Focus On: Fish Masks

This week I bring you art from the third floor of the Indiana University Art Museum, which houses the African, Pacific, and Greek and Roman galleries. To my mind it is the best, most extensive floor of the museum. And these masks, from Guinea-Bissau, are beyond fabulous:
(Mask in the Form of A Sawfish Head, Bissagos Islands, Guinea-Bissau), and
(Mask in the Form of a Shark Head, Bissagos Islands, Guinea-Bissau)

I don't know enough about African masks to really speak too intelligently about this, but I think it's safe to deduce that masks of fish had particular significance in Guinea-Bissau, as it is located directly on the coast and has island territories. Presumably fish, and the ocean, play an important role in their food/economy. Also (I read on the CIA website) that their dry season is especially bad, at least now, and insufficient water and forest fires are a problem. So it would seem that historically, the sea (and its inhabitants) would be of considerable importance.

What I like the most about these two masks are the sense of fun they express, and the cool use of materials. That is an ACTUAL sawfish snout in the sawfish mask, while the shark head is made of wood, covered with pigment. I like the way the raffia flows from both of them, almost like braids--it reminds me of waves or seaweed.

Highway Blues

But Mona Lisa musta had the highway blues
You can tell by the way she smiles
--Visions of Johanna, Bob Dylan

This past weekend I went to my alma mater. The impetus of the visit was to attend a memorial service for a very kind, very genuinely wonderful person, so it wasn't a purely "fun" visit...but parts of it were very fun. I know such lovely people, truly. It was hard to leave this morning, and not just because it was 4:45 am! I've had an achy feeling all day, I think stemming mostly from the fact that I spent 3 days in constant company with some of my favorite people in the entire world, and now I am in...Indiana. And I have been up for too long (even though it is barely dinner time) and I have to read so much and I just want to go back to Geneva and sit by the lake.

I can't dwell on this stuff, because transitions are hard and gross and it will eventually all work out, blah blah blah. I know this. Doesn't make it any easier, though.

So, instead, I will talk about traveling. I fly so rarely (maybe every 4 years, normally, if that) that when I do fly, it is still an exciting adventure. I love people watching in airports. I like the bustle and the possibilities that seem to accompany it--much as I love trains, there isn't that sort of energy associated with them. My flights were all on time, and everything went smoothly, which I'm really glad about. Because truthfully, I don't really like flying, particularly the taking off business. I chew gum like a fiend to help with the ear-popping, but my efforts weren't good enough on Friday, as I developed a reaaaaally bad earache that radiated pain down my face for the duration of the flight, and which stopped soon after we landed, thankfully.

On my way to Rochester, I was seated by a nice-ish man who owned an RV dealership. He was a little too tanned and frat boy-ish for me to really relate to, but we had a good chat about hockey. And he was jazzed that I was going back to college--I think he translated this to going back to Animal House, because THEN I got to hear all about his frat pranks.

This morning I arrived at the Rochester airport to see a HUGE line for security. Turns out there was a "police incident" so they were backed up, but I made it to my flight with minutes to spare. Although I did have to endure this in the security line while we were waiting:
Businessman, after we'd been chatting for awhile: So, art history, huh? What are you planning to do with THAT?
Me, feeling slightly punchy: Oh my gosh, what a GREAT question. No one has EVER asked me that before! (and then I gave what passes for a disarming smile)
Businessman: My son got his degree in theater (note: which he pronounced thee-ay-ter. WHO DOES THAT.) And now he's working at Lowes. Ha!
Me, internally: Good thing I can't have something pointy on my carry-on, because I seriously want to stab you.
And then I was so agitated that I had a coughing fit (probably not related) and stuck the cough drop in my mouth with the paper still on it. Sigh.

Delightfully, the businessman in front of me got randomly profiled so they made him do the air test thing, while I just got to walk through the detector. He was having a conniption fit about it, too. I thought a call to his lawyer was imminent. And THEN I had to walk by them BOTH in business class while I shuffled back to my seat at the back, and they both waved and looked smug. Sigh, again.

