinding. But in reality they couldn’t be farther apart. Bookstores are fading into oblivion witnessing the doom of literacy. Even good ones like the Strand have reluctantly degraded to sell coffee and souvenirs. But you can count on libraries.
Libraries have rekindled my faith in booklovers. These people actually flip through thousands of pages of archives for a footnote. Even though they make up less than 5% of all visitors. The rest is easy to sift out. They enter from Astor Hall, pass by the gift shop and head straight to the Rose Main Reading Room. Once you get familiar with this super predictable route, you can dodge them smoothly like a Ninja.
I love my job here, in this labyrinth of books and stories. I don’t have shifts everyday yet I come here every morning. I don’t mind being a phantom of the library once I figure out a way to snug in. The subterranean book storage beneath Bryant Park would make an ideal haven. The lawn and dirt isolates all those screaming noises of cars and passersby (the classic symphony of New York), all you can hear is the soothing roll of book delivering train gliding 75 feet per minute, and maybe some distant murmur passing down the cast iron bookshelves. It’s like napping in a lullaby.
There are mountains of books to read and I happen to have abundant time to dribble away. I’m possibly addicted to reading, but all those readings haven’t intrigued me to write anything. On the contrary, the more I read, the more I get discouraged. There are already masterpieces in all possible themes. Just take a look at works about New York, there’s E.L. Doctorow for ragtime era, Colm Tóibín for immigrant stories, Robert A. Caro for the political insights, J. D. Salinger and Allen Ginsberg for the beat culture…… How dare I even start? I guess there’s another way around, to socialize and become a member of some art and cultural clique and write memoirs. A document of collective memory won’t hurt after all. Sadly I’m not that type of material either. It only works for people with acerbic wit and repartee like Fran Lebovit, or androgynous charm like Patti Smith. And where to find the modern day Algonquin Round Table, Chelsea Hotel and Club 57? On social media?
Umberto Eco once said in an interview that if drifted to an island, all he needed was a phone book. Just by browsing the names he could come up with thousands of stories. And here I am with all the books in the world, feeling nothing. Maybe I’m not gifted, and I just live to read others’ creations, witness other people’s stories. If so, that would make my story.
Someone’s shooting street snaps over there. It’s becoming a thing recently, Youtubers hunting for fashionable people on the street, particularly in New York, London and Paris. I always wanted to be filmed in one of those, their high views might help with my stagnated instagram follower growth.
The girl being interviewed right now wears a black dress and a pair of black shoes, which seems to rivet that blogger. But I can’t see the details since she’s facing away from me. The blogger smiled at me, I got the latent message to wait for her. Her eyes are telling me that she’s coming over in a bit. That’s fine by me. I’m going to brunch with girlfriends in La Mercerie, but they could wait. Nobody is punctual anyway.
I happen to be in street style with this outfit today. You know, chill and laid-back, pretending to don’t give a fuck even if you care the most about looking cool in other’s eyes. Spending two hours getting ready then hashtag the post #wakeuplikethis. But I really couldn’t care less about style today, still in a hangover so bad that I almost couldn’t get up.
The dress is from Jacquemus latest runway. Heels are Celine under Phoebe Philo, this is a jargon. Accessories are lowkey, just an Hermès Constance in color etoupe, and a Columbia baseball cap. That’s my entire look, for the introduction later. This Hermès is a knockoff — I’ll just keep that to myself.
True princelings around me all have fakes. Only those self-conscious middle class always pay for the reals. This one actually came from one of my dates, I blocked him right away after I found out about it. But I liked it, it’s pristine and assuring. Also, it goes with anything. After that shenanigan I only accept gifts bought in store from appointed sales.
However, the upper echelon Chinese here are different from those in Shanghai, nobody cares about luxury goods. If you want an elite image that people look up to, a connection with the mayor’s office or the general consulate works much better. An Instagram story or group photo of you attending a gala or conference will do as well. The key is to tag all the important figures you were with. Retweeting someone else’s post, assuming they tagged you, is even better. Anyways, you need recognizable faces to back you up. If you can’t get them appearing in the same frame with you, just get their names. What’s the point of taking a work selfie in the UN without the ambassador in the background?
