Category Archives: Feature Report

Yuki Matsuri

Feature Report

Every year at Wellesley, most cultural organizations offer the student body a window into the culture in the form of a massive, showstopping event open to the entire college. These events participate in a time-honored tradition of using coveted non-dining hall food as an attendance hook for the college crowd. They provide a celebratory backdrop for a window into cultures shared by the community. 

 Yuki Matsuri, Wellesley Japan Club’s yearly cultural show, started at 5 on a chilly Saturday evening in February. Planning to meet friends at the event in Tishman Commons, I arrived right on time — or on Wellesley time, 15 minutes late. My timing was underscored by the fact that the line for food already stretched out of the room, down the hall, up the stairs, and onto the main floor of the campus center. I got through a half-hour-long podcast episode by the time I reached the entrance to Tishman. After flashing my student ID, I picked up a paper plate and made my way down the line of student volunteers dishing out a variety of Japanese specialties in the smaller side room. Balancing a full plate with a cup of green tea, I finally caught up with my friend Sarah as we walked into the large performance area. There was a stage in front, more food and activity booths against the wall in the back, and floor seating/standing room in between. We ate our carefully rationed agedashi tofu and sweet potato maki in the dark as we watched student performers spin colorfully lit yoyo-like objects to Japanese pop music.

As the house lights came up, a kabuki performer began her dance and we moved across the crowded room to check out the rightmost food stations. We ate beautifully plated takoyaki and a rice cake with red-bean filling as we watched the performer don three very expressive masks as she acted in the roles of three different characters. One booth featured a box with gift bags dangling inside and a sign that read “Thousand Strings.” The two people ahead of me in line each pulled a random string, which released a bag filled with goodies. One student collected a small cookie, and Sarah received cute stickers. Curious what my turn might bring, I carefully selected my string. I was presented with a piece of paper that read “Watch out – bad luck may befall you.” I wasn’t surprised – Yuki Matsuri joined a long list of Wellesley events, from raffles to bingo, at which I was consistently luckless. I grabbed another red-bean cake and sat down with Sarah in anticipation of the next performance.

Aiko, the college’s beloved Taiko drumming group, performed next. The steady yet lively beats reverberated in my chest.  You might expect a group that constantly needs to be in perfect sync to be somewhat solemn – but every performer wore a confident grin as they drummed and chanted. I think this is the secret to why the student body loves Aiko so universally – they look like they are having so much goddamn fun onstage, and that energy is infectious. Sarah leaned over and told me “I have a crush on every single person on stage right now.” I laughed, knowing she spoke for every attendee.

I recognized the faces of many members of student organizations who performed, like my friend who led Shotokan Karate in a demonstration. Each audience member cheered for the friends we came to support. The room constantly held a few simultaneous layers of noise, whether from the performers, audience, or shaved-ice machine. I didn’t recognize one performer, however, who brought the room to silence. Older than a student, she came alone, save for a man who seemed like an assistant, or possibly coach. She wore a stark white gi top with flowing black hakama pants, and carried an archery bow that was easily taller than herself. The man asked people in the direction she would shoot to move; for a split second, I wondered if this is when my forecasted bad luck would befall me. With the audience rendered motionless, she meticulously approached her position, arranged her posture, notched each arrow, aimed at the target, drew her bow, and fired. Each step in this process was deliberate and memorized, and she shot twice. Her sober bow acted as a foil to the audience’s eruption of applause. I overheard another student’s commentary on the performance: “If she killed me, it would be an honor.”

Yuki Matsuri provides windows into a large variety of aspects of Japanese culture, from the lively to the solemn. Many cultural organizations at Wellesley host flagship events like this, open to the student body free of charge. A bite of non-Wellesley fresh food may be the hook, but these shows are a meaningful part of the college’s experience. They offer some Wellesley students a chance to celebrate their culture, while others get to learn about a culture shared by many of their sibs. 

The Great Minnesota Get-Together

Feature Report

The State Fair is Minnesota’s version of a pilgrimage. For the past 150 years, hundreds of thousands of Minnesotans have journeyed to the fairgrounds to celebrate a sacred and time-honored tradition: stuffing one’s face with food, then running around to see what else the fair has to offer. The State Fair has something for everyone, and families can let go and enjoy themselves.