It's ok to be back. We did Artemisia Gentileschi in my seminar, and I have a soft spot for her for many, many reasons, so that woke me up a bit (and the discussion was more nuanced than I was expecting, which was gratifying.) And now--time to make a baked potato, unpack, try to organize my life, and get some sleep.

Hellfire

It was 95 degrees here yesterday. Having survived Heat Wave NYC 2010 it doesn't seem that bad, really, but since I am from almost-Canada, it does seem weird to have the leaves fall while it is too hot to make tea (or turn on the stove, period).

As I crossed campus yesterday, I saw a man wearing a sandwich board. The front said something like "Jesus said sin no more" and on the back something about going to hell. This is not a totally alien sight (there is a LOT more Christian activism on campus than at my undergrad institution), but what struck me in particular about this man was his voice. Namely, how loud and scary it was. I could hear him from quite a ways away, saying "heeelllllllfireeee, bound for helllllllfiiiiiireeeee, dooooooomed" over and over.

The man with the sign looked like that uncle you have who is kind of quiet, but always nice, and who gives you $10 and a hug when you graduate from high school. (note: I don't actually have any uncles like this. All my uncles are loud.) The thing that depressed me was that he was a smallish man with a plaid shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap, and what with the sandwich board on, he must have been so hot. Sweat was pouring off his face. Perhaps he would have responded that his discomfort was nothing compared to what martyrs went through, which is valid, I suppose, depending on your opinions about martyrdom. But mostly I was just irrationally annoyed. "Sit down!" I wanted to command him. "Please drink some water and rest, for crying out loud."

I don't why he got under my skin, but he did. There were a lot of religious campaigners in NYC, and I got used to them, got good at smiling, maybe taking a leaflet, or just continuing on my way. The only times I was ever aggravated were at those groups who brought their children with them--I don't care if you are trying to get people interested in Save the Puffins, or Free Chocolate for Everyone (both of which I would heartily support), or anything else--leave your 5 year old at home. But for some reason, this solitary man drumed the word "hellfire" into my brain. As I was trying to read an article about Artemisia Gentileschi: hellfire. As I cooked dinner: hellfire. As I conjugated Italian verbs: hellfire hellfire hellfire. "Knock it off," said my brain. "This is why these tactics work. You don't even BELIEVE in hell, remember?"

Blame it on the heat.

Technology

Despite the fact that I write a blog, I know next to nothing about computers, or more specifically, how they work. I know enough, however, to realize that when a Blue Screen of Death shows up and does not leave, this is not good. The IT guys yesterday confirmed this--I have to take my computer somewhere else to be looked at, because they don't have the tools for it. It has something to do with memory or RAM or something. I'm not really sure, because this rather unfortunate computer failure has coincided with me getting a cold, and while he was talking I was more focused on how socially unacceptable it would be to rest my head on his desk, and whether I had the guts to pull that off.

I don't really mind colds, as such. I like having an excuse to go to bed early. I like when my voice is huskier so I sound like Lena Horne when I sing Lena Horne in the shower. On the other hand, I hate sore throats with a deep-seated passion, and I also hate coughing in the library, which is what I'm reduced to at this moment, because, as aforementioned, I can't turn on my computer.

So I wasn't in the greatest frame of mind as I waited for the bus to take me back to my apartment after spending some time with IT (who were, by the way, all very nice and helpful). I was doing that horrible anti-pep talk thing in my head, such as: good job on not backing up any of your Brooklyn photos, guess you can either go home for Thanksgiving or buy a new computer, your laptop is five years old--you should have known this would happen, etc. I wanted my mom. I wanted someone to make me soup. Every time I get sick away from home, I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm not very self-sufficient, at all, especially when my throat hurts.

