In contrast to the Dia foundation is the town of Beacon.
60 minutes north or so of New York City, Beacon is beautifully simple.
Surrounded by lush green exterior, a one high street, economically depressed, no mans land.
Not much happens in Beacon, a group of women sit in the Yankee Clipper diner discussing various ailments, diseases and viruses.
Relating their trips to the hospital, comparing doctors and the health of their friends.
The man working behind the counter in the petrol station doesn’t speak any English but simultaneously manages to grasp my request for the bathroom, restroom, toilet, WC, whilst serving someone paying for gas, whilst talking in Hindi to a customer on the phone.
His capacity for multi-tasking was admirable.
I ask a young man in a pizza parlor where I can get a beer.
His reaction was utter bemusement.
The experimental, bourgeois, bohemian, trendy, hipster days of Brooklyn are long behind me.
I wonder if Beacon; town is effected in anyway by Beacon; art ?
The two so utterly dislocated.
The monumental aspirations of the work in Dia holds so little time for inconsequential moments of banality of the hamlet.
Day nine - potentially humdrum and threadbare.