7/16/2013
4/365
3/365
July 12th. Left work early in anticipation of the perfect summer dinner. We marinated chopped vegetables in a mustard vinaigrette and I tended to them in my bathing suit and pencil skirt. It was the perfect golden hour sunset; I sacrificed my ankles to bug bites to try and capture a bit of it. Summer nights around here are less about perfectly pinterested party decorations and more about that feeling you get sipping on an ice cold beer after work. That's me up there by the way.
2/365
1/365
July 10th (in retrospect) marks the beginning of the 365 project which will end July 10th, 2014. This is morning around here, romping with my boys before I stomp off to work.
6/11/2013
Book Review: Just Kids by Patti Smith
After receiving recommendations from one of my art professors and Lisa of les jours contents, I checked out Patti Smith's memoir, Just Kids, from my local library. I was actually searching for a copy of The Great Gatsby, so I could reread it before I saw the new film, but it seems everyone else had a similar idea and all the copies were gone. It must have been meant to be because Patti's book came to me at the perfect time, as I wondered about what it meant to be creative post-graduation and how live a more art-filled life.
The book moves chronologically, giving us a brief glimpse into Patti's childhood and then turning its focus to her young adulthood. Patti arrives in New York City in 1967 (she was 21 years old, my same age) aspiring to make art. That same summer, she meets Robert Mapplethorpe and they embark on the artists life together. The book explores their unusual relationship, part romance, part friendship, part artistic collaboration. At times it feels impossible that this life was/is real, as Patti encounters homelessness, Allen Ginsberg, bad trips, and a series of events that ultimately leads her to fame.
What I love most about the book is the grace with which Patti intertwines narrative and lyricism. My favorite parts are at the beginning of her story, when she and Robert share their first space together and Brooklyn, making little money and lots of art. As the cliche goes: it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Patti writes:
Patti is open about her struggle to rationalize a life lived in the pursuit of art ("Once again I found myself contemplating what I should be doing to do something of worth. Everything I came up with seemed irreverent or irrelevant.") Yet, always she finds her way back to new inspiration, back to making art. It was so interesting to read about an artist's process and the events that inspired their work, especially for Robert. From drawing to beading to collages and finally the photographs that made him famous, I loved reading about all the various passages he made, trying to express what he felt in any way he knew how.
This book reminded me of the importance of pursuing what I am most passionate about, art or otherwise, to any ends. Above all things, Patti and Robert made art because they couldn't not. And fame found them. It is that desire to just do, without any hope for reward or recognition, that truly breeds the greatest and most important ideas.
The book moves chronologically, giving us a brief glimpse into Patti's childhood and then turning its focus to her young adulthood. Patti arrives in New York City in 1967 (she was 21 years old, my same age) aspiring to make art. That same summer, she meets Robert Mapplethorpe and they embark on the artists life together. The book explores their unusual relationship, part romance, part friendship, part artistic collaboration. At times it feels impossible that this life was/is real, as Patti encounters homelessness, Allen Ginsberg, bad trips, and a series of events that ultimately leads her to fame.
What I love most about the book is the grace with which Patti intertwines narrative and lyricism. My favorite parts are at the beginning of her story, when she and Robert share their first space together and Brooklyn, making little money and lots of art. As the cliche goes: it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Patti writes:
"There were days, rainy gray days, when the streets of Brooklyn were worthy of a photograph, every window the lens of a Leica, the view grainy and immobile. We gathered our colored pencils and sheets of paper and drew like wild, feral children into the night, until, exhausted, we fell into bed. We lay in each other's arms, still awkward but happy, exchanging breathless kisses into sleep."
Patti is open about her struggle to rationalize a life lived in the pursuit of art ("Once again I found myself contemplating what I should be doing to do something of worth. Everything I came up with seemed irreverent or irrelevant.") Yet, always she finds her way back to new inspiration, back to making art. It was so interesting to read about an artist's process and the events that inspired their work, especially for Robert. From drawing to beading to collages and finally the photographs that made him famous, I loved reading about all the various passages he made, trying to express what he felt in any way he knew how.
This book reminded me of the importance of pursuing what I am most passionate about, art or otherwise, to any ends. Above all things, Patti and Robert made art because they couldn't not. And fame found them. It is that desire to just do, without any hope for reward or recognition, that truly breeds the greatest and most important ideas.
5/23/2013
what commencement meant
commencement- noun [usu. in sing.] a beginning or start
I know "they" say that using dictionary excerpts to open a written piece is entirely unoriginal, but I happen to be obsessed with dictionary definitions. I never understood the importance of the thesaurus, when a dicitionary could empower you with a word's meaning, as in, here are more words to describe a single word and explain its significance. I love (loved?) analyzing a passage of literature and breaking one word down into a million different parts or being enlightened by a word's real definition, not just the semblance of meaning I unknowingly carried around through the years.
According to the dictionary, commencement is the beginning which makes it interesting as it comes at the very end. Perhaps the strangest part about it was the finality of leaving; for awhile after graduation I felt as though I had one more vague obligation to fulfill. But, that of course wasn't the case. With my exams taken and keys turned in and room cleared out and then degree in hand, I left and that was all. The end and the beginning at once.