What aggravates me more than the (potential, likely, costly) loss of my computer, is how dependent I am on it. I don't have cable, and I don't get a newspaper until I get to campus, so such mundane questions as "Will it rain today? Were there any major assassinations overnight?" are questions that I can only answer with the aid of the internet. It's just wires and microchips (and whatever else is in there), and I need it to write papers, but it's just a thing. If my apartment caught on fire, it is not what I would mourn losing--it's not the British bulldog that my flatmates got me as a farewell present, the van Gogh Sunflowers that my cousin quilted, a shawl made by my grandmother, a little William Smith pine box. There is no sentimental value attached to my computer, or my iPod, or my radio. But it's nice to know they are there.

Anyway. As I waited for the bus and quietly unspooled, my upstairs neighbor sent me a text. "I just made pie with apples from the Farmers Market. Come up and have some pie!!" Well, if anything can solve ANYTHING, that anything is PIE. So I did just that. I went up and sat on her floor and ate pie and vented. And she ate pie and vented, and told me I could use her computer whenever I wanted. I went home, made a gin toddy, and crawled into bed. I put on the 97 hour long Pride and Prejudice with Colin Firth, and settled back into a better time, a simpler time: where people wore waistcoats, where Mr Darcy dove into a pond and walked around with a wet shirt on, where girls went on trips to London for months at a time, where receiving a letter was the only way you got news, and where computers did not exist.

Focus On: Emaciated Buddha

As part of an on-going* theme--Art of the Week from the Indiana University Art Museum! The work this time is an Emaciated Buddha from 2nd century Gandhara. Now, here is the bummer part--this image is NOT the work from the IU Art Museum. I found the correct image on their website, but it seems to be under copyright, so I can't use it. But do check out the link to look for it, because it is a really nice piece.
(Thanks to azibaza.com for the image, which should at least give you an idea of what another Emaciated Buddha from Gandhara looks like.)

The IU Buddha is smaller, and depicts the torso, head, and halo (might be a mandorla, but I don't think it is) of the Buddha. As far as I know, Buddha (Siddhartha Gautama, as he was then) departed from his family's wealthy enclave for a life of aestheticism, as he was looking for a way to find enlightenment. After 6 years (that was the time frame given on the museum label, anyway) Gautama decided that meditation and moderation were a better way to go than straight starvation, and he modified.

Why did I pick this artwork? Because in person the sculptural affect of it is astounding, the way all of the veins, ribs, and disturbing details are rendered. Gandhara would be modern-day Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Northern India, and you can see some of the Greco-Roman/Hellenistic influences in the wavy hair of the Buddha, which isn't as common in Buddhist depictions further South or East. These images of Buddha definitely remind me of Greek icons, which reminded me of something which I learned from watching QI (so it obviously must be true!): companies that make devices to detect people trapped in rubble take samples of the breath of fasting monks, particularly at Mount Athos in Greece, because this is the closest smell to human starvation, which the devices need to be able to pick up.

It's all SO macabre. But I can't help but be interested in ascetic practices and how they play out in art. Like how certain saints are renowned for their asceticism, yet they are often depicted as robust and healthy (cough St Jerome cough cough) . Or nuns who were purported to live on the Body of Christ alone--I mean, it's no wonder they were having visions!! In one of my art class we're looking at diffusion of art styles between "the West" and Islam, so this has been much on my mind lately, and it's cool that you can see that in the Emaciated Buddha.

*"on-going" in the sense that this is the second time I'm doing it.

The Runcible Spoon

They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
which they ate with a runcible spoon.
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
the moon, the moon.
They danced by the light of the moon.
--"The Owl and the Pussycat," Edward Lear, 1971

I can vividly remember the illustrations in "The Owl and the Pussycat" book that my mom used to read to my sister and me. What I didn't realize until I was looking it up tonight is how SHORT the actual poem is. It's three stanzas! When I was little, it seemed so long.

