When you want to say you like something in Italian, you say, "mi piace xyz" which literally means, "xyz is pleasing to me". So then, of course, "non mi piace xyz" would describe something you don't like. I am tired and tired of thinking in a thematic, logical way, so here are some things that I piace and some things I non piace.
Mi piace hot apple cider
I've had some amazing varieties of this wonderful seasonal beverage lately. The Scholars Inn Bakehouse on 3rd has a lovely one, with caramel syrup. I had some at a party over the weekend that incorporated some sort of--bourbon? something from Kentucky anyway--which reminded me of glögg. I'm drinking some hot apple cider from a packet now, which is not quite as great but reminds me of my first year roomate, who introduced me to it. When we were very stressed she would boil up some water in our illegal water heater and make the cider, and I'd turn on the Christmas lights and we'd stop doing work and have a Harry Potter reading night. I miss that a lot.
Non mi piace being so far from home
An ongoing thing I dislike, nay, hate, but it's usually ok. I will fly home for Thanksgiving, which I am SUPER excited about, and otherwise I haven't been so homesick. But then this weekend, the father of one of my best friends from college was in a very bad car accident and things are a bit better than they originally thought, but still not good, and I hate that I can't be there for her. I think we're all sort of dealing with this, now that our college group of friends is spread out, and this is the first major crisis that we can't all be there for, and we're not quite sure how to emotionally handle it. And it's horrible. And I haven't met my baby cousin yet. I keep missing my families birthdays. I want to walk around Chautauqua when all the summer people are gone. I miss Prospect Park. There are many other examples.
Mi piace rain hitting the window when you are cozy in bed
Yesterday morning my alarm, which is NPR, went off and I didn't have to get up right away, so I lay there for a bit, listening to soothing British voices and listened to the rain and leaves smack on the window.
Non mi piace when the rain hitting your window turns out to be a tornado
So either I'm deaf or was in the shower, but I missed the tornado sirens, but I did hear my phone beeping a text alert, which told me to go to the lowest level of my building and "take safe shelter". Which I ignored, seeing as how I'm on the first floor and although the sky was a creepy pewter color, it didn't look too awful. And it wasn't, as the warning lifted about 20 minutes later.
Mi piace the fact that midterms are done
Self explanatory, really. I've got my seminar presentation in 10 days, which might actually be worse, but I will enjoy my mini-break while it lasts.
Non mi piace the fact that I made annoying mistakes on my midterms
So, I had an Italian test last night and an Islamic test today, about 15 hours apart. I'm quite certain I passed both of them, but mixed up some verbs on the Italian, which is annoying, and mixed up some dates on Islamic, which is even more annoying. I was 400 years off on a mosque, which then meant I wrote the wrong dynasty, and confused my brass basins (because, let's be honest, they sort of look the same). This is not a genuine problem, nor are midterms in general. Art history professors always tell you that they want the content right, and the dates don't matter as much, but something deep in my knit-picky nature is bothered by this.
Mi piace my friends here
After the exam today we met up outside the classroom to compare notes and console one another, and one of my fellow grad students had made Funfetti Halloween cupcakes, which is really what everyone needed! Over the weekend the Art History Association had a Halloween party (I was Nancy Drew) and got to hang out with some of the older students, which was really nice. And one of them (the only other NYer, which doesn't really count, because he's from Long Island) had brought his fiance, who got her MA in NYC and was from Rochester, so we had a good chat about Pinkberry and WEGMANS. An hour ago I somehow sliced my hand on my wall (sidenote: I just told this story to my father, who said, "that is the lamest thing I have ever heard") and didn't have bandaids. I prevailed on my upstairs neighbor for one, and we talked for awhile about England and how much we love it. All really sweet people.
Non mi piace missing Das Rheingold because I had to run errands
Actually, I don't mind missing Das Rheingold, as such, because I'm not in love with Wagner enough to want to listen/watch his operas for 3 1/2 hours. But anyway, I was supposed to go to Met at the Movies tonight with someone and was trying to think how to beg off, because my apartment was a disaster (one thing about midterms that I had forgotten is that you just eat whatever you can, whenever you can) and I needed to do dishes and pick all the papers off the floor, where I had shoved them off the bed before I went to sleep last night. Fortunately, the person I was supposed to go with is also stressed and bailed first, so I didn't have to feel guilty.
Mi piace the smells of Fall
Wood smoke. Musty leaves. Mud. Clear air. You know what I mean.
Non mi piace the current smell of this apartment
What is smells like is burnt, because I was attempting to toast an English Muffin in the oven for dinner and burned it (how?? why?? who can say).
Mi piace ALL OF YOU
Good night!
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
Thursday, 21 October 2010
Please Put on Some Pants
Events have transpired this week to make me feel old, and not in a cool way. In a curmudgeon way. Such events include:
1. A worrying pain in both my knees. I do have one torn ACL, so that makes sense, but I think climbing into and hopping out of buses is doing them no favors. They also have been aching in the mornings when it is cold. This makes me feel approx. 105 years old.
2. This morning I was buying wine (amongst other things) at the grocery store, and the cashier kept staring at my ID and staring at me. I smiled in a sort of disarming way, and she handed it back, saying suspiciously, "well, I guess that's you. It looks enough like you. I also had trouble finding your birthdate on there." Now, the confusing nature of NY licenses is not really my fault, and if I were to use a fake ID, it would NOT be with the picture that is on my license. I look better now than I did at age 16, I feel pretty confident in saying. So maybe not looking like my license is actually complimentary? Either way, my 16 year old self seems to be mocking me, with her blondeness and youth and slightly surly mug-shot expression.
3. The way that underclassmen seem to look younger and younger every year. My senior year in undergrad, I thought the incoming first-year class looked like they were 15. It's even worse now.
This final point is the main crux of my curmudgeon tendencies of late, in that I've been seeing a lot of female students wearing leggings in place of pants, and my immediate mental reaction is something along the lines of, "please put on some pants. Do you want people to respect your mind or your body? What would Gloria Steinem say about this nonsense?!" I'm about two horrifying mental steps away from, "listen honey, he won't buy the cow when he can get the milk for free. Cover it up."