And of course there are hierarchies, scholars over artists, dignitaries over celebrities, in office over retired. On top of the pyramid are the icons across continents and eras, such as Henry Kissinger. The photo with him still remains my most liked post on social media. I was brought to that gathering by a family friend in the Committee of 100. Kissinger was already too old to hold any meaningful conversation, maybe his mumbling voice was the one to blame. But he still makes a mint mascot to take photos with.
There came a time when my missing of Shanghai was so strong that I even started to consider transferring to NYU Shanghai. But NYU is too much a downgrade from an Ivy League school. New York is filthy and shabby, unless one is from some poor little town in Zimbabwe or Honduras, it’s not easy to fall in love with the city. Also to my own surprise, there’s not much for me to learn here, at least nothing useful for living in China. Yes I’ve built some connections, but they are mostly the same group of people I could meet back home. Sometimes we even forget we are in New York instead of Shanghai after a few drinks.
They are done over there, and the blogger is marching towards me. Shit! She did not just walk past me! What the hell!
I’m photographing on the street to collect inspiration, and just ran into a girl that goes to the same school with me. We’ve passed by several times in the hall way. I know that she’s in the fine arts program, but that’s it. She always seemed awfully quiet.
To be honest, artists have the most intriguing style, far more than people in fashion. Just take a look at the everyday outfit of Marcel Duchamp or Lucian Fraud. They probably just wear a shirt with a silk scarf, holding a brush or a pipe, maybe there’s a white cloth tucked around the waist to wipe off excess paint. Yet with seemingly zero effort, their personal styles come through. That’s the “best dressed” indeed. Let alone Niki de Saint Phalle, Georgia O’Keeffe, Yayoi Kusama, they have already turned into fashion icons. It is their originality that sets them apart from others, as these artists always bring in their visual expression into their personal appearance. Even small details, like Hundertwasser’s slouchy cap and Kiki Smith’s linen shirt, are echoing with the paintings of them. This girl right now, I can tell that she cut those shoes herself.
I love to turn to them for inspiration, and I found them more nurturing than the design studio in school. The school we attend is not quite technical-oriented. I mean, quite a few people are just making garments with a hot glue gun. But thanks to the fascinatingly weird classmates, we are in a kaleidoscope of ideas. You learn much more from your peers than from professors. Every presentation is a fierce competition. Be it a mummy’s new wrap or the digital outfit for a game character, everybody tries to kill with his or her signature tricks or weirdest experiments. The school is just here to provide the venue and platform, simply being supportive.
I’m about to graduate in a year, and a lot of seniors and alumni have been telling me how I should cherish the remaining time here. Apparently there will not be much creative freedom once I start working, unless I am sufficiently funded to establish my own brand. The world has witnessed geniuses like Alexander McQueen and John Galliano being completely burned out by fashion houses. But all that is pretty much the status quo of this industry.
But I have it all planned out. I’m going to do real street fashion. Not Supreme, not Off-White, nothing to do with stamping logos on trashy stuff. I want it real, like what Willi Smith and Stephen Burrows did in the 70s, transfigure snaps of modern living to wearable statements of time.
Current trends are not much different than those of the 70s’. A dandizette walking down to the speakeasy bar is most likely still in one of those slip dresses designed by Stephen Burrows, and hugged by an oversized blazer remodeled from a zoot suit. It’s not true that these items remained in since their invention, they are retros thrown back every 40 to 50 years, like tides. Which, if you think, is easy to explain. Every 20 year old hates his or her parents, and extends that hatred towards their music, fashion taste, and their authority on everything. These youngsters would rather take inspiration from the older and more remote time of their grandparent’s generation, until they turn into parents and get hated all over again. Hence the tidal waves in fashion.
Observing and understanding street style is becoming more important than ever. Fashion is no longer beauty contests among first ladies and Hollywood celebrities, nor is it at the command of some editor in chief. It has evolved around people on the street, the graffiti artists, the musicians, the dandies and hobos, the cool kids.
If people are fully aware of the information sent out by their appearance, they would pay far more attention to their styles. Take that girl across the street for example, the Jacquemus dress is selling her out. That thing is basically an influencer uniform, might as well just print out her Instagram handle and stick it on top. That big luxury purse is probably a gift, who could afford that in this early age? Such a boiled child. Vain, rich, and lacking originality, she is the stereotypical perfect target to all the big brands.