Unlike any other day ever, graduation day left me feeling new and changed. The day itself was unexpectedly perfect. My dad made the long drive in from Wisconsin and took me to breakfast the morning of. We talked openly about the definition of success and what makes work meaningful. Before the ceremony, we took photos at the Delta Gamma lodge, wearing the world's ugliest hats (apparently modeled after greek academicians, you'd think they would've come up with something more attractive). It was perfect weather as we walked through a tunnel of familiar faculty faces to our seats. I stood on my tiptoes to see my dad and Brian smiling and waving at me from their seats, a moment I'll never forget. I was surprisingly nervous as the ceremony progressed from one speaker to the next and finally to the moment where I walked across the stage, very quickly. The rest is quite blurry as I finished what I'd come to do (it only took four years) and was ready to go eat. After snapping the photos above, we headed back home, stopping in Ann Arbor for a gourmet italian meal, my choice. The only time I cried that day (besides my near midnight meltdown when it was ALL over) was opening the small, cream colored box, a gift from my grandfather, a Tiffany bracelet with the inscription: May 11th, 2013 You Did It Love, Papa. I said goodbye to my dad and headed home where more gifts from Brian's parents and Aunt awaited me. It was a long, but important day, which still feels momentous, even after the fact.
I know "they" say that using dictionary excerpts to open a written piece is entirely unoriginal, but I happen to be obsessed with dictionary definitions. I never understood the importance of the thesaurus, when a dicitionary could empower you with a word's meaning, as in, here are more words to describe a single word and explain its significance. I love (loved?) analyzing a passage of literature and breaking one word down into a million different parts or being enlightened by a word's real definition, not just the semblance of meaning I unknowingly carried around through the years.
According to the dictionary, commencement is the beginning which makes it interesting as it comes at the very end. Perhaps the strangest part about it was the finality of leaving; for awhile after graduation I felt as though I had one more vague obligation to fulfill. But, that of course wasn't the case. With my exams taken and keys turned in and room cleared out and then degree in hand, I left and that was all. The end and the beginning at once.
Unlike any other day ever, graduation day left me feeling new and changed. The day itself was unexpectedly perfect. My dad made the long drive in from Wisconsin and took me to breakfast the morning of. We talked openly about the definition of success and what makes work meaningful. Before the ceremony, we took photos at the Delta Gamma lodge, wearing the world's ugliest hats (apparently modeled after greek academicians, you'd think they would've come up with something more attractive). It was perfect weather as we walked through a tunnel of familiar faculty faces to our seats. I stood on my tiptoes to see my dad and Brian smiling and waving at me from their seats, a moment I'll never forget. I was surprisingly nervous as the ceremony progressed from one speaker to the next and finally to the moment where I walked across the stage, very quickly. The rest is quite blurry as I finished what I'd come to do (it only took four years) and was ready to go eat. After snapping the photos above, we headed back home, stopping in Ann Arbor for a gourmet italian meal, my choice. The only time I cried that day (besides my near midnight meltdown when it was ALL over) was opening the small, cream colored box, a gift from my grandfather, a Tiffany bracelet with the inscription: May 11th, 2013 You Did It Love, Papa. I said goodbye to my dad and headed home where more gifts from Brian's parents and Aunt awaited me. It was a long, but important day, which still feels momentous, even after the fact.
odds & "end"s
Towards the end of the semester, I attempted to take more photographs of the parts of college I thought I might miss. I sat down and made a list of locations: Baldwin cafeteria, my favorite booth in the Kellogg Center, the Delta Gamma lodge, the Quad, the library, the English Department offices, my dorm room, the First West hallway. I constructed the most beautiful portfolio of photographs in my head, perfectly summing up my experience. Yet, in the weeks leading up to graduation, though my course load was light, I couldn't bring myself to drag out my camera and revisit all the important places. I struggled with how I was supposed be nostalgic for college just yet, when all I could think about was the freedom just ahead: the end of "long-distance" living, new opportunities to fully pursue my passions, free coffee brewed at home, my curly-haired dog and boyfriend, my two loves. So, these few photos are the note I end on. My library coffee ritual, writing cover letters, jotting down my inspiration in spiral bound notebook. Visiting my ceramics professor's farm, a perfect memory of why I loved Albion most: the teachers. A snapshot of my ceramics workspace and favorite pieces of the semester-- proud of my decision to pursue art while I still had the space, freedom, and time. The quiet mess in the Writing Center, a place where I learned about listening, acceptance, and unexpected friendships. My Delta Gamma senior sisters and Albion's unconventionally beautiful downtown. And finally a box of memories, a final photo I snapped as I packed up my room, containing four years worth of tokens: a pile of high school senior photos (some faces I hardly remember), a 50's party invitation, friendship bracelet strings knotted and forgotten, a wedding pinwheel, a cheap halloween mask, Phi Beta Kappa membership, a pink and blue hairbow, and the letter I wrote to my sisters trying desperately to sum up all I've learned and share it.
Even now, words and photographs can't serve my purpose of remembering what happened there. In this world of constant instant records, I think we think the more we capture the more we'll appreciate. But I realized during my last few moments, that the best parts were when I was being present, acknowledging how I felt right then, looking around, and silently saying goodbye. So, I didn't leave with the exhibit I'd hoped for, but I know that the things I'll remember most are the stories that words will always fail, the memories I have no photos to prove.
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