From the Balkans to the Ocean

Guided by the second part of its motto, “from the Balkans to the Ocean,” the Art Press Caravan landed on the soil of the USA.

The first part of the slogan, from “Triglav to the Vardar,” coined on 25 May 2012, came to life and now rides across the former Yugoslavia, fulfilling its mission.

The full, conquering name of the slogan — “from Triglav to the Vardar, from the Balkans to the Ocean” — was prophetically translated into reality and ceased to exist merely as a spoken sentence. It became the helmsman of the caravan, deciding toward which part of the world to set off. A prophet who clears our paths in the very order in which each word was spoken. Those words came alive and became our travelling companions, a trademark that predetermines the roads we will travel, revealing to us that this caravan of ours knows no borders and acknowledges no constraints. It recognises freedom of movement and the wanderer’s urge that sometimes spontaneously carries us further than we had dreamed and expected, because we surrendered to it. It is that smouldering joy of adventure that awaits us and that we feel in the air. Our lungs and nostrils widen, and our eyes take on that gleam of infectiously good spirits.

We recognised the wonder of a precognitive slogan in which every word had its prophetic tremor that miraculously poured into a prophecy fulfilled in waking life.

The wondrous voyage aboard the cruise ship “Independence of the Seas” from Florida, from Fort Lauderdale across the ocean, through the Caribbean Sea to Grand Cayman, Jamaica and Haiti, had its prelude in Belgrade, in a hotel, organised by “The Economist magazine” from London. The theme of the conference was “The World in 2014,” and it was a symbolic announcement of what befell the Art Press Caravan in 2015. Namely, the founder, and at this gathering also the representative of the caravan, Slavica Hinić, left the organisers a business card of our project for the drawing of a prize trip from Florida to the Caribbean. Interestingly, another 500 participants had submitted their business cards. An hour before the end of the conference, Slavica had a guest appearance on a city television station, and she was deliberating whether to go home. Her phone rang. Someone was asking about the conference. It then occurred to her that she might return to the hotel to attend the closing remarks and the prize drawing. When she entered the hall, the conference had ended, and the ceremony of drawing the winning business card had already been carried out. All that remained was to announce the name of the winner and the project. Arriving late, Slavica did not manage to take a seat, nor to feel that vibrating tension in the air created by the anticipation of the winner’s announcement, and her name and the name of the Art Press Caravan were read out while she was still walking in.

They called her to climb onto the stage and collect the prize. Hearing her name, she spontaneously continued toward the organisers. Somehow she did not even manage to be surprised. Everything unfolded in a flash, as if on a conveyor belt. As if it were a natural sequence of events. If a person pauses for a moment and puts a finger to their forehead, it cannot be interpreted any other way.

When Slavica announced the joyful news to me, a torrent of childlike joy washed over us. We realised that a wonder had entered the reality of our life. We always rejoice in the freshness of a miraculous event when routine surrenders the reins to a loftier and more creative course of life. We accepted this wondrous winning of the prize trip as God’s wind at the back of our creative child, the Art Press Caravan.

The cosmic concurrence of circumstances meant to soar from the Balkans to the ocean, so that the prophecy of the motto — which reads exactly so — might be entirely fulfilled.

It was expected that we would land in Florida and set off straight for the cruise, but the Art Press Caravan, carried by the wave of a pleasant surprise, continued to sail along a path of unexpected adventures. Before the cruise we had a seven-day tour of New York.

The official friend of the caravan, the New York native Brian C., whom we had met in Belgrade, had a few months before we won the prize trip invited us to be his guests on the occasion of a successfully completed piece of business that took place in our capital. We thanked him for the offer, telling him that if some occasion should bring us to America, only in that case would we accept his hospitality. At that time, no reason for a trip to America was in sight. Our acquaintance with Brian was an omen of the wondrous life coincidences to come, which only the Cosmic Director can arrange so well. From seemingly unconnected everyday life situations, the thread of meaningfully connected events and acquaintances was invisibly woven, which led to the birth of a wondrous adventure in which the Art Press Caravan toured five countries in fifteen days.

The former Wolf of Wall Street was delighted when we informed him that a reason for a trip to America had arisen. His surprise knew no bounds when we told him that the cruise departs from Fort Lauderdale. When we asked him, “What is unusual about that?”, he replied: “Is it possible that your ship sets sail from the very same city and harbour where my stepfather Ray lives? Do you know how likely it is for such a thing to happen? Out of all of America, that everything should fall into place so harmoniously?” We sincerely rejoiced in this new synchronicity, incomprehensible to logic. He led us on yet another departure from routinely trodden paths onto unmarked routes, unexplored by us, which call out to be discovered. Brian added: “The signs along the road tell us that Ray too should welcome you a day or two before sailing. You will be his guests too, on my recommendation.” Brian is literally a man of the world, yet ours. Belgrade draws him more than New York. Blood is not water. This New York native was born of a woman who is a leaf of our forest.