Digressions aside, the reason I was looking up "The Owl and the Pussycat," and more specifically, the enigmatic runcible spoon, was that I went to a restaurant over the weekend called the Runcible Spoon! We wanted a quick--and cheap--bite before heading to a movie, and the Spoon was right on the way. It's housed in a converted Victorian-y looking house, with an umbrella-ed patio in the front. The interior boasts wooden plank tables in various shapes and sizes, a windy staircase, and a nice soothing coffee smell.

The food? Good. Really good, especially for the prices (my dinner was $6, with tax and all). I got a "Black Russian," which is basically a vegetarian Reuben. I admittedly really like Reubens (the main reason I can never be a true vegetarian, I think) but the Black Russian was a good substitute, with sauteed (but not mushy!) vegetables in place of the corned beef. It was on reaaaaally awesome dark rye bread, with a side of "smashed" potatoes, which turned out to be more like a tasty potato pancake. It's mostly sandwiches and all day breakfast, with some good veg/vegan options (one of the people I was with is vegetarian, and she vouches for their black bean soup). I think they might have pasta too.

Anyway, check it out! It kind of reminded me in Rent of the Life Cafe where they all jump up on the tables and sing "La Vie Boheme." I feel like something like that could happen at the Runcible Spoon some evening.

Oh, and a runcible spoon? "Runcible" is a word that Lear made up, and he uses it to describe different things in different works. It has also been defined as a pickle fork, or a spoon with a cutting edge, although in Lear's drawing of it, it just looks like a ladle. For even more oddness, check out "The Owl and the Pussycat," set to music by Igor Stravinsky.

A T-Shirt is Worth a Thousand Words

I have an "Ithaca is Gorges" shirt, which I deeply love. And other people do, too--every time I wear it, I get comments on it from strangers. In Brooklyn it was a good conversation starter with my neighbors ("Ithaca! It's so pretty up there"), the doctor at the hospital ("did you go to Cornell? My daughter did"), people in bars ("I'm from Rochester! Let's talk about Wegmans!"), the library ("I was in Syracuse once. GO ORANGE!"), and random people on the subway.I was not expecting the same Ithaca-excitement in Indiana. However, I was proved wrong. People in class (some I knew, some I didn't) told me it was funny. A guy in the bookstore gave me the up-and-down look, and said, "cool shirt" before sidling off. Best of all, I was on the bus (actually, having just sent my Brooklyn cousin a text saying, "why does the Ithaca shirt make people so excited?") when an older man got on; a professorial type with long, graying hair.

He sat behind me and kind of leaned over. "Cornell?" he said, "or Ithaca U?" " Oh, neither," I replied. "I went to school in Geneva, so I'm from the area." He paused for a few seconds. "William Smith, right?" he said.

I could have given him a hug. I've been having to explain my alma mater repeatedly since being here, and it gets a little old. Coordinate system, Finger Lakes, small liberal arts, "it's right in between Rochester and Syracuse," etc. My professors, by and large, know of Hobart and William Smith Colleges, but the other students don't. Which I suppose is only fair enough--I've never heard of their small Southern and Western liberal arts colleges, either. The only school name I've recognized so far is Sewanee. So I don't know why I feel that New York schools should be known by all, even though most of them have never been to New York. Probably an East Coast bias on my part.

So, it was nice not to have to explain, and even nicer that this guy had gotten the "William Smith" part right, instead of just calling it "Hobart," which happens a majority of the time. Which is majorly infuriating. But anyway. After I squeaked out, "yes!! William Smith," he said, "I lived in Ithaca for 20 years." Well! We had much to discuss--mostly, vineyards, Trumansburg, Cuba's garlic festival, Taughannock Falls, Wegmans (obviously), and how it does not snow nearly as much in Indiana as it does in Ithaca.

He said that Bloomington is equivalent to Ithaca in a lot of ways--Farmer's Market, artsy stuff, live music, and food, but it's not quite as cool. I had been getting an Ithaca-vibe as well, while walking around downtown. While I love Ithaca (and would live there, for sure), I have been known to make fun of it, too. Self-righteously liberal academics, eat-fresh-produce-or-you'll-die mentality, wear only all natural hemp, a slight snobbishness--it lives up to those stereotypes sometimes, I think. But for a few minutes on the bus, a stranger and I bonded over how much we miss New York. And I've got that t-shirt to thank.