As a kid, I thought the fair had the best of everything: amazing food, barns full of animals, exhilarating amusement park rides, and fun-filled parades. This sensory overload, heightened by the scents of the fair, was heavenly; each year presented a new variation of the multi-layered aroma of mini-donuts and cheese curds. For lunch, my sisters, brother, and I got Pronto Pups and ran around the fair in our tie-dye shirts, corn dogs in hand. Food was a religion on its own: we saw people eat alligator-on-a-stick, spam burgers, and chocolate chip cookie beer to prove their piousness. My childhood favorite was the Sweet Martha’s stand, where they sell buckets of freshly-made chocolate chip cookies that pair perfectly with a cup of all-you-can-drink milk (from the cow). For a kid, this milk and cookies combo is the closest we can get to seeing the divine. Looking back, I am unsure if the fair truly lived up to its many superlatives, or if my childhood self simply saw the world through rose-colored glasses. Now that I’m older, I don’t notice the cotton candy-perfumed air, but the overpowering smell of farm animals instead. The food I once loved –sweet, savory, fried, on a stick– causes my stomach to churn. And although I still love chocolate chip cookies and milk, I no longer desire to eat a bucket full of them in one sitting without a Lactaid handy. They say gluttony is a sin. Not for kids at the State Fair. 

When I was young, I was oblivious to the downsides of navigating a fairground full of thousands of people. Now, meandering through the fair, milkshake in hand, I notice parents calculate exactly how much sugar is too much to give their child and the packs of teenage girls roaming around looking for their next Instagram pic. I know I graduated from the ranks of child to adult when the barns full of farm animals no longer appealed to me. As a kid, I loved running around the livestock-filled barns, giving a prayer to the animals on their judgement day of skill or beauty. My siblings and I became pros at sneaking a few affectionate pats of the various farm animals when no one was looking, petting the animals without any thought to washing our hands after. At the fair as an adult, I make sure to bring hand-sanitizer. 

The afternoon parade concludes each day, where all the fair attendees in attendance assemble to watch marching bands and Princess Kay of the Milky Way (crowned via a uniquely Minnesotan pageant competition) dance or float their way through the fair. Crowds line up on the sides of streets that criss-cross the fairgrounds, the mingled scents of sunscreen, sweat, and afternoon fatigue perfuming the air. As a kid, the bubble of optimistic youthfulness protected me from focusing on the negative parts of the parade. The heat, crowds of people, and noise didn’t bother me, all I cared about was being acknowledged by Princess Kay. She’s the closest thing the Minnesota State Fair has to a saint, with a commissioned bust made out of butter on display at the fair. The logistics and hygiene of maintaining a butter sculpture in 90 degree heat never crossed my mind as a child, but go without saying through the eyes of an adult. 

Now, I look back on this yearly pilgrimage and question if it really was that fun after all. There are a lot of great parts of Minnesota to explore instead –one of the 10,000 lakes, the bustling music and food scene of the Twin Cities, and the state’s reputation for Minnesota-Nice– so why did my family insist on attending a crowded, smelly, overpriced fair with four kids in tow? I think it’s because of the deep tradition and faith inherent to any pilgrimage – why else would you embark on a long, arduous journey? Going to the Great Minnesota Get-Together represents something sacred for Minnesotans. I’m sure I will find myself bringing my kids to the State Fair in years to come, hoping to see the fair as I once did, through the eyes of a child.

What the Fluff?

Feature Report

What the Fluff?: A Tribute to Union Square Innovation, more casually known as The Fluff Festival, is an annual celebration of Fluff in Somerville, Massachusetts. In 1917, the confectioner Archibald Query invented Fluff — the spreadable marshmallow creme — in Union Square. He developed the recipe in his kitchen before selling it door-to-door. But the festival didn’t begin until 2005 when a non-profit dedicated to economic development and historical preservation in the neighborhood created it; now it draws about 15,000 people. The organizers ask for community input in choosing the theme from year to year and Somervillens have yet to fail. They’ve thought of “Fluff Travels” where all roads lead to Fluff, and a “Fluff the 13th” centered around all things magical and slightly superstitious. The festival features newer inventors in a part of the square called Innovation Alley, alongside the invention of Mr. Query

Each year, they highlight a few local innovators, but the main action of the festival happens on and in front of the stage. The open space in the square that occasionally transforms into a farmer’s market throughout the year, hosts the stage now. There are a range of activities to entice the crowd, such as a Fluff joust and a Fluff hair do contest. While watching the joust it is impossible to stay clean. When the jousters whack their Fluff covered pool noodles, it’s with victory in mind — not the tidiness of their audience. Once, a nicely sized dollop of Fluff hit my cheek and I could feel it slowly sliding down my face. With no napkins in sight, I scooped as much Fluff off my face as I could and ate it — a surprise treat! As contestants mold the hair or beard of their partner, a chorus of hoots and cheers fills the air. In this activity, it’s only the participants who get Fluff all over themselves. Festival attendees roam the square to the sound of live music played by local bands. In between sets, other groups take the stage; The Flufferettes, a Rockette inspired group, are a crowd favorite that put on a show every year. 

