Project Runway contestants are no strangers to Atlas; the building’s owner and developer, Gotham Organization, has housed the contestants there since Season One, except for Season Six, when the show filmed in Los Angeles, and Season Four, when the Project Runway digs were at the developer’s Hell’s Kitchen modern rental building New Gotham. As in years past, when they weren’t toiling over sewing machines, contestants enjoyed access to the Atlas New York’s 24-hour personalized concierge service as well as to all the generous perks the Gotham lifestyle offers, including full use of the Atlas Fitness Club and Lounge with complimentary daily breakfast, and the stunning panoramic views on the 48th floor Atlas Sky Terrace.

Gotham Organization is credited with being the pioneer of providing building residents with innovative amenities that go well beyond the “standard” fare such as a gym or tenants’ lounge. For example, they are widely known for their popular Open A.I.R. summer rooftop concert series, which taps coveted artists to perform on the Atlas Sky Terrace; past performers have included Lady Gaga, Ellie Goulding and ZZ Ward, among many others. Lucky residents also enjoy spa treatments, yoga classes, film screenings, wine tastings and more. Gotham Organization’s portfolio of luxury rental properties includes Atlas New York at 66 W. 38th St., the Nicole at 400 W. 55th St. and New Gotham at 520 W. 43rd St.

Interested renters can now benefit from the recent launch of LivingGotham.com, the new online hub for Gotham Organization’s exceptional Midtown rental properties. LivingGotham.com provides a centralized location for all of Gotham Organization’s properties, and features a widget allowing prospective renters to search availabilities, view floor plans and make appointments, while offering current tenants access to exclusive event listings held across all Gotham buildings.

It also features a time-lapse video of the construction of Gotham West, an amenity-rich residential complex spanning nearly an entire city block, at 510-550 W. 45th St., boasting 1,238 rental apartments from studios to three-bedrooms. The property will open this spring.

Joe Deutch's "Grow Up."

Art or prank? Joe Deutch blows himself up

by Valerie Gladstone

Los Angeles artist Joe Deutch has caused quite a stir. He was reprimanded at UCLA as a grad student for going before his class and playing Russian roulette, actually loading a gun and shooting himself in the head. Unhurt, he left the room and set off a firecracker, which sounded like a shot. (His professors dubbed him a “domestic terrorist.”) Since then, he has attached a boot to a police car in broad daylight so it couldn’t be moved, incurring the considerable wrath of the police, and taunted a poisonous rattlesnake into biting him—he lived.

Fortunately for those of us who couldn’t be there, videos of these feats, plus Deutch’s luminous photographs of gridlocked Los Angeles freeways under gorgeous setting suns with ambiguous slogans placed on the railings, are now on view at Marlborough gallery in Chelsea.

Everything the 32-year-old Deutch does has a reason. “I like to bring an aspect of mortality into my work,” he says. “I want to take art out of its artificial shell. I feel there’s a duality in art—that it’s trapped intellectually. On some level, my job is not to make art. I want to focus less on what’s in the art world and more on what’s outside the art world.

“I liked that those works ended up in the media so people could deal with them directly, rather than when art works are in a show. I like the conversation taking place in public,” he says.

In part, Deutch is rebelling against what he perceived as the dominant view when he was in art school 10 years ago, where it was decreed that everything is art. He doesn’t believe that’s true, and thinks it limits the concept of art. For his photographs, he didn’t have to look further than the classic Los Angeles traffic jams for his subject. What caught his imagination was that when the drivers sit there struck, they also probably notice the beautiful sunsets—caused by the fog, he adds—and say, “How pretty.”

This inspired him to put up signs, or at least a few words, on the overpasses for people to read. “Messages,” he explains, “that would be silhouetted against the sky. I choose incredibly cheap and/or incomprehensible messages, and mixed up the letters.” Phrases he used include “Just Kill Her,” “Fuck Iraq, Save Yourself,” “Grow Up,” “Flight or Fight,” “I Have a Gun” and “Go Somewhere Else,” mostly with their letters a jumble. They’re all just about as aggressive and provocative as the scenes he stages.

What’s in the future? “I go back and forth with studio projects,” Deutch says. “When there’s risk, there’s trouble involved and I want to avoid that, so I don’t give my planning away. But I’m not finished with Eli Broad’s construction site, where’s he’s building his gigantic museum”; like many Angelenos and artists, he couldn’t be more against it. Who knows? Maybe he’ll blow it up.

Joe Deutch 
Through July 27, Marlborough Gallery, 545 W. 25th St., 212-463-8634, marlboroughgallery.com.

Photo Courtesy of Wiki Commons

The Tom Cruise/Katie Holmes divorce saga is already off to a dramatic start. Many people expect their divorce to be messy, but these two are already torn on where to hold the proceedings.

When Holmes and Cruise were together, they lived in Los Angeles, reports Reuters, but Holmes filed for divorce in New York where rumor has it she secretly rented an apartment in Chelsea.  Holmes’s divorce papers claim both are New York residents, according to gossip site TMZ. Cruise, on the other hand, may look to move the divorce proceedings to California, where he could potentially gain more leverage.

