I stayed in tonight to catch up on some work before my sister gets here in ONE WEEK and I go to Albany/NYC in TWO WEEKS for spring break. And before I start an Italian take home test (rockin' Saturday night, this) I took a break to look at some pretty amazing mail: The Flash Drive.
This deserves an explanation. Almost two years ago, one of my friends from my hometown got a free flash drive, and decided that we should mail it to each other, like those girls do with jeans in The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. (If you don't know it, TSofTP is a series of books about four friends who are separated during the summers during high school, so they send a pair of pants back and forth to each other.) So we've been doing the same with the flash drive. There are also four of us, in slightly different places--the art teacher-bartender in New Paltz, the early childhood-toddler educator in Jamestown, the Republican Senator staff assistant in Erie (and yes, we have an unspoken pact to not talk politics around each other--this is what you get for being friends with someone since the age of five, before either of you have formed political opinions..), and me.
So we mail the flash drive to each other, usually in the same order, and each time add music, recipes to the recipe file, and a letter to the person you're sending it to. We don't talk as much on a regular basis as we used to when we all lived in the same place, and certainly less than I talk to my college friends, who I'm in fairly frequent contact with. So this process is a really lovely way to keep track of day to day things--the letters are usually about the weather, how work was that day, and general things that are going on. You delete your past letter before you send it on--in looking at mine, it was written right before I moved to Indiana, so that was a reminder of how nervous I was. And included this, "Just counted and I've packed 22 scarves. Absurd. But at least I should I should look the art historian part, right? Come visit and we can drive to Kentucky!!"
Included in the envelope with the flash drive is usually random papers, CDs, and last time, a sweet Pirates of the Caribbean nightlight, which is in use in my bathroom. This time my friend has included a drawing she did of the four of us from a photo that we took after winning at bar trivia a few summers ago. I will probably keep it and substitute a drawing of my own. Last time I think I stuck in an article about Van Gogh that I had cut out of the Smithsonian, because they all took French in high school. There are no rules for this thing, and that's the best part.
The recipe folder gets better every time--I've made the beer bread, quiche (cheap and filling, excellent) and the red pepper-tortellini soup, and am excited to try the Spinach-Artichoke pizza this week, and the lemon bars sometime in the near future. The music represents us all really well, too. I love receiving mix tapes and CDs but am terrible at compiling them, as I never have "new" music to add--my main contributions have been Regina Spektor, a smattering of songs from the late 60s-early 70s (The Doors/The Supremes/CCR/Jethro Tull), Eddie from Ohio (a wonderful group no one has heard of) and Garrison Keillor, for my one friend who likes Guy Noir. Thanks to their better music tastes, though, I have been introduced to Corinne Bailey Rae, Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros, and Sunset Rubdown, all of whom are receiving frequent play from me.
I went to see The King's Speech* last night, and one of the most poignant parts was when Lionel Logue (the speech therapist) hypothetically asks George VI, "what are friends for?" and Bertie replies, "I wouldn't know." It's when I first realized that he didn't really have close friends, just advisors and an unkind brother. Lionel does become his friend and his family loves him, so it works out, but it got me thinking about my friends--eclectic, intelligent, funny, fabulous women that they are (and I do have predominantly female friends, not as a conscious choice, but it's just how that worked out).
I may be spending my night reading by myself, but I know they are always, always there for me. Say what you will about facebook (I'm ambiguous about it), but sometimes having an instant way to communicate with people is a wonderful thing. Modern technology plus the flash drive, and I can make it.
*WHAT A GOOD MOVIE. I have been so fond of Colin Firth for years, but this just confirmed what I already believed--he gets better in every movie that he does. We left that theater motivated to go and be brave. And that is never a bad thing.
Saturday, 26 February 2011
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Focus On: Thomas Eakins
Heads up. I'm deviating from my traditional art of the week format by showing something that is not in the Indiana University Art Museum, but is instead something we looked at in class. Thomas Eakins was a Gilded Age painter, centered, as so many were, in Philadelphia. Probably his most famous work is The Gross Clinic (1875), a portrait of Dr Gross, a widely respected professor at Jefferson Medical College, who is operating on a patient and explaining the process to the doctor-students in the audience. (Sidenote: what is trippin' me out about American art is that we know the NAMES of these people! Like we know who the anesthesiologist was. Of course you know names in older art too, but I'm not used to having so much proof, or at least, proof that I can read..)