I think I make a distinction between women who wear revealing clothing because it makes them feel nice and confident (rock on!) and women who wear revealing clothing to attract the opposite (or same) sex. Which concerns me. But a part of feminism is that women should be able to wear whatever they want, without having to justify their actions to a predominantly male gaze. One of my favorite sections of The Vagina Monologues is called "My Short Skirt," and it ends defiantly and wonderfully with: "But mainly, my short skirt--and everything under it--are mine. Mine. Mine." We deserve to be respected, demand to be respected, no matter what we wear. But that's not the reality, is it?
I am worried for these girls (and I do mean girls). We were coming home late last Saturday night and drove by a student, walking alone, tottery in high heels, shivering, and wearing a very tiny dress. My friend who was driving slowed down a bit and we did a quick check of her as we went by. "Do you think she'll get home ok?" "I don't think she's drunk, she seems to be walking pretty straight." "Her friends must have left her at a party." "I wonder where her dorm is." "There are enough lights here that she should be ok, right?" We weren't fussing about her outfit, but about her safety. And that is a much, much bigger problem for more than just one girl, alone on a Saturday night.
At least I've got company in my mothering/judging tendencies. My close friends all joke about how we're like prematurely old ladies (the knitting, the wine, the love of Murder She Wrote, the early bedtimes, etc), but my new friends here are on much the same wavelength. A few weeks ago I was asking one about the home football game she had gone to, and she said, "it was really fun! Oh, except, oh..this is mortifying. There was this idiot drunken frat boy behind me, and he kept swearing, and finally I turned around and said, 'Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?!' And then realized I sounded exactly like MY mother, AND he was 5 years younger than me, and he looked at me like I was from another planet."
The summer after my first year of college I was working in the Children's Room of the public library in my home town, and a boy came up to me--he was probably about 9 years old--and said, "you look like my friend's mom! Are you his mom?" Since I was 19 at the time I was suitably horrified by this, and proceeded to wail about it on my break. One of the reference librarians told me that she was doing a tour once for a first grade class, and they kept telling her that their teacher, "Old Lady Rizzo," would be coming in soon. When she arrived, "Old Lady Rizzo" turned out to be in her early 20s, the point of this story being that to a 9 year old, anyone older than 18 looks like someones parent. And that I should just embrace it.
And the point of this post is that I might not agree or approve of what you are wearing and the message it gives off, but I will always defend your right to wear it, and to be proud of yourself. Even if you make me feel old. And maybe that doesn't make me quite so curmudgeonly, after all.
1. A worrying pain in both my knees. I do have one torn ACL, so that makes sense, but I think climbing into and hopping out of buses is doing them no favors. They also have been aching in the mornings when it is cold. This makes me feel approx. 105 years old.
2. This morning I was buying wine (amongst other things) at the grocery store, and the cashier kept staring at my ID and staring at me. I smiled in a sort of disarming way, and she handed it back, saying suspiciously, "well, I guess that's you. It looks enough like you. I also had trouble finding your birthdate on there." Now, the confusing nature of NY licenses is not really my fault, and if I were to use a fake ID, it would NOT be with the picture that is on my license. I look better now than I did at age 16, I feel pretty confident in saying. So maybe not looking like my license is actually complimentary? Either way, my 16 year old self seems to be mocking me, with her blondeness and youth and slightly surly mug-shot expression.
3. The way that underclassmen seem to look younger and younger every year. My senior year in undergrad, I thought the incoming first-year class looked like they were 15. It's even worse now.
This final point is the main crux of my curmudgeon tendencies of late, in that I've been seeing a lot of female students wearing leggings in place of pants, and my immediate mental reaction is something along the lines of, "please put on some pants. Do you want people to respect your mind or your body? What would Gloria Steinem say about this nonsense?!" I'm about two horrifying mental steps away from, "listen honey, he won't buy the cow when he can get the milk for free. Cover it up."
I think I make a distinction between women who wear revealing clothing because it makes them feel nice and confident (rock on!) and women who wear revealing clothing to attract the opposite (or same) sex. Which concerns me. But a part of feminism is that women should be able to wear whatever they want, without having to justify their actions to a predominantly male gaze. One of my favorite sections of The Vagina Monologues is called "My Short Skirt," and it ends defiantly and wonderfully with: "But mainly, my short skirt--and everything under it--are mine. Mine. Mine." We deserve to be respected, demand to be respected, no matter what we wear. But that's not the reality, is it?
I am worried for these girls (and I do mean girls). We were coming home late last Saturday night and drove by a student, walking alone, tottery in high heels, shivering, and wearing a very tiny dress. My friend who was driving slowed down a bit and we did a quick check of her as we went by. "Do you think she'll get home ok?" "I don't think she's drunk, she seems to be walking pretty straight." "Her friends must have left her at a party." "I wonder where her dorm is." "There are enough lights here that she should be ok, right?" We weren't fussing about her outfit, but about her safety. And that is a much, much bigger problem for more than just one girl, alone on a Saturday night.
At least I've got company in my mothering/judging tendencies. My close friends all joke about how we're like prematurely old ladies (the knitting, the wine, the love of Murder She Wrote, the early bedtimes, etc), but my new friends here are on much the same wavelength. A few weeks ago I was asking one about the home football game she had gone to, and she said, "it was really fun! Oh, except, oh..this is mortifying. There was this idiot drunken frat boy behind me, and he kept swearing, and finally I turned around and said, 'Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?!' And then realized I sounded exactly like MY mother, AND he was 5 years younger than me, and he looked at me like I was from another planet."
The summer after my first year of college I was working in the Children's Room of the public library in my home town, and a boy came up to me--he was probably about 9 years old--and said, "you look like my friend's mom! Are you his mom?" Since I was 19 at the time I was suitably horrified by this, and proceeded to wail about it on my break. One of the reference librarians told me that she was doing a tour once for a first grade class, and they kept telling her that their teacher, "Old Lady Rizzo," would be coming in soon. When she arrived, "Old Lady Rizzo" turned out to be in her early 20s, the point of this story being that to a 9 year old, anyone older than 18 looks like someones parent. And that I should just embrace it.