Every business in the square integrates Fluff into a temporary new menu item. While peanut butter and Fluff is the typical combination, there’s a cooking contest for original recipes. There are signs featuring these creations everywhere that change every year: Want a sip of port with a dollop of Fluff on top? Have a hankering for Fluff perogies? Care for a fluffle, a chocolate peanut butter Fluff truffle? Biting into a Fluff pierogi was a contradiction of the senses. Despite knowing that the change to the traditional recipe would make the pierogi sweet, it was a surprise when my first bite didn’t leave a savory taste behind. My friends jabbered at me, insisting on each taking a bite. As the pierogi made its round, each bite left either a wrinkle of the nose or a considering look on my friends’ faces. 

The first time I went to the Fluff Festival was the third weekend of September in my sophomore year of high school. My friends and I walked around the transformed Union Square, checking out the giant stage, the Fluff-related swag stall, and other vendors. I saw people of all ages in the surrounding crowd: toddlers running around the stalls in a game of tag, while their parents chased them with outstretched arms; groups of loud, slouching teenagers touring the festival; kids lined up in assembly lines preparing and selling Fluffernutter sandwiches. Children took part in the activities with shrieks of laughter, while parents juggled plates of food and cups of beer. My friends and I were observers; yet, it was virtually impossible to explore this festival without getting sticky. Everything you could come in contact with momentarily glued your skin to its surface. There was no leaning on railings or putting your elbows on a table without a grossed out groan. From afar a flash of a fuzzy pink sweater caught my eye. I turned just in time to see a toddler climb onto a picnic table and rub her sweater all over the Fluff covered table. Even from my distance, I could see that the table had a visible layer of Fluff: appearing sleekly  white rather than wooden. The toddler’s gurgles of laughter called the attention of her mom, who stood there frozen, staring agape at her daughter. When she approached, her daughter attempted to give her a hug, but she kept the child at bay with a palm to the forehead. The toddler looked pleased with her newly pink and white dotted sweater, while the mother seemed to be going through an accelerated version of the seven stages of grief. 

During the festival I took part in unusual, but exciting activities with my fellow Somervillens. It’s a time to let loose, and do things that you don’t normally do. When else will you have a chance to be covered in Fluff from head-to-toe?

Big Fat Indian Wedding

Feature Report

I adjusted my camera lens to capture the spectacle of the wedding ceremony. The sacred fire lay in the center of the stage. Hot ribbons of light danced in synchronization with the rhythm of the feet marching around it. The bride and the groom held hands. Her hand-embroidered crimson ghaghra (ornamental skirt) and his embellished ivory kurta (collarless shirt) were tied together by a thread as they went seven times round the fire, each one signifying a different marital vow. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the groom attempting to trip the bride. She reciprocated by subtly stepping on his foot. Of course, all that the camera captured was the seamless marriage ceremony.

At the same time, the pundit’s (priest) chants reverberated through the tall ceilings of the hall. I zoomed in on his wrinkled face, adorned with his long, white beard. The creases on his forehead deepened and a vein popped in his neck as he recited mantras with conviction. In the Sanskrit language, he prayed for the lifelong well-being of the couple. Clearly, he had performed this ceremony a thousand times. Guests watched him reverently. Hidden beneath the pile of flowers was a piece of paper with the words scribbled on it. I watched attentively as the pundit eyed it every so often to ensure he was sticking to the script. No one else paid attention.

They say that a Hindu marriage is between two families, rather than two individuals; the 1200-person turnout attested to the truth of this. As relatives and companions conversed amicably, I captured wide grins, firm handshakes and warm embraces. Behind the cordiality of public faces, I spotted not-so-subtle scowls, cheeky tittle-tattle, exasperated eye-rolls. In a hall full of people who are outwardly affectionate to each other, who is to know how many mothers had to explain to their children that the woman they just hugged is their father’s second cousin’s daughter-in-law?