Eakins is a tricky artist to explain. Born to an upper class family and French-trained, he seems to have the world handed to him with minimal effort on his part. He lived at the family estate for his whole life and did most of his works not as commissions, but as gifts to people, especially his portraits--he was no starving artist. However, he had some hurdles to overcome, mostly of his own making. He believed that people were waaay too prudish about nude bodies, and that nude modeling was something to be embraced by artists. He believed, in a sense, that artists were like surgeons--his logic being, you would disrobe for a surgeon because it's their job, so there was nothing wrong with doing the same in an art class. Hence, his interest in Dr Gross, dissections, and the medical world.
Eakins was fired from the Pennsylvania Academy of Art in 1886 for a variety of reasons. He believed women should attend nude modeling classes too (good) because he thought women should receive the same training as men (good!) even though he concurrently believed that they could never be great painters (bad). He never asked his students to do things he wouldn't do himself (good), and one day disrobed in front of a class of female students (bad; did not go over well). He exposed himself (bad!!!) to a female student in his office (really bad) because she said she had an anatomical question, and he "showed" her. I honestly think that he saw nothing wrong in his actions, and he didn't understand how those actions would appear to other people. Then you get into the thorny issue of power relations. Did he coerce his female students into modeling, did he do the same for male students, was he just ahead of his time? I think he has been unfairly vilified by some scholars, but I also find his compulsive interest in the body (all bodies--men, women, even children) very disturbing.
Anyway! All this is just a precursor to the real point of this post: Thomas Eakins' later portraits. After his dismissal, he turned almost exclusively to portraiture, mostly of single figures whom he knew, or people whose work he admired, especially scientists and musicians. The majority of these works are, for lack of a better word, melancholy. (For example, see from 1890, Amelia van Buren, Edith Mahon from 1904, or his own Self-Portrait from 1902. An article we read links this to his dejected mental state--that he was inserting his emotions into portraits of others--which I have doubts about because I don't like psychoanalyzing people who can no longer speak for themselves.) Some of the portrayed people disliked the works so much that they had him repaint them, while some went so far as to hide the works in their attic, ala Dorian Grey. Eakins did not gloss over his sitters imperfections. He was, if anything, too honest (because he wasn't being paid for it, so why not?). While his private portraits are introspective, his works of scientists and musicians are much more gregarious. Case in point: The Concert Singer.
The Concert Singer, 1890-1892, now in the Philadelphia Museum of Art
The singer depicted here is Weda Cook, a well-known performer who was on friendly terms with Eakins. She is shown here mid-song, in a dress of her own design. I like Eakins' portraits for his details--the hair that curls slightly away from her face, the sumptuous brocaded fabric, and the color coordinated roses (thrown by an admiring fan, presumably) and the conductors arm. The best part of this work, however, is the frame. It's hard to see here, but the musical phrase/aria she is singing is etched onto the lower band of the frame. It is "Oh Rest in the Lord" from Mendelssohn's oratorio Elijah. We know this because Eakins wanted us to know. He designed the frame, which is something that he also did for a scientist-portrait of Henry Rowland (1897).
Weda Cook said that Eakins made her sing the phrase, "Oh Rest in the Lord" over and over so that he could paint her throat right. We decided in class that she was probably on the "Lord" part by the shape of her mouth, but you can decide for yourself! My professor forwarded along some videos of the song, and I think this one is the loveliest sounding, although it is just a still photo instead of a proper video.
So listen to it, and, as my professor suggested, look at The Concert Singer while doing so. And imagine that it is Philadelphia, 1890, and you are seeing this in a concert hall before heading out into the frosty February air for a late supper with friends. You are hungry, but as you listen to Weda Cook in her pink frock, time stops, you forget about dinner, and all you want to do is stare at this woman and hear her song. Eakins, no matter his faults, can give us that vision 120 years after the fact. And that is pretty cool.