And the point of this post is that I might not agree or approve of what you are wearing and the message it gives off, but I will always defend your right to wear it, and to be proud of yourself. Even if you make me feel old. And maybe that doesn't make me quite so curmudgeonly, after all.
Tuesday, 19 October 2010
David Sedaris
I've never been big on book signings, but David Sedaris seems to be the exception to the rule. I wasn't planning on waiting around until the small hours of the morning to meet him, but that is what happened a few weeks ago, when he came to do a reading at the IU Auditorium.
Here is why I wanted to meet David Sedaris:
1. His books have actually made me laugh out loud, in public, and have been familiar things to read when I'm scared or stressed in a new place.
2. His reading of the Santaland Diaries for This American Life got me through working retail in NYC last year. I listened to it a freakish amount, and it always helped to remind me that it could be worse. I could be wearing an elf costume and getting yelled at, instead of just getting yelled at. Also, his rendition of Away in a Manger, sung like Billie Holiday, is gold.
3. He sums up how I feel about so many things, except in a way that is funnier than me. Sallie Mae, language classes, Dutch Christmas legends, the way Americans act in Paris, the importance of soap operas, his love songs to NYC, the manicness of his family--all of it.
4. One of my best friends from home wanted to come out for it and couldn't, and I wanted to have a good report back for her.
David Sedaris is one of those people who is funny in print, but even better when read aloud. I have never been in an auditorium where there was so much laughing, howling even. I was next to these two older women from South Bend, and they were both doubled over for most of the night. His writing can be raunchy and downright disturbing, but there is always a kernel of truth to it, that makes you think in the midst of all the absurdities. It sounds like a cliche, but parts of his stories make you laugh one line and then tear up the next. After hearing him read, I decided to buy his newest book, Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk, a sort of book of animal fables, which he calls a bestiary, because, as he put "fables tend to imply that there are morals involved, and I don't have any of those." (sidenote: this is a DARKLY funny book. I'm not sure what to make of it, although I did very much like it by the end. If you like DS, you would like it. If you normally don't, you would decidedly not.)
What is cool is that Sedaris tries out some of his newer material on the audience, and judging by their reaction, tweaks it or adds it to the book he is currently working on. The best part was his reading of excerpts from his diary. He edits at the podium, too--you can see him circling things or crossing them out or putting stars next to them, or he'll say things like, "oops, wrong placed apostrophe! Apologies."
So afterwards I joined many other people in line, which seemed to not go forward at all as the hours went by. The reason the line was taking so long is because Sedaris spends seriously 5 minutes with each person. And the line kind of turned into a big party--people were reading his books out loud, ordering pizza and sandwiches to the line, giggling about his police protection--who looked like identical twins, or lying down coats and taking a nap. People had taken the train in from Chicago, some had 8 am classes, the woman next to me was in town from Sarasota, and we all stayed. "He'll stay until he's met everyone," said the booksellers. I wasn't the end of the line, by a long shot, and I didn't get to meet him until 2 am.
My first impression was how TIRED he looked, with redrimmed eyes and the stubble start of a beard. At the reading, he'd mentioned that his flight had gotten canceled that morning, and I checked later and he was reading in Atlanta later that day. Book tours must be exhausting, all that hand shaking and forced cheerfulness. Except, with him, it WASN'T forced. I managed to tamp down my first inclination, which was to say, "god, you poor man, you look so tired." Instead, I said (very suavely! HA), "thank you for staying here so late. I'm glad you did."
"My pleasure," he said, with a smile. Then he asked some questions about me, and who the books were for, and we discussed lawnmowers (the inscription in mine says something about lawnmowers--don't ask), and then out of nowhere, he said, "are you here alone tonight?" (when I told this to the friend who so graciously picked me up, she gasped and said, "was he trying to SEDUCE YOU?!" I had to explain that's he's gay and been monogamously partnered for years.)
"I am," I replied. (I actually ended up having a seat near an acquaintance--neither of us knew beforehand that the other was going to be there--but like any normal person she had managed to snag him for a signing before the show, and was now presumably asleep.)
"Well!" Sedaris said, pulling a box out from under his chair. "Then I have something for you. Here are some business cards that say, 'Stop Talking' on them. You can hand them out to annoying people at movies, or people on their phones, whatever. And it's much more polite than saying 'Shut Up', or something."
"People on their cell phones are the worst, especially on the bus!!" I said. And then we had a nice little vent about why we dislike cell phones. And then we shook hands. I said goodbye to the people in line, and went home to read.
I said nothing witty or interesting, but I did make him laugh at one point, and was totally starstruck. And he was so nice. If you like his work and have a chance to see him, I would so recommend it.
For more on David Sedaris, if you are uninitiated, here is a bio. Check out here for some of his audio, including the Santaland Diaries. And here for a fairly comprehensive older interview. And finally, an abstract for his newest New Yorker article, and a past one on voting, since I just watched the NY gubernatorial debates (which were, by the way, as funny and heartbreaking as David Sedaris so often is.)
Here is why I wanted to meet David Sedaris:
1. His books have actually made me laugh out loud, in public, and have been familiar things to read when I'm scared or stressed in a new place.
2. His reading of the Santaland Diaries for This American Life got me through working retail in NYC last year. I listened to it a freakish amount, and it always helped to remind me that it could be worse. I could be wearing an elf costume and getting yelled at, instead of just getting yelled at. Also, his rendition of Away in a Manger, sung like Billie Holiday, is gold.
3. He sums up how I feel about so many things, except in a way that is funnier than me. Sallie Mae, language classes, Dutch Christmas legends, the way Americans act in Paris, the importance of soap operas, his love songs to NYC, the manicness of his family--all of it.
4. One of my best friends from home wanted to come out for it and couldn't, and I wanted to have a good report back for her.
David Sedaris is one of those people who is funny in print, but even better when read aloud. I have never been in an auditorium where there was so much laughing, howling even. I was next to these two older women from South Bend, and they were both doubled over for most of the night. His writing can be raunchy and downright disturbing, but there is always a kernel of truth to it, that makes you think in the midst of all the absurdities. It sounds like a cliche, but parts of his stories make you laugh one line and then tear up the next. After hearing him read, I decided to buy his newest book, Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk, a sort of book of animal fables, which he calls a bestiary, because, as he put "fables tend to imply that there are morals involved, and I don't have any of those." (sidenote: this is a DARKLY funny book. I'm not sure what to make of it, although I did very much like it by the end. If you like DS, you would like it. If you normally don't, you would decidedly not.)