Holmes is more likely to get sole custody of the couple’s daughter, Suri, if the divorce takes place in New York, Fox 25 reports. New York judges are more inclined to grant sole custody if parents cannot agree on decisions about the child’s life, and it’s rumored Holmes fears what role Scientology may have on her aging daughter.

If joint custody is granted in New York, one parent cannot override the decisions of the other, also according to Fox. In California, parents are able to make decisions alone. Rumors that Holmes wants to protect her daughter from “brainwashing” before it’s too late are likely motivating her decision to legally end the marriage in New York.

Americano

Identity is a big question for Martin upon arrival, as he shifts from the European arrivals line to the U.S. Citizen return line at LAX. Still plagued by astonishment as how his mother could have essentially abandoned him (after living as a youngster in California, he and his father moved to France; Martin’s mother stayed forever), Martin has lingering questions about who he is. And after being picked up by his mother’s caretaker and friend, Linda (Geraldine Chaplin, famous daughter of – naturally – Charlie), Martin begins to unravel a hidden chapter of his mother’s life.

These clues lead him to Tijuana to hunt a down an enigmatic stripper named Lola, played by Salma Hayek in a rare raw performance for the typically calculating star. Hayek may have no famous parents, but once Lola enters the picture, Americano begins to follow in the footsteps of many famous film forebears – and not just the expected heart of darkness film noir ancestors Americano so closely mimics in its formula-hewing second half (there are few surprises in store for Lola, Martin, or Luis, the thuggish club manager played by Carlos Bardem).

Demy actually sticks even closer to home, evoking his father’s Lola and Model Shop (Anouk Aimée played the character who would ultimately become Hayek’s namesake here) as Martin enters further into Lola’s world of smoke and mirrors. If his ideas as a writer feel a bit rote (the title could be I Never Sang for My Mother on Golden Pond, if one could find someone to translate that into French), Demy’s performance never feels less than authentic. Martin is an untethered man who feels nothing – a quite convincing portrait of functional depression – and this trip, one that haunts and even emasculates him, is the jolt he needs to wake him up to life.

Americano also cannot help but feel autobiographical. Visually, literally, we are watching Demy’s own life. Martin recalls cloudy memories of his early years in Venice, which Demy presents through the use of his appearance as a child in his own mother’s 1981 Documenteur. This possibly pretentious fusion of life and fiction, usually left in the hand of more seasoned filmmakers, may polarize purists but satisfy cineastes. Demy’s movie is not a masterpiece, but it doesn’t aim to be. What the auteur has created is a window into his soul. Americano portrays the artist as a young man as well as an adult. And he leaves it up to the viewer, in charting that path, to the connect the dots of his or her own journey.

I flew to Los Angeles with a big backpack filled with trail mix, granola bars, chocolate, cheese and a tent. My father met me there and drove me down to Campo at the Tijuana-California border. He left me at the fence, dust puffing from his tires like drab clouds.

There was a border monument marking the southern terminus of the 2,650-mile Pacific Crest Trail—a trail that fades in the mist and lush of northern Washington then ends in Canada. I would walk the length of the country.

I walked north from the Mexican border fence; the trail was well marked with rusty signs and scattered with lazy rattlesnakes baking in the sun’s warmth. I was eating a green apple, I remember, when I nearly stepped on the first one. I shrieked and ran south a hundred yards. I bit my apple, breathed, ate that apple—my last piece of fresh food; everything else was processed or salted or junk. I was fine. I walked back north, stepped over the snake, kept walking, stepped over another and another.

Within a few hours, I had met a dozen hikers, all attempting the same trans-country journey on foot. They seemed kind—young men, retired couples, a 30-year-old woman with big curly hair and good teeth; the curly lady smiled at me. I was curt. On my second day on the trail, I met a 20-year-old man—a former professional mountain bike racer from Switzerland. We hiked together for 700 miles and five weeks and then let the miles between us grow. He hiked faster than I did. I didn’t love him.

I made friends—a twentysomething girl with a ukulele and an angelic voice and face and a photographer with a master’s in psychology he had never used and didn’t want to. And packs of fit, hungry hikers, happy to hear my stories. Happy to know me.

In Bend, Ore., 1,970 miles north of that border monument dull with Campo dust and 1,500 miles from spiny pastel plants and rattlesnake teeth and venom and sadness, I met Justin. We were in town—the verdant, river-cut trail town of Bend—and we knew a handful of the same hikers. A big group of us went to dinner at the Deshutes Brewery. Justin sat next to me, close. He smiled a lot. I smiled—tried not to but couldn’t help it. Under the table, his knee brushed mine.

I lifted my hot hand, moved it slowly through the space between us like a teenaged boy would when trying to float unnoticed to second base; I pressed my trembling palm against Justin’s sweating beer, squeezed the glass. Lifted and carried it through the air to my mouth. Took a sip. I was 19.

Justin knew.

He was amused, contorted his face like he disapproved—but I knew he didn’t.

I was pulsing, invigorated. So fit from the miles and miles, unarmed and no longer unhappy.

I felt an illogical desire for Justin—my body, high on attraction and quivering, betrayed my mind.

