to this day, nothing. like a to-do list, for you, upon arrival: “turn on the a/c, watch cable, cook, sleep, take long showers, walk around the neighbourhood, look out of the window, do yoga on the floor, read. see you next week, enjoy the house. love, lucio”.apologies for laughing too much, laughing being a sign of rudeness in many societies or situations, as in when the extremely overweight man sitting diagonally behind her shows extraordinary deftness in suddenly leaning back to ask “can i borrow your jams?” in slightly nasally voice and she responds equally deftly with a smooth pass of basket of assorted flavours of single portion jams. from in front of her, slightly on her right side, wicker basket of assorted flavours of single portion jams, to behind her, on her left, the man places the full wicker basket of assorted flavours of single portion jams next to his own wicker basket, which has only two jams left. at least as realistic as one can manage in memory, quite sur real, it becomes a consistent source of unnecessary laughter amongst the jam passer and her friend, who have deftly managed to translate it into chinese: 我可以借你的jams吗? oh nothing.. from the press release for nothing, now at the schirn kunsthalle frankfurt: “Friedman shows 1,000 Hours of Staring (1992-1997), a sheet of paper stared at by the artist for one thousand hours, which marks an art process beyond the concept of the instantia tion of the stroke of genius or divine inspiration. The work reflects the labors of a persistence leading to nothing. When Friedman is asked if he really took the trouble of staring at the paper for one thousand hours and when he starts speaking about how he made a meditation of it and kept note of his working hours, this is almost too explicit and specific, curtailing the imagination. In the end, the white paper induces a reflection on time, which, however, is almost entirely left to the viewer by the artists. Nothing is only where you don’t see anything.”.How, may i ask, may one stop seeing? The falafal stand man at 44th and 6th speaks better English than I do. And so does his mother, as she pulls out the fat wad of bills to give me change. chicken on rice. medium? Four dollars.Business is good today. Just behind, the Cotton Club has come to Grace, under a tent, they play jumping jack jive. There’s – mmbgh- -, there’s -st- -ard. I love it when they announce their names after solos, but today their microphones aren’t amped up enough, only chunky mumbling under the music. More black people take chairs up front. more white construction workers with sunglasses and bandannas sit on the ledge at the back. And when did the gypsies come to New York? Three of them each take a section of the square, each holding a sign in their hands telling how many children they have and dire looks on their faces. She has a black handbag creased flat under her arm, as if it came from the box. That old box. She talks to the man with big dreads concealed under bulbous knit cap, an unmoving black fishbowl attached to his shaking head. A stern almost-frown for the dejected, almost-sexy gypsy woman.Grace security arrives. Three gypsy women walk away with slow, almost-sexy lumbering steps under long skirts. Another man says something to the security guard, who watches the women steadfastly to make sure they leave Grace. You feel he is yelling in her ear, he is bent towards her in a yelling sort of way, though you hear but the softest murmur above the big band. You are only a few feet away.To see someone yelling but hear nothing.Behind the giant potted amaryllises, Asian woman takes a photo of Cotton Club. She blocks the path for red-haired fashion associate, who carries in her hands large presentation boards for the upcoming season. Red-haired fashion associate stops abruptly and rolls her eyes until Asian woman notices her and moves aside. The presentation boards move clumsily but quickly into 1114 avenue of the americas, otherwise known as the Grace building. Baudrillard never had it this good. It’s lunch hour.