She’s checking me out every once a while, would she be thinking that I will photograph her? She should really get over it. Ever since I saw a bunch of influencers live streaming and talking to the air with exaggerated selfie expressions, they’ve been stuck in the scenes of my worst nightmare, where everyone lives on no purpose but solely on other’s attention. I wander around the streets of New York all day collecting ideas to build my own library of material, I won’t see myself descend to the level of a promoter for influencers. There are trend forecasting agencies that offered to buy my works, and I turned them down. I have no plan to show my precious collection to anyone, so there’s definitely no space for her.
A girl took a photo of my hair. I’m used to it already…People taking extra glimpses, especially other black people. They never hide their compliments to my hair and style, but somehow the affectionate connection in their eyes cools down a bit after hearing my accent. I’d love to share thoughts on afro hair styling though. The girls here struggle too much with their natural curls.
To be honest, I don’t really know what type of accent I have. I grew up in Lagos, Nigeria. We speak English in school back there, though not the elite accent as kids in American International Schools. Then I went to college in Paris, and maybe added some French flair, but I doubt it’s the Parisian accent. My best friends were French speaking Africans from Niger and Benin. Anyways, one can easily tell I’m from Africa via my accents, and I don’t mind it. Accent doesn’t stand for anything, and it was never an obstacle to my expression. I’m fluent in four different languages. Those who are grouchy and judgemental about accents, are probably illiterate in their mother tongue.
People kept asking me why I moved from Paris to New York. Parisians couldn’t understand, nor could New Yorkers. I’m the only one aware, I came here to find the answer.
A few years back me and a few friends founded an art platform online, called AnotherAfrica, focusing on avant-garde African artists and designers. It was at the time of Ebola, and all news about Africa was related only to epidemic, famine or violence. As if we couldn’t get ourselves on track without the whip of colonists. Thus we decided to use our own voice to show the world another side of Africa — resplendent, colorful, spellbinding and authentic. We were the first to present the sculptural braids through the lens of J.D. ’Okhai Ojeikere. We also introduced African Futurism in modern architecture much earlier than their appearance in Domus magazine and MoMA.
Due to limited audience and lack of stable sponsorship, the website was pretty much powered by our own passion. But as time goes by, it’s harder and harder to get quality content. Eventually it was paused in 2018. Also that year, I watched Black Panther again and again, with tears in my eyes. I felt the urge to come to the States. I was determined to learn about successful storytelling, how to translate content into influence.
I’ve just arrived in New York recently. I haven’t made it to the internship part I look forward to the most. The school was good in general, they granted me scholarships and everything. That’s a lot of burden removed. There are not many black students in school, but we are tight. Once you know one you know them all. They offered me tremendous help and I enjoyed hanging out with them. But I spend most of my spare time dating a guy, we hitted off right away. He’s a doctoral student in Columbia Law, the only black student in his program.
We share some obvious characteristics. We never dress casually in public, for example, we also never hide our ambition and political pursuit. But we are different in many aspects as well. I’m not willing to be the token black. I also don’t accept sleaky compliments that connote insults —- “such an accomplished and well-versed black woman!” etc. But words like these never offend him.
— To become important and efficient, he says, I should not reject any help, even if the kindness is condescending.
Unlike other black men I was familiar with, he is not cynical. Instead he always wants to rationally analyze the situation and exploit it to his advantage. The over-policing situation in Harlem made him a crucial lead to the community. Though he has never won any court cases as their legal counsel, people still unite around him just because they desperately need help.
At first I thought he would become an advocate in public service and continue to serve the community. But he disagrees.
— I don’t feel sorry for any specific person. a lot of them are legitimate criminals, he says, you can’t expect me to defend them. The real issue here is that they never had proper education, money, credit, and no stable places nor jobs later in life, otherwise they would have not gone on the slippery slope leading to incarceration. Racism is just a veil to cover the ugly truth beneath — African Americans are disadvantaged on the social ladder systematically to exploit and control us, and this society wants it to continue like this. The only way out is to raise to the level of power and push for fundamental changes. So we can’t be together, he says with a sly smile on his face, I can’t repeat Obama’s drama, wasting time defending myself as an ingenuine American. I need a winning combo, a white woman or Asian, or at least a self-made black elite like myself. You understand?
— Together we could dedicate ourselves to black advancement in the entire world, wouldn’t that be grander and more meaningful? I confronted him with Killmonger’s question in Black Panther, isn’t all people your people?
— What do you think? He asked me back Don’t you forget that we were the abandoned descendants of Africa?