Focus On: Käthe Kollwitz

I am kind of surrounded by art thought and art theory all. the. time. now, but one thing I'm not really doing is writing about it. So, what I think I will do is talk about one work a week from the Indiana University Art Museum.

Yesterday I went to a little lecture/tour in the museum's print collection. Prints, unlike most other works of art, can't really be on view most of the time--the paper is really sensitive to light and other conditions, so most of the time, prints are not on view at IU. You can make appointments to see specific works, but they have also decided to open up the space one Friday each month, and lay out about 20 prints on the tables. The curator talks about them, and then you can walk around and look. The theme this month was German Expressionism.

I know a little bit about German Expressionism, because my undergrad institution has some in their collection, but most of it is new to me. There was a strange mix of people for the lecture--some students, but mostly older community members. I met another young woman outside the gallery, and after chatting I know that she doesn't go to IU, is here in town with her fiance, who is a chemistry PhD candidate, she is originally from South Carolina, she used to do lithography and printmaking, and she gave me some winery tips. We were really hoping that they had some of Käthe Kollwitz's work.

And here she is:
(Death, Woman and Child, 1910. Thanks to MoMA online for the image--IU's online images are bad/nonexistent. They are working on it.)

It's a powerful print, made more so by the fact that it is straight-up gorgeous. It's so smooth and modeled and gentle, and it seems like the mother and child are fused together, while some dark, ominous cloud in the upper portion is pulling them apart. If you look very closely, you can see the child's fingers gripped tightly in the mother's hand. It's enough to break your heart.

As my new printmaking friend and I were looking at Death, Woman and Child, an older, elegantly dressed woman came and stood next to us. She began to speak in a lilting German accent. "In my hometown, Cologne, there is a Käthe Kollwitz museum, in one of the cathedrals. Her father was a socialist and her husband a doctor, and they both influenced her art by introducing her to many poor people, who were often her subjects. She and her husband lived in the slums where he treated his patients. Her son died in World War I, and her grandson in World War II." She looked at her hands. "She knew pain. So much pain in Germany, then, yes." She is right. What else is there to say?

Kollwitz commented on living and working in scenes of abject poverty: "It was not until much later...when I got to know the women who would come to my husband for help, and incidentally also to me, that I was powerfully moved by the fate of the proletariat and everything connected with its way of life.... But what I would like to emphasize once more is that compassion and commiseration were at first of very little importance in attracting me to the representation of proletarian life; what mattered was simply that I found it beautiful."

This grieving mother and child, if not a scene that Kollwitz often saw, was certainly something that she would have encountered. And the thing is, she's right--the image is beautiful. And terrible. All at the same time.

Come si dice...?

I am taking Beginning Italian and I have my first quiz tomorrow. Not a big deal--mostly a few verbs (essere, avere, stare), forms for singular and plural, and definite and indefinite articles. The only thing I'm a little nervy about are the definite articles, since we just learned those last night, and there seems to be an awful lot of forms for them. Still and all, Italian. My thoughts?

It's gorgeous. I'm in a class that is specifically for grad students who need to read it, so it's not very much speaking, but even when we make tragic attempts to say it--it's beautiful. I took German my senior year, and lemme tell you--not the same at. all. Even of the tiny range of words I know, there are some goodies--professoressa (professor, female), motocicletta (motorcycle), cuarantacinque (55), luglio (July), abbastanza bene (pretty good), not to mention all the musical terms--andante, adagio, allegretto, scherzando, and dolce! It makes my mouth feel nice to say these things.