What is cool is that Sedaris tries out some of his newer material on the audience, and judging by their reaction, tweaks it or adds it to the book he is currently working on. The best part was his reading of excerpts from his diary. He edits at the podium, too--you can see him circling things or crossing them out or putting stars next to them, or he'll say things like, "oops, wrong placed apostrophe! Apologies."
So afterwards I joined many other people in line, which seemed to not go forward at all as the hours went by. The reason the line was taking so long is because Sedaris spends seriously 5 minutes with each person. And the line kind of turned into a big party--people were reading his books out loud, ordering pizza and sandwiches to the line, giggling about his police protection--who looked like identical twins, or lying down coats and taking a nap. People had taken the train in from Chicago, some had 8 am classes, the woman next to me was in town from Sarasota, and we all stayed. "He'll stay until he's met everyone," said the booksellers. I wasn't the end of the line, by a long shot, and I didn't get to meet him until 2 am.
My first impression was how TIRED he looked, with redrimmed eyes and the stubble start of a beard. At the reading, he'd mentioned that his flight had gotten canceled that morning, and I checked later and he was reading in Atlanta later that day. Book tours must be exhausting, all that hand shaking and forced cheerfulness. Except, with him, it WASN'T forced. I managed to tamp down my first inclination, which was to say, "god, you poor man, you look so tired." Instead, I said (very suavely! HA), "thank you for staying here so late. I'm glad you did."
"My pleasure," he said, with a smile. Then he asked some questions about me, and who the books were for, and we discussed lawnmowers (the inscription in mine says something about lawnmowers--don't ask), and then out of nowhere, he said, "are you here alone tonight?" (when I told this to the friend who so graciously picked me up, she gasped and said, "was he trying to SEDUCE YOU?!" I had to explain that's he's gay and been monogamously partnered for years.)
"I am," I replied. (I actually ended up having a seat near an acquaintance--neither of us knew beforehand that the other was going to be there--but like any normal person she had managed to snag him for a signing before the show, and was now presumably asleep.)
"Well!" Sedaris said, pulling a box out from under his chair. "Then I have something for you. Here are some business cards that say, 'Stop Talking' on them. You can hand them out to annoying people at movies, or people on their phones, whatever. And it's much more polite than saying 'Shut Up', or something."
"People on their cell phones are the worst, especially on the bus!!" I said. And then we had a nice little vent about why we dislike cell phones. And then we shook hands. I said goodbye to the people in line, and went home to read.
I said nothing witty or interesting, but I did make him laugh at one point, and was totally starstruck. And he was so nice. If you like his work and have a chance to see him, I would so recommend it.
For more on David Sedaris, if you are uninitiated, here is a bio. Check out here for some of his audio, including the Santaland Diaries. And here for a fairly comprehensive older interview. And finally, an abstract for his newest New Yorker article, and a past one on voting, since I just watched the NY gubernatorial debates (which were, by the way, as funny and heartbreaking as David Sedaris so often is.)
Friday, 15 October 2010
Frustrations
It's before 10 pm on a Friday night and I am in my pajamas, in bed. I am actually really thrilled about this, as it's been a frustrating few days--in minor ways that bother me slightly and slightly until I finally realize what has been frustrating about it. (More on that in a minute.) Today wasn't frustrating at all, though! I had some meetings (ok, a little frustrating) but also good, heartfelt chats with two other grad students. We're all trying to work through some of the feelings of inadequacy you have when you start grad school--my main one, I think, is gaps in theory, while someone else is worried about reading critically, or articulating our thoughts in class without being intimidated, or time management, things like that. It's nice to talk that over with someone. And then I went over to my sister's roommate's parents--could that be any more confusing?--house for dinner, which was great: crab enchiladas, avocado salad, pumpkin beer, and persimmon puddings, plus a game of Quiddler after dinner for good measure. They are super sweet people. And getting off campus makes for a very nice change.
But anyway, frustrations, which upon reflection fall under the broad umbrella of xenophobia. The first (and worst) instance happened on Tuesday night, at a talk given by my Islamic Art professor at the rare books library. She was talking about Islamic book arts from the 7th-10th centuries, with some snacks afterward, and a chance to look up close at some of the books. So I'd just settled in with my glass of wine for the in-depth viewing when the woman seated behind me spoke up. She is an older woman who I've seen at a few other art events, and the first genuinely grumpy person I have met here. She has a cane and I truly believe she would hit me with it. Here's what happened:
Older woman, to my professor: Are you a Muslim?
Professor, smiling: Ah, I'm equidistant from all religions. Because I'm an academic.
Older woman: Your first name is Christiane, isn't it? Isn't it interesting that you're not studying Christian art. Your first name should be Moslema or something. [the friend I'm sitting next to jabs me in the ribs at this point]
Professor: Well, as you can tell by my name, I'm likely not from a Muslim tradition! I study Islamic art because I find it beautiful and interesting. The religion, and my religion, have no bearing on it.
My professor handled it really well, but it was mortifying for all concerned. First of all, the assumption that you would study something solely based on your religion is pretty offensive, and it is something that is NEVER asked of Christian art historians. I can almost guarantee that. And the way she quizzed my professor was so accusatory, which probably has to do with the fact that my professor is young. Then there is the underlying idea that non-Western art is not worth studying unless you're a Muslim or a Buddhist, say, because those are the only people who would be interested in it--because it's not "real" art. Infuriating.
Related, and a more broad-ranging frustration, is the general xenophobia of every Western art history text I've read this semester, written before, say, 1980. I'm sure there are many unbiased, lovely texts from this period, but I haven't met them yet. The Italian bias is especially starting to really bother me, which is problematic since I study Italian art. For example, I had to read a book this week on Rembrandt, where the author's thesis was that Rembrandt was an offensive and repulsive artist until he finally accepted Vasari and Italian art theory into his life and then he was slightly a less offensive and repulsive artist. And this is from a book ON Rembrandt. Everything I read about him was comparing him to Titian, or wanting to imitate Italian artists and not being quite good enough. And there is so much underlying misogyny. I've learned to accept it from primary sources, indeed, expect it, but when it's scholars' misogyny and I don't have a proper classroom outlet for talking about it...blahh!