We walked, together, 600 miles into Canada.

I remember our first day hiking together. Rain had poured down in sheets, smacking the soil, tearing up the trail. Earth washed away; roots loosened, left soaked and exposed. Lubricated with water, everything shone in the gray light.

Justin and I shouted over the downpour, shared childhood stories and our ambitions as we walked. We were saturated with rain to the bone, both of us, but I was giddy and on the verge of laughter.

My walk with Justin ended in the mist-dense Cascade Mountains on a garden stage at the end of a lily-lined aisle. Storm clouds, gray, navy and low, illuminated the flowers, the fine clothing, the glassware in soft, important light. The mist was backlit by sunlight, bathing the Cascade foothills in silver.

Justin and I read our vows and grinned and cried on a stone stage over the Cascade Mountain garden, lightning flashing like a camera. Camera flashes would have been invisible under that sky. My parents were there in the garden, happy and warm and not too nervous.

“This is a very important matter,” said CB1 Chair Julie Menin, adding that the bill would lessen income inequality.

In their resolution, the board also pointed out that 15 cities have similar laws, including Los Angeles and Pittsburgh. According to a recent study on job growth in these cities from the Center for American Process, the higher wages translated to “efficiency gains for firms through reduced turnover. Increasing wages for the lowest-paid workers also stimulates local economies, as low income households typically spend more of their dollars locally.”

Money and relationships are two things that are very dear to my heart. If you have money to spare, you are one of the select few. If you have a significant other, having low dividends can create its own headache. I, thankfully, attended college without meeting Sallie Mae, and I only hope to have a cordial relationship with her when I apply for a mortgage.

I’m in a serious, monogamous, happy relationship. When we first began dating, both of our finances were considerably low. Scratch that—we were downright broke. Love is generous, but it doesn’t pay the rent, the cable or the electric bill. But just because we were poor, we didn’t skimp on the things that brought us joy as a couple, like spending time together. We just had to get more creative in our approach. So, with great joy, I bring to you a couple of date ideas that will help you out when the bills are due.

Donate. You can incorporate this into your low-budget date by taking your significant other to donate blood, plasma, their luscious locks or their time. It technically isn’t donating if you’re being compensated, but it warrants that term because you are also saving lives. Donating plasma can get you up to $35 per weekly visit, which means couples can make up to $500 a month with regular visits. Also, if you have a head full of hair, donating it via www.buyandsellhair.com, a hair-trading website, can pay up to $100 an inch. Pay Offs: $35–$100; www.bloodbanker.com/plasma.

Focus Groups. A focus group can be a pretty lucrative dating gig. You two will simply be asked to share your opinions on an advertisement or product. Bigwig companies hire these market research companies to gain insight into their products. Most focus groups range from eight to 12 people and are no more than two hours. Focus groups pay immediately with cash or check after the survey has been completed. Pay Offs: $50–$300 an hour.

Use Your Credit Card. But not in that way: most credit cards offer cardholders special deals and discounts. For example, Bank of America grants its cardholders free access to over 150 museums on the first weekend of every month. Also, the major credit card issuers sponsor many sporting events and set aside special tickets at discounted prices for cardholders. Citibank will be selling presale tickets for the much-anticipated Jay-Z and Kanye West “Watch the Throne” tour. How about that for free culture? Pay Offs: $100-plus in savings.

Sit on Your Rump. If you are in a metropolitan area such as Los Angeles or New York, you can sign up to be a seat filler for major award shows. You may not get direct pay, but you will be rubbing elbows with celebrities at the MTV Awards, the American Music Awards and The Grammys. Also, try sitting in as part of a studio audience.

These shows can be a lot of fun, and often give you the chance to meet celebrities, get autographs, free T-shirts, CDs, posters and other giveaways. Pay Offs: $1,000 in ticket savings.

Be in the Background. Being a background actor can actually be a lot of fun. The sessions are long, usually eight to 10 hours, but you can get up to $500 for being on set. You just have to be good at taking direction and promise not to get starstruck as your favorite celebrity walks across the scene. Some advertisements are looking for a special look—I saw one ad for a frumpy, hippie chick and her frumpy friends that paid $400 a day. If you come in as a couple, you can walk away with close to a month’s rent in one day. Clients are usually compensated the day of by cash or check. Pay Offs: $200-plus per assignment

Put it Up For Sale. But don’t do it online. Nix the modern eBay and Craigslist sales, and actually hold one in your front or backyard or at your local community center. As a couple, you can spend the whole day together choosing the goods to be sold, selling them and counting the profit. The fall is a good time to put items up for sale, as many consumers are browsing for interesting holiday knick-knacks for their friends and family members, and you two are looking for extra money to do the same. Pay Offs: $10–unlimited, depending on items sold.

Risk it at the Casino. If you’re one of those high-risk, balls-to-the-wall couples, then taking a trip to the casino might be right up your alley. Mind you, you also need a substantial amount of luck on your side. And you shouldn’t risk your last dollar. But if you have a little financial wiggle room to spare, you can make some money at the casino, as long as you know when to bow out. Pay Offs: Depends on your luck.

See, it pays to be together.