Indian by his father, a Belgrader at heart, by his way of life from the inner-city “circle two,” and by his style and manner of thinking it is clear that he gained his knowledge and experience on Wall Street. A man of such mettle immediately grasped the noble mission of the Art Press Caravan, the acquaintance of different cultures. Brian carries within himself the cultures of the world and their bringing-together. Built that way, he recognised himself as a natural part of our caravan, becoming its branch across the ocean, our extended arm reaching to New York and Florida.

The trip to America and the Caribbean islands, leaning from one wonder onto another, took on clearer contours.

Recognising the divine intentions that were manifesting upon our caravan, we found ourselves in the heart of Manhattan. The host and friend of the caravan provided us with accommodation in an apartment in the immediate vicinity of Union Square. The first walk through Manhattan was around this square. It is a larger plaza that has its own strong life energy. Everything happens simultaneously. You don’t know where to look first! In one corner, five young people, dressed as Buddhist monks, sit on the ground playing a pleasant melody that draws you inward, toward yourself. It is lovely, but everything around you, the atmosphere reigning over Union Square, awakens your attention to external circumstances. We move on; just 20 metres from the musicians, several people are playing chess on three boards, tables. Absorbed in their game, seen from the side they are an excellent backdrop, given that right beside them three young men and one young woman juggle two footballs at the same time. Masters — I did not see them lose control of the balls. A little further on the same plaza, drawn by the booming voice of a man, we come to an eccentric orator who reminds people of their weaknesses and conveys God’s messages, finding support for them in the Bible. The charade exuded by this square, where it seems that every behaviour is permitted and free, is completed by a man with long hair and a beard, bared to the waist. In his appearance he resembles Jesus Christ. He performs a kind of comic show that always ends with the same message, whatever he is doing. It goes: “Listen to your heart always and everywhere and you will feel an inexpressible peace.”

An unexpectedly serious message in relation to the holy-fool appearance of the man who utters it and to the unseriousness of the performance. And therein lies the trick — one had to have the curiosity and patience to wait for it. The appearance of the people striding across the square, their different styles of dress, all human races and colours — we saw on this incredible plaza, to which, quite symbolically, on the basis of all we saw, the name Union — community — belongs. Surreal was the scene in which, beside the comedian who resembles Jesus, two men pass dressed in traditional Jewish clothing with large top hats on their heads, like two rabbis. From somewhere, talkative Asian tourists appear, photographing all of it furiously with grins from ear to ear. Those in the know say that this square is like an image of New York in miniature. The world in a mirror. We left Union Square to continue acquainting ourselves with the city. Not much time passed before, with the naked eye, we managed to see that New York is supranational, rich with all nations, with people from all parts of the world.

If a capital of the world were to be chosen, by all parameters that honour would belong to this cosmopolitan giant.

Our host came up with an excellent idea, enabling us to get to know the city by double-decker bus.

In that way we passed through all of New York. Many impressions in a single day, given that we had both a daytime and a nighttime tour. We had a picture of the city as a whole. Through a full day of getting to know the city on wheels, we saw, in small spoonfuls, all the landmarks, neighbourhoods, museums, parks, famous buildings and streets that should be visited and felt. After such an experience, we knew exactly what we wanted to see and precisely where it was located. Let us go in order. The fascination with the multitude of skyscrapers, which look as if they were designed in the 22nd century, did not cease. We had the impression that we were looking at cosmic towers built through time travel, lowered and handed over to the present time. Passing through Greenwich Village, the West Village and SoHo, New York gained in colour from our perspective. There we could see buildings of a few storeys, touching the time of old New York from the thirties, forties and fifties of the last century. The “Madame Tussauds” museum we touched only visually, in motion. Bryant Park attracted us with magnetic energy and beauty. When we came closer to it, it became clear to us why. On one side it leans onto a street with a name so familiar to us. Nikola Tesla led us, by invisible threads, to a street radiating his name. Delighted by the unexpected discovery of Tesla’s street, we warmed our hearts with a quiet contentment that spread into gentle smiles on our faces. A healthy pride seized us that “far away there” we were walking down the street of a renowned Serb, our countryman who illuminated the planet. That corner of streets joining Bryant Park we experienced as close and our own, so we jokingly called it “our neighbourhood.” In the following days we passed through “our neighbourhood” several times, but more on that later, since the short break from sightseeing the city on wheels had expired. We had to continue on.

Our attention was drawn to Madison Square Garden, which we sped through, but even that was enough for it to engrave itself in our memory.

We were lucky that there was a traffic jam while we were passing through Times Square.