I took a wide-angle shot of the buffet before the crowd moved off in different directions: children at the pasta counter, twenty-year-olds at the chaat (street food) counter, old diabetic men at the dessert counter. With a shallow-depth-of-field shot, I captured the chicken tikka which looked cooked to perfection, its edges slightly burnt. When families look through wedding photos years hence, the quarrelsome vegetarian grandmother who demanded a pristine, meatless pan be used to cook her food will be nowhere apparent. 

It was time for the bride’s private photoshoot. I focused my camera to capture the intricate mehendi (henna tattoo), reaching from her fingers to above her elbows. Somewhere hidden in this design was her husband’s name; it is said to be good luck if he can spot it. Large sets of red and white bangles clung to both her wrists. If only I could capture on film the tension I felt in the room. The bride had just emerged victorious from a yelling contest with her stylist: they could not agree on which way to pin up her dupatta (ornamental scarf). Camera at my side, I watched silently as the stylist left the room, his face flushed with anger.

 I spotted the dynamic duo who was behind this entire ceremony: the wedding planners. The one-woman-one-man pair covered all the bases. Dressed elegantly in western formals, they held a glass each of Bombay Sapphire on the rocks. Eyes gleaming with pride, they watched as their designs became reality. Gracefully, they bridge the gap between the world in front of the camera and the world behind, for one cannot exist without the other. They had delivered what they’d promised, a spectacular production, one that both families would relive, thanks to the photo albums passed down from one generation to another. I looked more closely. The knowing looks on their faces concealed the series of calamities leading to this grand event: countless arguments amongst family members, constant haggling with the caterers, multiple altering sessions with the designers. 

Mediators between the disparate worlds on the two sides of the camera lens, the wedding planners witness all aspects of Indian culture: the most infuriating and the most exciting. 

Over the Rainbow

Feature Report

I dug a stray piece of chunky glitter out of the corner of my eye, squeezed it shut, and opened. For a moment, there were only streaks of color: black, pink, gold. I was standing in the midst of thousands of people dressed in the colors suggested by the organizers of the first ever Queer Liberation March. It was June 30 in New York City, exactly 50 years after the Stonewall Riots. 

One avenue over, New York City was hosting “World Pride”— every two years, World Pride is held in a new city, kind of like the Olympics. In Manhattan, the biggest parade of rainbows yet drew out millions of people. My friends and I had devised a best-of-both-worlds plan: we’d spend the morning spent marching in protest at the QLM, then meet other friends that afternoon at the mainstream Pride parade to celebrate and collect free condoms and Capital One Bank rainbow phone wallets. 

Once we arrived at the March that morning, however, I didn’t want to leave. People in outfits that could only be described as protest art filled the streets: jean jackets embroidered with the names of transgender women of color murdered that year alone,  meticulously painted “ACAB” makeup paired with elaborate drag outfits, spray painted “gays against guns” tee shirts. My friends and I took a spot in the lineup next to a group with a banner reading “No Pride for some of us without Liberation for all of us.” We chanted, sang, and marched. I recognized signs with vintage slogans from the first Christopher Street Liberation Day Parade in 1970.

The marchers hadn’t registered for the event; no cumbersome check-ins or barricades had been set up. Forty thousand people simply organized and congregated at the famous Stonewall Inn and walked all the way uptown on Sixth Avenue. This was intentional: we followed the original route of the 1970 march and travelled in the opposite direction of the 2019 Pride Parade (The Parade, Pride™, of course, travels downtown on Fifth Ave, best known for its expensive shopping). At intersections, volunteers in official shirts linked arms to prevent traffic from colliding with demonstrators in a show of support and solidarity. The activist collective that organized the event, Reclaim Pride Coalition, has a website which explains: “We March in our communities’ tradition of resistance against police, state, and societal oppression, a tradition that is epitomized and symbolized by the 1969 Stonewall Rebellion.” They did not seek official recognition by the City or the false “protection” of police presence. They chose instead to return to the classic call to action: “Out of the sidewalks, into the streets.” 