These are not major events, but they do point to an underlying trend of religious and cultural intolerance that I don't know what to do with. And the privileging of one culture over another. I love Italian art history. But sometimes I really, really wish I studied something else.
PS Today is my MAMA'S BIRTHDAY!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!! xoxoxoxoxxo ...Which also means I am 23 and a half. It's been a whizz-bang year so far!
But anyway, frustrations, which upon reflection fall under the broad umbrella of xenophobia. The first (and worst) instance happened on Tuesday night, at a talk given by my Islamic Art professor at the rare books library. She was talking about Islamic book arts from the 7th-10th centuries, with some snacks afterward, and a chance to look up close at some of the books. So I'd just settled in with my glass of wine for the in-depth viewing when the woman seated behind me spoke up. She is an older woman who I've seen at a few other art events, and the first genuinely grumpy person I have met here. She has a cane and I truly believe she would hit me with it. Here's what happened:
Older woman, to my professor: Are you a Muslim?
Professor, smiling: Ah, I'm equidistant from all religions. Because I'm an academic.
Older woman: Your first name is Christiane, isn't it? Isn't it interesting that you're not studying Christian art. Your first name should be Moslema or something. [the friend I'm sitting next to jabs me in the ribs at this point]
Professor: Well, as you can tell by my name, I'm likely not from a Muslim tradition! I study Islamic art because I find it beautiful and interesting. The religion, and my religion, have no bearing on it.
My professor handled it really well, but it was mortifying for all concerned. First of all, the assumption that you would study something solely based on your religion is pretty offensive, and it is something that is NEVER asked of Christian art historians. I can almost guarantee that. And the way she quizzed my professor was so accusatory, which probably has to do with the fact that my professor is young. Then there is the underlying idea that non-Western art is not worth studying unless you're a Muslim or a Buddhist, say, because those are the only people who would be interested in it--because it's not "real" art. Infuriating.
Related, and a more broad-ranging frustration, is the general xenophobia of every Western art history text I've read this semester, written before, say, 1980. I'm sure there are many unbiased, lovely texts from this period, but I haven't met them yet. The Italian bias is especially starting to really bother me, which is problematic since I study Italian art. For example, I had to read a book this week on Rembrandt, where the author's thesis was that Rembrandt was an offensive and repulsive artist until he finally accepted Vasari and Italian art theory into his life and then he was slightly a less offensive and repulsive artist. And this is from a book ON Rembrandt. Everything I read about him was comparing him to Titian, or wanting to imitate Italian artists and not being quite good enough. And there is so much underlying misogyny. I've learned to accept it from primary sources, indeed, expect it, but when it's scholars' misogyny and I don't have a proper classroom outlet for talking about it...blahh!
These are not major events, but they do point to an underlying trend of religious and cultural intolerance that I don't know what to do with. And the privileging of one culture over another. I love Italian art history. But sometimes I really, really wish I studied something else.
PS Today is my MAMA'S BIRTHDAY!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!! xoxoxoxoxxo ...Which also means I am 23 and a half. It's been a whizz-bang year so far!
Tuesday, 12 October 2010
Focus On: Robert Henri & Edith Haworth
This art of the week from the IU Art Museum is a portrait done by an American painter, Robert Henri (1865-1929). I didn't know anything about him until some digging on the internets this morning, and he is a pretty interesting guy! Not related to his art, I suppose, but when he was a child, his father founded two towns, and then got into a dispute with a rancher and killed him and the family had to change their names and go into hiding.
More pertinently, Henri was trained in France, but eschewed Academy education and Impressionism as being too limiting and "academic". An ardent realist, he is now associated with the Ashcan School. He was a long time teacher at the New York School of Art and the Art Students League of New York, where his pupils included George Bellows, Rockwell Kent, Edward Hopper, and Lillian Cotton. What I like about him is that he was a bit of an anarchist and after he was elected to the National Academy of Design in 1906, he often tried to undermine them, and would set up his own, independent exhibitions that were much more egalitarian.
Anyway, all of that is just a precursor to this loveliness:
(Robert Henri, Portrait of Edith Haworth, 1909. Thanks to IU's online database for the image!)
I really, really like this portrait. When you see it in person, it is so LIVELY, which you can tell from this image, too. There is a wonderful quality of movement throughout, stemming from those quick and energetic brushstrokes, especially evident along the sleeve. Somewhere I read that Henri was influenced by Velazquez while studying in Europe, which I could see. Edith Haworth was a former student of Henri's who was moving to France. He painted this portrait of her when she stopped by his studio to say goodbye. I wasn't able to find out much about her, although she is mentioned in quite a few anthologies of American Art.
The best part of this work is Edith Haworth's face. It's got such a personality, which might be her as much as Henri! Her mouth is set in this great half-smile, like he was saying something witty or silly, something that your friend might say if they were painting you to try and make you laugh. She looks indulgently and wistfully towards (presumably) the artist, perhaps sad to be leaving, perhaps excited to start this next phase of her life. She's an enigma. I bet she was fun. I wish I knew her.
More pertinently, Henri was trained in France, but eschewed Academy education and Impressionism as being too limiting and "academic". An ardent realist, he is now associated with the Ashcan School. He was a long time teacher at the New York School of Art and the Art Students League of New York, where his pupils included George Bellows, Rockwell Kent, Edward Hopper, and Lillian Cotton. What I like about him is that he was a bit of an anarchist and after he was elected to the National Academy of Design in 1906, he often tried to undermine them, and would set up his own, independent exhibitions that were much more egalitarian.
