I love masquerades, and I love a good disguise. In college, I attended a ball with a homemade cardboard mask and was irked to realize people could still recognize me. As a child, I would film my own dramatic monologues and had a habit of chronically lying to unassuming friends about fairies and famous siblings that did not exist. I have always loved non-linear paths and performance. I love to flirt, joke, glance askance, and catch someone’s lopsided smile. Dalí, Bowie, and Lynch are my heroes, for their art but even more for the way they moved about in the world.
Ever since I was young, I sought new worlds. It is the glory of God to conceal; the glory of kings to search it out. My favorite stories involved tunnels and secret passages into hidden worlds. Maybe this is why moving from the bustling corners of Seoul to the American suburbs felt like a silent death to me. Though I did not register it at the time, my subconscious must have felt it like the death of possibility. I would bike around the carefully delineated paths in my neighborhood in circles, skirting the perfectly manicured lawns and parking lots, looking for one place to have an adventure, some forest or a single cafe, unable to go anywhere without a car. The biggest entertainment was the giant sculpted cumulus clouds and blazing sunsets.
Unlike the suburbs, the city held new vocabulary for me, ideas I could not imagine on my own. I would go to a restaurant in an abandoned warehouse and take a train trolley. In the dimly lit room, waiters would come around with spaghetti and Italian sodas. A man would make balloon animals for children. I would turn a corner with my family and see a small plaza with clustered buildings, and under a big Roman arch, a sunny spot to have Mac-n-cheese seared at the top and served in its own mini cast-iron skillet. A superficial critique would judge eight year old me superficial and vain, only seeking what is ‘expensive.’ Adults repeat the mantra to grow up, and children stop pretending to be something they’re not when they grow older.
I am reminded of the scene in Parasite when the basement dweller recalls swaying to vinyl records in the sun-filled atrium. Art is something every human soul hungers for and demands, the way that a plant gravitates toward sunlight. Certainly, many experiences in the city tend to be more expensive, but what makes them beautiful is not the price tag but the thought and precision that goes into presenting the ordinary facts of life. There are many faceless establishments and corporations. In the city, where there are smaller groups and independent attempts at businesses, there are more opportunities for exploration and revelation. In the suburbs, everything is laid out for miles. In that city, turning a couple of blocks can reveal a completely new character and style.
Boston is full of disguises, but disguises that fall away to reveal something unexpected and real, as opposed to the deflating illusion of Oz. Perhaps it is the natural evolution of roads from horse paths that make the meandering streets so prone to possibility, or the careful preservation of historical oddities. Maybe it’s as it always is with cities, the consortium of individuals from diverse backgrounds and experiences, passionate for different things, and institutions that support pursuits in both science and art. My new piano teacher in the city once said he chose Boston because it is research-oriented, not product-based. People come here to tinker around. As a scientist who has somehow managed to hold onto her primary passion for music, I can see this is the case. Nothing invigorates me more than seeing someone biking down Somerville Avenue with a guitar slung back around the back or walking through Kendall Square and seeing the stretch of science and research institutes. Even better, I walk down Main Street and see a cartoon building with crumpled walls and asymmetric planes, like something out of a Dr. Seuss story, someone says. I later look up the name—the Ray and Maria Stata Center. It feels like home.