I've seen art jostle people in public space.

And in a very personal way,

I've watched in awe as it awoke someone very dear to me.

Since early 1980's, I've watched New Yorkers in public spaces,

in a variety of spaces: the streets, the sidewalks, the subways, the parks...

And what I've noticed is that

the majority of people are buried in the responsibilities,

More recently, transfixed by their cellphones.

Hypnotized by their routines.

And over the course of these observations,

I became passionate about the importance of public space.

It's where we gather, regardless of socioeconomic status,

race, gender, persuasion...

Public space is our space.

I have a pivotal memory from 1984, I'll never forget it.

Picture this, me, with hair.

(Laughter)

An asymmetrical cut, wearing a black ninja get-up.

I'm walking across 14th Street with a boombox on my shoulder

I hear the Herbie Hancock song "Rockit" playing on the radio

107.5 WBLS

Immediately, every electronic store on that street

and every person carrying a boombox tunes into that station.

That one song unifies 14th Street

There's spontaneous dancing, nodding of heads,

smiles saying "I feel it".

Undeniable, we all feel it.

We connect in that public space.

Now, also during this time in the 80's,

I became concerned about the nature of art

as it became more and more grossly commodified.

I visualize art and performance outside of the gallery or the theater.

Coming to life in the street.

I wanted to move art from a place of privilege

to a place of daily life ritual.

Where?

Instead of profit, the bottom of my margin is that "tingling" sensation,

where art regains its potential to wake up.

And don't get me wrong,

I'm totally pro-gallery, theater, museum.

But, hey, those places are well-covered.

In those spaces, it takes a certain level of comfort to enter.

But in public space, art can be shared and explored

with a more fully democratic audience.

And there, it opens up

the potential and the possiblities of creativity and communication.

Especially after 9/11, the constriction of public space,

in New York City and beyond, became more prevalent.

So, as a result, and as a response, I create art in odd places.

A thematic festival on Manhattan's 14th Street,

placing visual and performance art in public spaces without permits

Here's some examples:

Crystal Gregory poignantly places crochet in razor wire,

softening the harsh urban landscape.

Gretchen Vitamvas creates garments

inspired by the interior of the F train in the subway.

And "Camouflage", Yoonhye Park's performance,

brings attention to the mistreatment of women in North Korea.

Kara Dunn plays racketball in a public bathroom,

(Laughter)

blurring the lines between public and private.

In this street sign, Liz Linden references the billboard in the background.

Steve Rossi walks the length of 14th Street

with his version of the NEW corporate ladder.

(Laughter)

And this is me, another day at work.

(Laughter)

Art in odd places has evolved into a joyous form of passive resistance

against inertia and the status quo.

And over the last 10 years, I've been honored and privileged

to work with hundreds of brillant artists

to create opportunities for the unexpected,

to awaken the subconscious of urban dwellers

from a sleep of complacency,

to hopefully see their city and their lives in a new light,

to wake up.

Now, I'd like to share with you

how art woke up someone very dear to me.

This is a photo of my mom, at the beach, her favorite place.

Mom was my very best friend.

She had keen intuition and loved to laugh.

She was one of my strongest supporters as an artist,

even though she didn't really understand my work.

In 2002, she was diagnosed with multiple system atrophy.

A rare condition that causes widespread damage to the nervous system,

and over a period of time, shuts down the autonomic body functions.

In 2008, a stroke send her into full-blown dementia,

and when I visited the family home in McDonough, Georgia,

she didn't recognized me and was bed-ridden.

Delirious, screaming for the entire day. Over, and over again.

It was exausting, for my dad and for her caretakers.

One day, an idea pops into my head

to give her a pencil and a paper and ask her to draw.

I didn't know what would happen.

In my entire life, I'd never seen my mother draw.

I don't know why I did it except maybe to distract her from screaming.

Right away, she responded.

She moved the pencil across the paper,

almost unconciously, she drew for an hour.

And during that time, she was quiet.

It calmed her down.

It was only scribbles, but everyone, including me,

was amazed that she'd stopped screaming.

We took a deep breath and relaxed for the first time in a while.

I gave her another piece of paper, and she doodled again.

She drew for another hour,

and at the end of the day, she'd drawn on 5 pieces of paper.

The next day,

everyone couldn't wait for me to bring pencil and paper

(Laughter)

so she would stop screaming.

During that visit, I was there for 2 weeks,

and drawing became a daily life ritual.

Towards the end of my visit,

I noticed an inkling of my mother's presence.

I could see it in her eyes when she looked at me.

Mom was regaining consciousness.

She was waking up.

When I left, I told her caretakers

to give her a pencil and paper to her everyday.

And when I returned to New York,

I called and checked in everyday

to learn that she was drawing on a few pieces of paper each day.

Several months later, I went back.

My mother recognized me, she said my name.

But it worried me that

she hadn't been out of bed in a few months.

So I gave it a lot of thought,

and one day, I picked her up out of bed,

and put her into a wheelchair and I rolled her to the kitchen table

and gave her a much larger paper:

22 by 30 inches, and a black micron pen.

During that visit, I worked with her every day,

and to everyone's amazement, she became more and more lucid.

Over the next several years,

my mother's work became large, complex, beautiful.

fully resolved compositions.

She would sit for hours

at the kitchen table of her Georgia suburban home,

working for months on a single drawing.

She became rational.

Her hallucinations subsided.

She expressed the difficult into her life through hundreds of drawings.

Friends, curators, artists, were amazed,

as her work captured emotions

without being clever or calculated or contrived.

My mother's work is pure

in a way that cannot be taught,

and the professional artists strive for.

She drew everyday until the disease overtook her motor functions.

Carrol Hedger Woodham passed away, August 2012,

leaving me with an unimaginable legacy of her end-of-life work.

As different as these two experiences may seem,

there's a clear connection between art,

creating awareness in public space,

and the unexpected awakening of my mother.

Art giving life. Life giving art.

Thank you.

(Applause)