Fine…… I did forget that the reality is opposite to the movie. African American don’t need the protection from a “powerful” Wakanda. They have developed into a strong force over the years —- HipHop, street fashion, athletic fandom and other pop culture, and I am here to learn from them. But how come even such an iconic cultural influence didn’t result in advancements in socioeconomic status and broader political power? Am I on the wrong track?
Buying residential real estate in New York is one of the worst investment decisions one can make. People could look at the fact that New York real estate appreciated 10x in about 40 years and simply think it’s a good deal. However, they missed the fact that investment in S&P 500 at the same time returns about 40x. If they reinvest the dividends that’s 120x in 40 years.
A 1000 sq ft condo in New York theoretically net you about 50 sq ft of land on average. In reality, you only have a box floating in the sky. A box that carries hefty obligations too —- HOA (Homeowners Association Fees) and property tax that runs at about 3% of the property value each year. So if you bought the property for $1.5 million, a fair median price, you need to pay $40 to $50k per year to maintain it. That’s already more than half of the rental income it will generate. And when you try to sell it, you will need to pay another 6% agency fee and 15% capital gains tax. So the 10x price appreciation really only net you about 2x-3x cash on cash returns.
But real estate development is a totally different ball game. In finance, we trade all sorts of assets and securities from all over the world but it still pales in comparison to the local real estate development in New York city, in terms of GDP contribution. Once a real estate developer reaches financial close on a project, they are already making profit on that project before even breaking the ground. Take the $25 billion Hudson Yards development for instance, on the surface banks only provide 75% of the financing. But that doesnt mean the developers need to come up with the remaining 25%. After EB5 investments from rich immigrants (10%), subsidized policy financing (11%) and development fees of the project (3%), the developers themselves only need to put up 1% (or even less!) in real equity after all these hassling for the most expensive real estate development project in the history of New York. That’s 99x leverage, which is crazier than the craziest speculators in finance. Because even if an investor somehow manages to achieve that, there’s no institution that would dare to finance him. But New York real estate is such a crazy game.
However, there’s a natural cap to the scale of real estate developments, especially in Manhattan. So at the end, the real estate developers need financiers to help them expand their business and help them grow their personal wealth. Cultivating a good relationship with them is key to access high quality clients and even political resources. For us to make money, it’s even more important to grow assets under management than achieve stellar investment returns. Otherwise, I would not want to put up this ridiculous level of taxes and cost of living in New York. It’s all for the easier access to high net worth clientele.
My current girlfriend’s family, well I guess not a girlfriend yet, is in real estate development. We’ve been dating for a while and it’s progressing well. If we settle down and enter a serious relationship, I won’t need to worry about getting ripped off by the real estate market here. I will also have easy access to more clients. Doesn’t make too much of a difference who manages their money anyways, might as well allocate more business to their future son-in-law.
I hinted that my family is in the oil business in Texas, and she’s sold. New Yorker’s street smart only works for identifying people from the East Coast. If you let them know your neighborhood in Manhattan or upstate, where you went to school, plus last names and accent, they will see through you like a X-ray machine. But they know much less about people’s background from the southern states or middle part of the country.
She hasn’t introduced me to her close friends or other connections yet. But her birthday party is coming in a month, and that could be a good opportunity. I decided to buy a painting as a gift. Then I’d have an excuse to go install it at her place. She’s passionate about contemporary art, but to me they just look like giant graffiti, even my 5-year-old nephew can do better. Not sure what’s their value other than tax deduction when you donate them to museums.
There’s a gallery at the ground level of my office’s building. Since the stock market has closed, I’m checking it out. The prices there are all crazy. Starts with at least $100k. I bet the majority went to the gallery and art dealers, no way the starving artists are making this type of money per piece.
— Such trash.
A young college looking girl murmured after she overheard the price. I totally agree, but I pretend I didn’t hear her while speaking to the gallery associate. After the staff is excused, I follow up with the young girl. Asking her how she discerned the quality of the arts shown here. She said these pieces lack both originality and skills in detailing. She can make ten of them per day. Sounds like she’s good, I will just commision one from her then. 36 x 36, for $2000. Payment is due when she delivers a satisfactory product. That’s a good deal. I would just tell others it’s recommended by a collector friend, only spend $20k on it.
To read more stories please contact via email: yd2353@columbia.edu