It is hard to believe that it has really been five years since we held our first Studio 1482 meeting at 1482 York after a long day at the Metropolitan Museum of art. The intervening years have brought us a few cultural phenomena (Twitter and  Twilight , to name just two), yet we are still here (thanks to your support)!

As my official work to celebrate the five year anniversary of Studio1482, I have decided to draw a five dollar bill. This is not the first time I’ve created work around the theme of money: Below is a piece from my silkscreen series “American dream”

For more information about my work or Studio 1482 or money or Epiphany cards or anything else, please contact me at Kati@studio1482.com

“1791”, named for the year of the Haitian Revolution, which resulted in the abolishment of slavery. This is an ink painting on paper, done with pen and brush. Hand-signed prints of this piece are available for donations of $50 or more to CARE. Please visit our blog Onedrawingaday for more information on how to participate in this fundraiser.

All three images in this post were created for a book about a man who was born a slave on an 18th century plantation in Haiti who grew up to become one of the most admired citizens of the new world. (age 7 and up, fully illustrated). For more information on this project please contact me at kati@studio1482.com

above: “Haircare for ladies”, below: “George Washington’s inauguration”, both from “The barber of New York” by K. Nawrocki, copyright 2010 by K. Nawrocki

The Washington Heights barber wraps a young Latino in a cape emblazoned with day-glo palm trees, and nods into the mirror. They’re both silent and serious, the only sound is the boxing match on the wall-mounted television set. The young man is about to get a shape-up, a term referring to the removal of any hairs outside of a perfectly-drawn hairline, which creates an airbrushed look popular with many Latin men.As the youth settles into his chair and briefly explains the desired shape of his mustache, I realize this is a ritual, a way for men to be with each other, the way women relax into the competent hands of their manicurists, and I suddenly think back on meeting my Japanese father’s family in New Mexico for the first time many years ago.I remember noticing the my half-brother’s flawless hairline, and finding it had nothing in common with the fuzz that framed my own mixed features. I kept staring at it, trying to figure out how it could be, and pondering my obsession with touching the hair of any other half-Asians I met, trying, I suppose, to figure out my own identity. I compared my straight black tresses to my half-sister’s shiny brown curls, and recall alternately reveling in and despairing at the complicated composition of my “heritage”.The barber is now carving out a perfect edge by trimming all hairs to a quarter of an inch with an electric buzzer, then flips open a straight razor and attacks the fuzz daring to grow outside of the shape (mostly around the temples, it seems). “Old school”, he assures me proudly, pointing at the blade.One day my half-brother had grabbed me by the hand conspiratorily, promising to solve the mystery, and so I’d come to sit in on this ritual for the first time. I’d watched in silence as the evidence of his heritage was cut away, shaping and reshaping a new identity that perhaps better matched his surroundings, making him look more like his Latin friends.Back in the Heights, the barber trims the young man’s mustache and sideburns (both skinny, as per fashion). He is almost done. He gently sweeps the young man’s shoulders with a brush, disinfects the freshly razored skin with something that smells like essence of cinnamon, and holds up a mirror for his client. The young man is satisfied, and tips the barber. !Hasta la proxima vez! They’ll meet again in a few days, when nature has once again messed up perfection.To get a shape-up next time you’re in New York City, visit Nick at Magic Touch Barbers on 181st Street.This article was published in GDI magazine.

The male Hammerhead bird of South Africa has figured out that his girlfriend gets amorous when he presents her with items to spruce up the 300 pound nest the couple share atop a knobby tree in the “open” style bird house at the Bronx Zoo. He goes out again and again to find suitable gifts for his lady, and today he comes back bearing some choice twigs and leaves, each worth about eight seconds of lovemaking. After each session he is swiftly kicked out to find a new trinket.

He knows in his heart that my sable paintbrush would rock her (and his) world. He circles the water bottle where the precious object is parked between furious flashes of watercolor genius.
In the end I cannot cede the prize, and the bird screeches what i can only assume are bird expletives, and I decide it is probably time to exit.

Summer is now upon us, and that means the joys of iced coffee, kids shrieking in the spray of fire hydrant fountains, and of course the pied-piper melodies of the ice cream truck. Toward the evening, when the heat comes as much from the pavement as from the sky, the humid air vibrates with reggaeton beats (this latinized jamaican rhythm being the perfect soundtrack for this meltingpottest of cities) until about 3am (or until it rains). Kids loiter downstairs, setting off fire crackers in preparation of the spectacles around july 4th (vertical only if you are lucky and followed, inevitably, by the sound of sirens). Tv is suddenly crappy, the better stuff having been wrapped up for now (in excruciating cliffhangers or luke-warm open ends), promising pleasures on the other side of summer or until the release of the dvd box set.
But Summer is also something else, something I could never have dreamed when I was a little girl growing up in the heart of europe– It is a diamond, a leather sphere, a stick, some plates, and… well, time. Lots of time. Summer time, which flows at a different pace than, say, marathon season or holiday madness. A time that has room for parades and picnics and– Baseball.
Baseball is not a game I grew up with– it was so American (and thus, deliciously foreign). I discovered this game of instant nostalgia once I’d decided to do some research into the soul of America (I also sought to understand American humor–which, it turned out, was a tree with many branches, some of them hanging lower than others). It immediately caught my eye with its old fashioned-looking uniforms (pinstripes and stirrups anyone?) and its leisurely pace, a game as slow as summer. I found the colorful lingo and superstitions infinitely more alluring than any football-confusion of helmets and shoulderpads or tangled mess of legs and nets could ever be.
After learning some history with the help of Ken Burns and watching people play in the park (Bad News Bears style), I felt I was ready to go to my first real game, and decided that if I was gonna go, I might as well do it right, and make it a Subway series game (Yankees @ Mets)…