And the place names! We had to read a little paragraph about the regions of Italy. Try these on for size: Liguria, Lombardia, Trentino-Alto Adige, Friuli-Venezia Giulia, Abruzzi, Campania, Basilicata. I've wanted to go to Italy ever since, well, I saw a slide of a Titian painting. Learning a little bit of the language is making me feel like I will get there. And until then, I'll be perfecting my lasagne making techniques and getting ready to hang with the dudes at the Marco Polo club in Jamestown!

(Also, it's annoying when Americans--who know Italian--order "a panino" or "biscotto" even those are the correct singular forms of panini and biscotti. Just sayin'.)

Saturday Sun

Saturday sun came early one morning
In a sky so clear and blue
Saturday sun came without warning
So no-one knew what to do.
--Nick Drake, Saturday Sun

Yesterday was gorgeous. It's been so hot here (as it has been everywhere!) and suddenly the temperature dropped about 20 degrees and it was sunny sunny sunny and 75. I ventured out to downtown in the morning and wandered around a bit--I'm still trying to orient myself to where the courthouse/the square is in relationship to Restaurant Row, the public library, and campus.

So here's the courthouse: (as seen in Breaking Away, lest you were curious)
Then I met up with two awesome family friends for lunch. Their daughter is my sister's roomate (hiya, ARLES), and it is really great for me that they're here, because 1. they can give me directions and other life help, 2. they brought me a bag of pears that they picked, 3. they are super nice, and 4. we had falafels and baklava and chatted.

After lunch, we wandered around the Fourth Street Art Festival for a bit, which was jam-packed with stalls, people, and live music. A lot of fiddling. (I'm getting into blue-grass country now, I keep forgetting.) Any art you could really think of--I was impressed the most with glass weaving, some of the photography (a REALLY cool technique where you have two cameras and take the picture through the second camera, which is positioned behind the first, so it's through two lens's, if that makes any sense), and quite a few different pottery booths. Some very cool rice bowls, some (overpriced yet gorgeous) shawls, abstract painting, metal-worked wall plaques, jewelery, wooden cookware, and much more!

Here are two not so great shots, but you can kind of tell how big it was:

Along the way I met up with some Art History ladies and we went to get gelato, wandered some more, and went home to prepare for the AHA (Art History Association) picnic, which was, again, lots of fun and lots of good food. (I don't know who provided those sweet potato tart things and the peach cake, but mmmm!) It has been nice to meet some of the older MA and PhD students, although I confess to being a terrible networker and not meeting as many people as I should! I'm getting there though. After THAT we went to a few places downtown for drinks, very late night pizza, and some general frivolity. So much frivolity, in fact, that it is almost noon and I just staggered out of bed, with 70 pages of Leon Battista Alberti leering at me, just waiting to be read. I will probably make some brownies to console myself.

To sum up: Saturdays in Bloomington, so far, involve food, art, and new friends who I am really getting to like. Yeah, I could get used to this.

And the Title is...

After asking for help on naming this here blog, I had a lot of suggestions from you, both on here and on facebook. And I've decided on:
Indi-Anna
(Subtitle) Remaking my Mind & Other Adventures

I was torn between my cousin's suggestion of "In Di Anna's Mind," or the simpler "Indi-Anna." ("Indiana" and "Anna" lend itself to good possibilities.)

So Nan really gets the prize (whatever that is) for coming up with "Remaking my Mind," which I think is great, and Roger and my mom reiterated the "Indi-Anna" decision, so they should probably get a prize too. We'll see what I can come up with!

It's Wednesday morning, my third day of class. I just made a big breakfast--bacon, scrambled eggs with onion and cheese, tea, and bread (it should be toast, of course, but I don't have a toaster). This is big news, because as anyone who knows me well knows that while I am delighted when others provide me with breakfast (make me pancakes and we'll be friends forever), I don't make breakfast for myself. Yesterday I had orange juice, Oreos, and baby carrots with hummus.

I'm already realizing that grad school is VERY different from anything else I've experienced before. It's so much free time, but so much reading that I have to set routines or I'm not going to do anything. Hence, the big breakfast. And on that note, I need to go wash some pans.

Thanks for the blog help!