Anyway, all of that is just a precursor to this loveliness:
(Robert Henri, Portrait of Edith Haworth, 1909. Thanks to IU's online database for the image!)I really, really like this portrait. When you see it in person, it is so LIVELY, which you can tell from this image, too. There is a wonderful quality of movement throughout, stemming from those quick and energetic brushstrokes, especially evident along the sleeve. Somewhere I read that Henri was influenced by Velazquez while studying in Europe, which I could see. Edith Haworth was a former student of Henri's who was moving to France. He painted this portrait of her when she stopped by his studio to say goodbye. I wasn't able to find out much about her, although she is mentioned in quite a few anthologies of American Art.
The best part of this work is Edith Haworth's face. It's got such a personality, which might be her as much as Henri! Her mouth is set in this great half-smile, like he was saying something witty or silly, something that your friend might say if they were painting you to try and make you laugh. She looks indulgently and wistfully towards (presumably) the artist, perhaps sad to be leaving, perhaps excited to start this next phase of her life. She's an enigma. I bet she was fun. I wish I knew her.
Saturday, 9 October 2010
Practice
Q: How do you get to Carnegie Hall?
A: Practice.
--my friend Jenna's favorite joke, when we were in the 5th grade
I finally found the practice rooms here, and let me tell you--there is nothing quite so demoralizing as practicing in a music conservatory when you are not enrolled in said music conservatory, and you can barely remember key signatures. It is also much harder to find available rooms, since people practice all the time. I don't know if any of you ever used the practice rooms at my undergrad, but (T-Saur can attest to this, if she is reading), they are really, really bad, which also meant that they were usually deserted. I started using the piano in the art department because, while not as private as I'd like, it is so aesthetically pleasing. The practice rooms here, though, as they are accommodating a different caliber of students, are equipped with grand pianos. Yes, some are looking a little worse for wear, but when I get to play a Steinway, even with paint flaking off it, I am pretty delighted.
My friend Jenna, of the Carnegie Hall joke, got her BFA at Eastman, so I know a little bit about the conservatory mentality from visiting her and hearing stories (although the moral of most of those is that musicians drink more than anyone I've ever met, and it doesn't seem to faze them). But other than people watching the conservatory kids, the BEST part about practicing here is the cacophony of sounds that can be heard when you wander the halls of the school of music. It's a circular building, so when you go inside, the halls curve around into almost a figure-8 shape on each floor. If you just keep walking and looping you end up back at the door where you started. Initially, I didn't know which floor had practice rooms with pianos, so I went up to the fifth floor and walked my way down, and on each floor the sounds were different!
There was a symphony (I think) rehearsal happening on the top floor. When I got out of the stairwell the first thing I saw was at least 30 'cello and bass cases. And my first thought was, "they look monster exoskeletons" which is weird until you realize that it was sort of twilight, and I could have fit inside most of those cases, so it was a little surreal. The next floor down was jazz, underneath them was drums, and underneath that was piano and organ, which is where I ended. String people often practice in the piano rooms so they can pick out melodies on the pianos too, so those sounds were also mixed in.
It reminded me of these CDs that my sistah and I used to listen to when we were little--Mr Bach Comes to Call, and Mozart's Magic Fantasy, I think. And we watched Beethoven Lives Upstairs so many times that I think we've probably still got it memorized. They were AWESOME. And they always started with these kids hanging out with people who were practicing and tuning up (I always love that sound) and running around doing last minute things before a performance. That noise, all of those noises combined, just sounds like creativity to me.
Tangentially, we've been talking about aurality a lot in my Islamic Art class, because mosques are not meant to be silent spaces. The Qu'ran actually means "recitations" and that is how it is really meant to be understood, almost as a rap or chant. That's why minarets are so important--they call to worship, much like bells and bell towers do. We had a quiz on the Great Mosque of Cordoba this week, and one of the interesting (and straight up awful) developments was that it was reconquested by the Christians, who built a cathedral on TOP of it, and turned the minaret into a belltower--they weren't just fighting over the space, they were fighting over the aural space. In 997, the bells were stolen from the cathedral at Santiago de Compostela, and brought to Cordoba on the backs of Christian prisoners. The mosque leaders turned the bells into mosque-lamps, as a symbolic gesture of their dominance. In 1236, during the reconquest, the bells were returned to Santiago de Compostela--on the backs of Muslim prisoners.
A depressing closing for a post about the joys of playing the piano and musical expression, but that jumble of sounds, the mixing of voices and scrapping chairs and tuning forks, turns into something that (without being too dramatic!) is sublime. My piano teacher in high school used to say that music was the most transient and wonderful of arts, because it was always, always different, every time you played something. It connects to the visual in wonderful ways, too. So go out there, and listen.
A: Practice.
--my friend Jenna's favorite joke, when we were in the 5th grade
I finally found the practice rooms here, and let me tell you--there is nothing quite so demoralizing as practicing in a music conservatory when you are not enrolled in said music conservatory, and you can barely remember key signatures. It is also much harder to find available rooms, since people practice all the time. I don't know if any of you ever used the practice rooms at my undergrad, but (T-Saur can attest to this, if she is reading), they are really, really bad, which also meant that they were usually deserted. I started using the piano in the art department because, while not as private as I'd like, it is so aesthetically pleasing. The practice rooms here, though, as they are accommodating a different caliber of students, are equipped with grand pianos. Yes, some are looking a little worse for wear, but when I get to play a Steinway, even with paint flaking off it, I am pretty delighted.
My friend Jenna, of the Carnegie Hall joke, got her BFA at Eastman, so I know a little bit about the conservatory mentality from visiting her and hearing stories (although the moral of most of those is that musicians drink more than anyone I've ever met, and it doesn't seem to faze them). But other than people watching the conservatory kids, the BEST part about practicing here is the cacophony of sounds that can be heard when you wander the halls of the school of music. It's a circular building, so when you go inside, the halls curve around into almost a figure-8 shape on each floor. If you just keep walking and looping you end up back at the door where you started. Initially, I didn't know which floor had practice rooms with pianos, so I went up to the fifth floor and walked my way down, and on each floor the sounds were different!
There was a symphony (I think) rehearsal happening on the top floor. When I got out of the stairwell the first thing I saw was at least 30 'cello and bass cases. And my first thought was, "they look monster exoskeletons" which is weird until you realize that it was sort of twilight, and I could have fit inside most of those cases, so it was a little surreal. The next floor down was jazz, underneath them was drums, and underneath that was piano and organ, which is where I ended. String people often practice in the piano rooms so they can pick out melodies on the pianos too, so those sounds were also mixed in.