We reluctantly left the March and arrived at World Pride. When we got there, barricades kept us from joining the parade and forced spectators to congregate on the sidewalks in huge crowds. NYPD officers not only guarded the barricades, directing us through circuitous routes to simply cross the street, but were marching themselves. Cop cars with details repainted in rainbow drove along behind a corporate float that threw freebies (flags, whistles, basically any rainbow-covered object) onto the sidewalks. This was unsettling, especially given that the Stonewall Riots, supposedly honored that year by the theme “World Pride: Stonewall 50,” were riots directed against police raids. Homophobic, transphobic, and racist officers of the NYPD had been the cause of the original revolution; now they were in it. The Riots were about liberation from an actively violent State and system.  The Queer Liberation March foregrounds Liberation. The Pride Parade is now generic, largely apolitical, and commodified.

Attending Pride after the QLM felt different from previous years; it felt empty. Beyond the sea of rainbows that, yes, was beautiful, there was nothing but a terrible irony. Almost every float in the parade belonged to a corporation. T-Mobile had a hot pink float, and one person in a rainbow “T” shirt ran to the barricade with a tiny flag emblazoned with the logo in the left corner. They smiled at me expectantly, and I accepted it. I wanted it to feel like taking a gift from a friend, to go home and place it on my corkboard as a memento, but it only felt like a symbol of complacency. I was being bought. I stared at the floats of unreasonably happy people, celebrating a sanitized idea of progress that I couldn’t help but see as false and incomplete. Pride™ seemed content to ignore the unresolved issues my community faces. The Queer Liberation March confronted them head on, in both celebration and anger. That was something to be proud of.

 

Rounds in Ronda

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My parents and I had just settled into the cafe when the first bull turned the corner. He was led, none too gently, to a shaded spot in front of the closest church—there were four in this plaza alone—and before our drinks touched the tabletop, a second bull was standing next to him. 

We stared openly at the animals. It was our first day in Ronda and only a week into our trip in Spain. After spending a semester abroad, I was enjoying showing my parents around towns I had visited during my studies. The square we sat in was abandoned except for my family, the bulls, and the man who had walked them over. He scrolled through his phone, glancing up every now and then to see if the animals had moved. But they remained dozy and docile. 

Suddenly, there was a bright rattling and the tinkling of bells. A beautiful little cart, painted white and decorated with flowers, emerged from over the hill, pulled by a pickup truck. The sharp contrast of dusty mechanics and carefully maintained woodwork resembled a heavily pierced grandson leading his lace-covered grandmother up into the square.  Truck and cart came to a gentle halt in front of us and I saw an intricate, looping religious monstrance perched in the middle of all the fresh flowers and bells. Constructed almost like a chandelier, it held a painting of Mary, Mother of Jesus, floating in a gilded frame. I’d seen elaborate, gilded displays like this before but had no context for this one. Were they preparing for a religious festival? I lifted my iPhone to film it and found that it felt strange to do so. As if I were peering through a kaleidoscope into the past; each facet clear but unreadable as a whole. The plaza fell silent once again.

And then the church doors swung wide open.

 In an instant, the Plaza Duquesa de Parcent was echoing with church bells and rapid-fire Spanish. It was like a spell had been broken; the quiet mountain town burst into vibrant life. Locals carrying flowers emerged into the sunlight dressed in jewel-toned ruffles and dark velvet. Women, men, and children swarmed the square. They chatted, laughed and, as men with dark wooden guitars appeared, danced. Some carried ornate staves made of ancient, holy silver and wore stoles. But instead of setting a solemn, reserved tone, the religious ornaments only evoked more joyous shouts and music. The sharp contrast between ceremony and informality was everywhere: though those who held the artifacts were careful with their special charges, they ate olives and chatted with friends in cafes. A man on horseback in a black flat-brimmed hat accepted sips of beer from his friends who relaxed below him. Women fussed with their bright, polka-dotted trajes gitanas the same way I had fussed with my prom dresses. People lounged against the delicate cart, mere inches away from the bulls.

 The gathering was so foreign and yet so familiar. Everyone seemed to know everyone. If not for a trickle of other foreigners on the outskirts of the crowd, my parents and I would’ve felt like wedding crashers. It was an ancient ceremony, a concert, a family reunion, and a block party rolled into one. As the dancing picked up, you didn’t have to understand the language to see blooming romances and love triangles. People took videos and photos and I wondered how they used to record the events of the festivities. A few sun-drenched minutes passed quite slowly, as they often did in Spain. Then, with a rumble, the pick-up truck drove away and the bulls were hitched to the cart in its stead. Without ceremony or signal, the cart moved off. People followed its glacial pace, beers in hand, singing and laughing at each other. 