The reason? Picturesque, colourful, full of colours and life. Perhaps for someone’s taste too glittery, but here the asphalt pulsed with strong vibrations radiating optimism. You cannot pass through Times Square without a smile springing to your face. We had barely passed through the said square when, in an instant, we transformed our facial expression from a smile into curious astonishment. We realised a second later that it came from our gaze fixed on the famous Empire State Building. Still not recovered from these impressions, the road led us into the charm and shine of Broadway’s streets, teeming with people full of motivation whom New York seems to whip with additional energy, which they sorely need in this cosmopolitan giant. Every part of New York has its own distinctiveness and colour, an invisible layer that characterises it, and we became directly convinced of this passing through Little Italy and Chinatown. Some of the inhabitants of these neighbourhoods have been here for decades, and still use their mother tongue. They created their own lives according to their taste and acquired habits, brought from the homeland. They created for themselves such surroundings in which there is no place for a feeling of nostalgia. When you pass through these parts of New York, you have the impression that you are in China or Italy, which can be compared to the sight of a garden full of lavish flowers in all colours. A colour palette that takes your breath away. When we had passed this beauty of “separate statelets” in the City of Cities, we found ourselves in the Financial District, whose epicentre is on Wall Street. As if we had changed dimensions, and not a part of one city. This stretch is dominated by a mass of people clad in expensive suits. With serious faces and hurried movements, they seem to have founded some human species of their own, without even being aware of it.

Modern predators who have wrapped themselves in some energetically untouchable aura of inaccessibility. Having left this “Land of Businessmen,” the sight of the Hudson River cheered us. In the distance, the statue of the Statue of Liberty could be glimpsed.

The Art Press Caravan rounded off this exciting acquaintance with New York on wheels by passing alongside a complex of buildings. One among them stands out, and its name tells of it. They call it the United Nations building.

Getting to know New York on foot offered us deeper insights into the atmosphere and pulse of the metropolis. Walking down the avenues of Manhattan we could feel how the city breathes. People stride faster than usual. To them this is a normal walking pace, and we very quickly fell into step with the average citizen of Manhattan. We headed toward Central Park, and the way there was marked by an oddity that grew on me over time. As if some Balkan person had thought up a creative little ploy that caught on in the streets of Manhattan and spontaneously became a habit. At the first pedestrian crossing, a few people casually began to cross the street despite the big red pedestrian light. To make our surprise complete, the drivers took care of it, stopping their cars even though they had the right of way, letting the pedestrians carry out their forbidden intentions. In conversation with our hosts, we learned that this is an unwritten rule in New York. Already at the third or fourth pedestrian crossing on a red light, we became convinced of this New York custom. Realising that being in the role of a pedestrian in Manhattan is more prestigious than the role of a driver, at first timidly, over time ever more boldly, we embarked on the pedestrian adventure of crossing on a red pedestrian light. It all happens in the immediate presence of traffic police who tolerate everything, understanding that if they fine one, they must fine all the rest. Manhattan is a paradise for people who use the metro and their own legs. We noticed that the traffic police do not allow cars to stop on busy streets. So, one can barely manage to park a car “on all four.” We realised that by metro and on foot you reach your goal much faster in the heart of the metropolis, as in that instructive story of the hare and the tortoise. We began to enjoy the status of His Majesty the New York Pedestrian.

Not much time passed before we entered Central Park. Suddenly we exchanged avenues for forest, lakes, streams and fountains. If we were to regard New York as a person, here would be its lungs. You literally hear that true, healthy breathing of the city. An oasis of peace, serenity and the dominant, restful natural green colour rested us at once. From the rapid-fire New York streets and intersecting avenues, whether you want to or not, you pick up that unconscious tension and stress that something must be done as soon as possible and that you must get somewhere as soon as possible. The moment you enter Central Park, that harmful, illusory film falls away of its own accord. In this green anti-stress zone you realise that you are actually not in such a hurry as when you are surrounded by skyscrapers. You hear the chirping of birds as a symphony, while squirrels dart past you elusively. Everything lives and rejoices at the same time, so you watch not to disturb that natural harmony into which you have stepped and of which you are a part. We pass a little wooden bridge and watch people exercising in a group, drinking in oxygen. Painters giving free rein to the brush. Street singers freely releasing their vocal cords and old musicians with youthful movements. Going deeper, we stopped by a lake above which, instead of clouds, narrow and tall multicoloured architectural colossi loom, constantly growing. The view from the forest oasis offering this magnificent picture engraves itself invisibly into every pore of our being, turning into an indelible trace, an eternal memory stored within us. A postcard that we carry everywhere without fear, knowing that we cannot lose it.

With these extraordinary scenes and events from Central Park, the Art Press Caravan concludes the first part of the travelogue dedicated to New York. In the second instalment there will be talk of the parts of the city where the now-cult series “Sex and the City” was filmed. There will also be talk of how we found ourselves in New York at the very time of the opening of the “Tribeca” film festival, founded by Robert De Niro, the famous Hollywood actor who lives in the New York neighbourhood of the same name. A special treat is the nightlife of New York that we tasted thanks to the daughter of our director Petar Zec, who has lived in the “Big Apple” for a long time. About her and many other interesting personalities and adventures that befell us, you will learn in the next travelogue.