Shea stadium’s sprawling 80ies ugliness disppointed me a little, but I was soon excitely drawing the face-painted mobs; some were torturing effigies of the enemy’s most feared players, banging on cowbells, while others blocked my view with their more comical than menacing drunkesn, sunburned embraces, and for once the ladies’ room was empty, while the line to the men’s room went on forever…
I ate my first hot dog at that game (it was edible but overpriced), and because it was too much fun watching the vendors toss their wares into the crowd, I also had a box of crackerjacks, pretzels, a soda, cotton candy, and a plastic souvenir-cup full of beer. Needless to say I had to recover a little after the game, which ended up being moderately disappointing for someone rooting for the underdog (5:0 yankees).

That weekend, I followed up with a visit to the Bronx, where the Mets were trying (unsuccessfully) to even the score with their cross-town rivals; Yankee stadium with its cake-icing bleachers and steep seating immediately appealed more to me than Shea, and I was torn between bearing reference by drawing and becoming one with the deafening roars erupting around me; in the end, i put away my drawing pad, and joined the crowd, defeated by the sheer momentum of the moment.
Though this was years ago, I still have the plastic mug from the first game, and try to go to a few games every season, though still more for the experience than the actual game. I will sorely miss the old Yankee stadium (Shea, not so much). And if any New York team ever wins the World series again, you will find me at the parade, not drawing, but cheering with the fans!

Kati

America, woven of so many colors and cultures,
with your Coca Cola,
your philosophy of “yes”–
America, my heart is yours.

But as any profound thing,
my love for you is complicated
(traiterously Un-American, this ambiguity):
While I enjoy my slice of apple pie
in this Babel of Ever-Upward,
I also worry about the self-destructive power
of this sleepwalking giant.

I hold these truths to be self-evident:

That it is better to have a flawed dream,
than no dream at all
That it is important to question the powers that be,
lest they become tyrants
That life is a crapshoot,
so you may as well put your money on the long shot.

Kati Nawrocki

To see more of my editorial work, please visit studio1482.

When I was a little girl growing up in Germany I remember staying up long past my bed time to join my mom to watch “the Reportage”, a weekly television program dedicated to stories from around the world. I loved the show because I never knew whom I was going to encounter next, yurt-dwelling nomads of the Tian Shan steppes perhaps, or maybe Andean feminists?

I remember my constant hunger for these stories, devouring them wherever I could find them: In the pages of my tattered collection of National Geographic magazines, in the nuances of schoolyard gossip, and of course there were always the stories of my well-traveled grandfather, who insisted on driving his red 1949 Porsche around town until well into his semi-blind seventies, a hat on his head, and his chow chow in the back seat, the enormous dog almost entirely blocking the back window.

Reportage IS stories. It’s tales of heightened intensity, it’s indulging in the details and embellishments that separate the gifted storyteller from the one who keeps messing up the punch-line. It can be chatty and witty and snarky and sad and uplifting and lighthearted and humane and heartbreaking, and the way you judge it is if it makes you come back for more (and more and more).

I love reportage–Can you tell? I am both an avid listener and an enthusiastic talker, and that goes for words as well as visuals.
Below are two samples of my drawings from travels around the world (for I also enjoy traveling, surprise!):

I did this drawing series in the Tuileries Garden in Paris last summer, it was very hot, and I was very happy, because I was surrounded by the most idyllically bizzarre landscape: August marble statues towering over flabby sunbathers and pigeons, battallions of geometrically shaped trees spilling green shade onto the dusty paths teeming with Parisiens and tourists who got lost on their way to the Louvre, fountains with duckling-chains at swim practice, and placed in perfectly balanced intervals, black sunflowers accenting the herbal and vegetable arrangements, and in the background (OF COURSE) the Eiffel tower…

This is a drawing from a series I did at Rockefeller Center last december; you can see the skaters crowding the miniscule rink below Prometheus delivering fire and, more importantly, the gigantic Christmas tree (both on the left).
From the first time I visited it, I’ve been in love with Rockefeller Center, this strange art deco city-within-a-city, entranced by its subterranean gold, its machine-like Rockettes, its heavy-bodied sculptures and murals, and, of course, its ever-present symbols of 1930’s modern (ie lots of gears and rays and pulleys).

During the holidays, the center turns into a zoo, a magnet for everyone who’s ever seen Miracle on 34th Street or yearns for a 1950’s style White Christmas or who (like me) loves the hustle and bustle of shoppers and the not-always-so-wholesome-looking Salvation Army bell-ringers, and just the whole atmosphere of anicipation and chaos. They decorate the center with sparkling reindeer and oversized paper maché nutcrackers and drummer boys for the holidays (seen in the foreground of the drawing). Ice skaters pay exorbitant fees and wait for hours for their fleeting turn on the ice, but you’re also likely to witness many first dates and marriage proposals there, indicators of the strange romance of the place.

The key to loving it is not to be in a hurry (if you are, you’re better off taking a six-mile detour, at least in december).

Alright, I hope you enjoyed these two selections, you can see more of my reportage work at Studio1482.com and gdimagazine.com

Talk to you soon, Kati