It reminded me of these CDs that my sistah and I used to listen to when we were little--Mr Bach Comes to Call, and Mozart's Magic Fantasy, I think. And we watched Beethoven Lives Upstairs so many times that I think we've probably still got it memorized. They were AWESOME. And they always started with these kids hanging out with people who were practicing and tuning up (I always love that sound) and running around doing last minute things before a performance. That noise, all of those noises combined, just sounds like creativity to me.
Tangentially, we've been talking about aurality a lot in my Islamic Art class, because mosques are not meant to be silent spaces. The Qu'ran actually means "recitations" and that is how it is really meant to be understood, almost as a rap or chant. That's why minarets are so important--they call to worship, much like bells and bell towers do. We had a quiz on the Great Mosque of Cordoba this week, and one of the interesting (and straight up awful) developments was that it was reconquested by the Christians, who built a cathedral on TOP of it, and turned the minaret into a belltower--they weren't just fighting over the space, they were fighting over the aural space. In 997, the bells were stolen from the cathedral at Santiago de Compostela, and brought to Cordoba on the backs of Christian prisoners. The mosque leaders turned the bells into mosque-lamps, as a symbolic gesture of their dominance. In 1236, during the reconquest, the bells were returned to Santiago de Compostela--on the backs of Muslim prisoners.
A depressing closing for a post about the joys of playing the piano and musical expression, but that jumble of sounds, the mixing of voices and scrapping chairs and tuning forks, turns into something that (without being too dramatic!) is sublime. My piano teacher in high school used to say that music was the most transient and wonderful of arts, because it was always, always different, every time you played something. It connects to the visual in wonderful ways, too. So go out there, and listen.
Tuesday, 5 October 2010
All Art, All the Time
Perhaps the oddest thing for me about grad school is that I am only hanging out with art historians and art students. Until now I've really only had one good art history friend who was my age, and through some weirdness we only had one class together, and it wasn't until our senior year. So I've never really had that many people my own age to gush about art historical stuff with, or even to study with.
That's kind of all changed now. We definitely talk about things other than art, of course, but the talk always seems to morph into that, even when we're having beers at The Vid (The Vid being, other than the Mojos, the dive-ist bar I've ever been in. Clean, certainly, but dive-y, also yes.) This could become a problem down the road, I think. I really like having friends who are interested in other things, so I'm worried that I'll get stuck in a rut here. I love art history, don't get me wrong, but I don't want to think about it ALL the TIME. Happily, most of the other students seem to be in the same mindset, so hopefully it won't be too constraining. And I have my other, closer (if not necessarily in distance) friends to keep me grounded in the real world, and thank goodness for that!
The nice thing is that I feel less like an enthusiastic art freak, which is sometimes how I felt in undergrad. I sometimes felt like I had to tamp down my responses in class to seem not quite so engaged or excited. Which is silly. I feel like the nerd factor is higher here, but I'm also not alone in it. Some examples:
on the bus:
My friend: Look at that VW.
Me: What a weird color! It looks kind of like a shimmery oil spill.
My friend: I think it looks like that sleeve in the Allegory of Painting.
Me: Oh, true that. Especially that purple-y bit.
Other friend: Yo, nerd alert, you two. Remember, we're on the bus.
Another friend, to me: That's a cute cardigan. You know what the feather design reminds me of? Daphne's leaf-hands.
Me: did you get a mocha?
Another friend: Nah, I just got a regular coffee. I'm avoiding temptation. Like St Jerome.
Me: Did you just make a Jerome reference?!
(note: that fact that someone other than me is making Jerome references in normal conversation is very refreshing. I try not to do that too often.)
Me, walking into the art building before an Islamic test: Hey.
Another friend: Hey. Hazarbaf. Define, ready...go!
And these are the things I'm remembering from the past 3 days. But at least it's reassuring that when I start living at the library, as will be happening over the next few weeks, these people will be there with me.
That's kind of all changed now. We definitely talk about things other than art, of course, but the talk always seems to morph into that, even when we're having beers at The Vid (The Vid being, other than the Mojos, the dive-ist bar I've ever been in. Clean, certainly, but dive-y, also yes.) This could become a problem down the road, I think. I really like having friends who are interested in other things, so I'm worried that I'll get stuck in a rut here. I love art history, don't get me wrong, but I don't want to think about it ALL the TIME. Happily, most of the other students seem to be in the same mindset, so hopefully it won't be too constraining. And I have my other, closer (if not necessarily in distance) friends to keep me grounded in the real world, and thank goodness for that!
The nice thing is that I feel less like an enthusiastic art freak, which is sometimes how I felt in undergrad. I sometimes felt like I had to tamp down my responses in class to seem not quite so engaged or excited. Which is silly. I feel like the nerd factor is higher here, but I'm also not alone in it. Some examples:
on the bus:
My friend: Look at that VW.
Me: What a weird color! It looks kind of like a shimmery oil spill.
My friend: I think it looks like that sleeve in the Allegory of Painting.
Me: Oh, true that. Especially that purple-y bit.
Other friend: Yo, nerd alert, you two. Remember, we're on the bus.
Another friend, to me: That's a cute cardigan. You know what the feather design reminds me of? Daphne's leaf-hands.
Me: did you get a mocha?
Another friend: Nah, I just got a regular coffee. I'm avoiding temptation. Like St Jerome.
Me: Did you just make a Jerome reference?!
(note: that fact that someone other than me is making Jerome references in normal conversation is very refreshing. I try not to do that too often.)
Me, walking into the art building before an Islamic test: Hey.
Another friend: Hey. Hazarbaf. Define, ready...go!
And these are the things I'm remembering from the past 3 days. But at least it's reassuring that when I start living at the library, as will be happening over the next few weeks, these people will be there with me.
Saturday, 2 October 2010
Il Barbiere di Siviglia
I like opera (love opera, if we're talkin' Mozart) and I especially like operas where there is a lot of cross-dressing and espionage and mistaken identity and gratuitous silliness. So even though I had never seen The Barber of Seville (or Il Barbiere di Siviglia, if you prefer) before last night, I knew that I would probably enjoy it. And I did!
