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Avenue. The name alone evokes so many velocities, dynamics, flows, celerities, movements, grooves, lines of both flight and scission, and perhaps most importantly: certain visions and functionalities that oscillate between two continents, between the old world and the new. The word derives from the French, avenir—“arrive,” “approach”— simultaneously fleeing from and closing in on, one almost imperceptibly thinks of the Parisian boulevards and avenues, centuries worth of slim, intellectual elegance, as well as the mythic insurrectional energies of May ’68. Wilding out in the streets—and at the beaches beneath. At the same time, one’s mind travels to the modern metropolis of New York City, its gridded cityscape—the crypto-blueprint of the stone cold minimalism that sprung forth from the vibrant, abstract expressionism of 1950s NYC—its dreams and aspirations, “the Avenue of the Americas,” as if the continents of the Wild Frontier somehow could carry—not unlike how the off the grid athlete in a Lower East Side playground, with a flawless ease, carries the skilled second skin styles of the lower alphabet avenues, the unfulfilled dreams and decisions of an Europe of yore, a territory exhausted by its own weight and unmoored history. As if the dermatologics of a certain sportswear of a super-restrained efficacy and gracefulness extends and pre-wires the very mind-body circuit. Hyperbole after hyperbole. Subdued by the remnants of an imaginary legacy of aristocrat Europe. Falling deeper than deep. Somehow we should not, or would not, miss the point to carry on. The super manic avenue breathes, perspires, and devours its many dreams.

Peter Amdam