To this day, I have no clue what celebration we witnessed. Many fairs and festivals pop up across the south of Spain in late May and early June, though this one seems to have no name or Wikipedia page. These celebrations are older than the governments that organize them and they refuse to disappear. Some say participating in the religious festivities of Spain is like traveling back in time. Actually, they are a modern manifestation of a proud history; part pilgrimage, part fair, all joy. They are uniquely ‘now’.

The Frieze New York Red Carpet: May 2018

Feature Report

For the eighth consecutive year, New York City’s very own Randall’s Island this May hosts  one of the leading art fairs of the world: the Frieze Art Fair. For eight days, Randall’s Island gets an exponentially increasing amount of traffic as posh gallerists, underpaid interns, avant-garde artists, eager collectors and dedicated art lovers  from all over the world and from just around the corner, leave their permanent or temporary Manhattan homes to swap one island for another. The fair’s look is deceptive. The tent that houses the 190-odd  galleries and god-knows-how-many artworks worth go-knows-how-many millions looks alarmingly vulnerable to New York weather. Winds could rip it off the ground sending all the artwork to the four corners of the world. Rain could flatten it to the ground, flooding each and every hall. Inside, you enter a different world. The tent lacks windows, and its fake walls simulate the look of a white-walled gallery. That ambiance along with the bevy of artworks and people makes you forget that you are in fact in a tent, on Randall’s Island. Like when you’re at the theater and watching something that really draws you in and you don’t realize it until the thing is over and you have to go outside and see the real world again, the world you actually inhabit. 

The fair itself lasts five days. The other three are for setup and takedown, the last day reserved strictly for hangovers. The public can only visit the fair for three of these five days: Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Private previews are held on Wednesdays and Thursdays. If Thursday is for the Very Important People—the distinguished ones who purchase their tickets and status online—then Wednesday is for the V.V.I.Ps. Tickets for this preview can’t be bought. You get them by being or knowing someone. To join the Wednesday preview you are either invited by a gallery, a gallerist, the Frieze Director himself, or you’re lucky enough to have a confidante inside with a pass to spare. Although more of a networking social event than a sales-heavy workday, the Wednesday opening is the most important performance—it’s all theater.

On Wednesday, the fair opens at 11:00 a.m.  Collectors will be there starting at 11:30. Art consultants, art-critics and art-world socialites at 12:30. Gallerists have been there since 10. Interns since 8:30. By the time the doors open, everyone who is already inside has adopted and perfected their multiple personas. If you need to invent a Grandma from Cordoba to connect with a Spanish buyer, you invent a Grandma from Cordoba.  The story of your persona can’t be completely fictional, but your personal connection to the world you’re attempting to impress definitely can. Organization, adaptability, indifference to change and nerves of steel are de rigueur for both employees and employers on this Wednesday 

The higher one’s position, the more room there is for tardiness and the less for faux-pas. Being late? Totally acceptable—the work can fall back on someone else. Wearing the wrong shade of green with the wrong shade of blue? A mistake on the order of original sin. 

Directors can be found taking extra-long smoke breaks on the patio next to the trendy Brooklyn-based pop-up restaurants, approaching clients and avoiding being approached by demanding and unsolicited artists. Interns and assistants are usually found inside, talking up their pieces, networking—but not too obviously in case the boss finds out. As the experts deftly make their moves, the rookies are expected to take enough mental notes to fill a whole legal pad. They’ll soon be thrown into the deep end of the pool. One of them always looks busy—but they’re keeping one ear attuned to the conversation, ready to jump in at any point. Transactions are made as fast as collectors move. Some collectors are more interesting than others, some are more interested, some are more interested but less interesting. As the halls fill up with Balenciaga sneakers and Dior saddlebags—both very in season—their owners need to be categorized, organized, processed and approached in the correct manner.  If all is done with wit and humor, the transaction is a success. 

When people say a lot can happen in a day, they’re referring to the Wednesday preview. As with any other aspect of life in New York, the pace does not slow down or allow for stops. Breaks are not truly breaks, they’re work in a casual context. The glamour of it all makes both buyers and sellers forget they are exhausted, until the speakers announce “It is now 7pm. The fair is closed” and everyone leaves Randall’s island as eagerly as they left Manhattan.  On Thursday, they’ll be back for more.