(ok, technically that is the Rabbit of Seville, which you can watch here. I've had Bugs Bunny's version stuck in my head all. day. Thanks to filmsnobbery.com for the image!)
On my third day of orientation, I decided it would be a good idea to buy season opera and ballet tickets, because 1. if I waited I would make up excuses (cost, busy-ness) not to do it, 2. as aforementioned, I like opera, and 3. it's cool that there are actually operas here. The Jacobs School of Music is a conservatory (a thumping good one, it turns out) which is a part of IU, and they put on six operas a year, as well as three ballets. Tickets for all of these costs less than one ticket for a not very good seat at the Met. It turns out that one of my sister students likes opera too, so we went to dinner and then headed over. Dinner, by the way, at El Norteno on Walnut--decently priced, fast service, tasty enchiladas, complimentary chips, cold beer. Also, there is a large stained glass window that takes up almost the whole back wall of the restaurant. Lovely.
(thanks to the Jacobs School for the image. You can see, sort of, the rather nice Calder sculpture at the left.)
The theater itself is very modern looking with a purple and orange (!!) color scheme with white, bubble-like boxes. For whatever reason, it works surprisingly well. And the opera! I honestly thought the singing was comparable to ones I've seen at the Met, and probably a little bit better than Chautauqua. The orchestra had a few problems--there were certain points when they were just slightly behind (or ahead) of the singers. There is one point where about 8 people are singing at once, at slightly different tempos, and the orchestra had a little problem with that. But overall, it was great. I don't think the music is that glorious, but the famous Figaro aria (you know: Figaro Figaro Fiiiiiggggaaaarrrooo la la la la la, that one) is pretty darn cool. And he sang it while hopping on and off a bed, which is also cool. (for another version, check this out.) I was initially underwhelmed by Almaviva, mainly because his wig looked too much like a mullet, but he turned out to be very good. I think Dr Bartolo totally stole the show though--he was a perfect mix of pompous and vulnerable.
What was also great was that no one booed. This seems like an odd thing to say, but people at the Met do. Boo, I mean. I told my friend this, and she responded, "Sweet Jesus, what do they think it is, a Roman Colosseum?" I can't explain it. It does crack me up that something so "high brow" has such a "low brow" side to it, although it's also infuriating at the same time. I have never been to an opera at the Met where the people around me were not complaining about something. Granted, the man behind us last night was pretty grumpy because they turned the end of Act 1 into something sort of surrealist, but by and large people were happy, and STAYED UNTIL THE END OF THE CURTAIN CALLS. It was very refreshing.
Oh, one more thing--the sets were phenomenal. It was a rotating stage that switched from outside Bartolo's house, to Figaro's house, to the inside of Bartolo's house, which had all these rotating panels and the like. It worked very well.
The Jacobs School of Music, I just learned while looking up images, streams some of the operas LIVE, and also has videos of past performances and podcasts, all on their homepage. It is set up really well, so do check that out. And because Bugs Bunny isn't silly enough, here are the King's Singers doing the overture, a'capella style.
(ok, technically that is the Rabbit of Seville, which you can watch here. I've had Bugs Bunny's version stuck in my head all. day. Thanks to filmsnobbery.com for the image!)On my third day of orientation, I decided it would be a good idea to buy season opera and ballet tickets, because 1. if I waited I would make up excuses (cost, busy-ness) not to do it, 2. as aforementioned, I like opera, and 3. it's cool that there are actually operas here. The Jacobs School of Music is a conservatory (a thumping good one, it turns out) which is a part of IU, and they put on six operas a year, as well as three ballets. Tickets for all of these costs less than one ticket for a not very good seat at the Met. It turns out that one of my sister students likes opera too, so we went to dinner and then headed over. Dinner, by the way, at El Norteno on Walnut--decently priced, fast service, tasty enchiladas, complimentary chips, cold beer. Also, there is a large stained glass window that takes up almost the whole back wall of the restaurant. Lovely.
(thanks to the Jacobs School for the image. You can see, sort of, the rather nice Calder sculpture at the left.)The theater itself is very modern looking with a purple and orange (!!) color scheme with white, bubble-like boxes. For whatever reason, it works surprisingly well. And the opera! I honestly thought the singing was comparable to ones I've seen at the Met, and probably a little bit better than Chautauqua. The orchestra had a few problems--there were certain points when they were just slightly behind (or ahead) of the singers. There is one point where about 8 people are singing at once, at slightly different tempos, and the orchestra had a little problem with that. But overall, it was great. I don't think the music is that glorious, but the famous Figaro aria (you know: Figaro Figaro Fiiiiiggggaaaarrrooo la la la la la, that one) is pretty darn cool. And he sang it while hopping on and off a bed, which is also cool. (for another version, check this out.) I was initially underwhelmed by Almaviva, mainly because his wig looked too much like a mullet, but he turned out to be very good. I think Dr Bartolo totally stole the show though--he was a perfect mix of pompous and vulnerable.
What was also great was that no one booed. This seems like an odd thing to say, but people at the Met do. Boo, I mean. I told my friend this, and she responded, "Sweet Jesus, what do they think it is, a Roman Colosseum?" I can't explain it. It does crack me up that something so "high brow" has such a "low brow" side to it, although it's also infuriating at the same time. I have never been to an opera at the Met where the people around me were not complaining about something. Granted, the man behind us last night was pretty grumpy because they turned the end of Act 1 into something sort of surrealist, but by and large people were happy, and STAYED UNTIL THE END OF THE CURTAIN CALLS. It was very refreshing.
Oh, one more thing--the sets were phenomenal. It was a rotating stage that switched from outside Bartolo's house, to Figaro's house, to the inside of Bartolo's house, which had all these rotating panels and the like. It worked very well.
The Jacobs School of Music, I just learned while looking up images, streams some of the operas LIVE, and also has videos of past performances and podcasts, all on their homepage. It is set up really well, so do check that out. And because Bugs Bunny isn't silly enough, here are the King's Singers doing the overture, a'capella style.
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