Eakins is a tricky artist to explain. Born to an upper class family and French-trained, he seems to have the world handed to him with minimal effort on his part. He lived at the family estate for his whole life and did most of his works not as commissions, but as gifts to people, especially his portraits--he was no starving artist. However, he had some hurdles to overcome, mostly of his own making. He believed that people were waaay too prudish about nude bodies, and that nude modeling was something to be embraced by artists. He believed, in a sense, that artists were like surgeons--his logic being, you would disrobe for a surgeon because it's their job, so there was nothing wrong with doing the same in an art class. Hence, his interest in Dr Gross, dissections, and the medical world.
Eakins was fired from the Pennsylvania Academy of Art in 1886 for a variety of reasons. He believed women should attend nude modeling classes too (good) because he thought women should receive the same training as men (good!) even though he concurrently believed that they could never be great painters (bad). He never asked his students to do things he wouldn't do himself (good), and one day disrobed in front of a class of female students (bad; did not go over well). He exposed himself (bad!!!) to a female student in his office (really bad) because she said she had an anatomical question, and he "showed" her. I honestly think that he saw nothing wrong in his actions, and he didn't understand how those actions would appear to other people. Then you get into the thorny issue of power relations. Did he coerce his female students into modeling, did he do the same for male students, was he just ahead of his time? I think he has been unfairly vilified by some scholars, but I also find his compulsive interest in the body (all bodies--men, women, even children) very disturbing.
Anyway! All this is just a precursor to the real point of this post: Thomas Eakins' later portraits. After his dismissal, he turned almost exclusively to portraiture, mostly of single figures whom he knew, or people whose work he admired, especially scientists and musicians. The majority of these works are, for lack of a better word, melancholy. (For example, see from 1890, Amelia van Buren, Edith Mahon from 1904, or his own Self-Portrait from 1902. An article we read links this to his dejected mental state--that he was inserting his emotions into portraits of others--which I have doubts about because I don't like psychoanalyzing people who can no longer speak for themselves.) Some of the portrayed people disliked the works so much that they had him repaint them, while some went so far as to hide the works in their attic, ala Dorian Grey. Eakins did not gloss over his sitters imperfections. He was, if anything, too honest (because he wasn't being paid for it, so why not?). While his private portraits are introspective, his works of scientists and musicians are much more gregarious. Case in point: The Concert Singer.
The Concert Singer, 1890-1892, now in the Philadelphia Museum of ArtThe singer depicted here is Weda Cook, a well-known performer who was on friendly terms with Eakins. She is shown here mid-song, in a dress of her own design. I like Eakins' portraits for his details--the hair that curls slightly away from her face, the sumptuous brocaded fabric, and the color coordinated roses (thrown by an admiring fan, presumably) and the conductors arm. The best part of this work, however, is the frame. It's hard to see here, but the musical phrase/aria she is singing is etched onto the lower band of the frame. It is "Oh Rest in the Lord" from Mendelssohn's oratorio Elijah. We know this because Eakins wanted us to know. He designed the frame, which is something that he also did for a scientist-portrait of Henry Rowland (1897).
Weda Cook said that Eakins made her sing the phrase, "Oh Rest in the Lord" over and over so that he could paint her throat right. We decided in class that she was probably on the "Lord" part by the shape of her mouth, but you can decide for yourself! My professor forwarded along some videos of the song, and I think this one is the loveliest sounding, although it is just a still photo instead of a proper video.
So listen to it, and, as my professor suggested, look at The Concert Singer while doing so. And imagine that it is Philadelphia, 1890, and you are seeing this in a concert hall before heading out into the frosty February air for a late supper with friends. You are hungry, but as you listen to Weda Cook in her pink frock, time stops, you forget about dinner, and all you want to do is stare at this woman and hear her song. Eakins, no matter his faults, can give us that vision 120 years after the fact. And that is pretty cool.
Sunday, 20 February 2011
10 Questions
I am taking a (justified?) break from work and I decided to do this! At the end of every Inside the Actors Studio, James Lipton asks his celebrity guests 10 questions, which, according to wikipedia, are questions Bernard Pivot used to ask on his show, and are based on the Proust Questionnaire. And it'll give newer readers (or readers who don't know me) a chance to know me, a bit. Forewarning: I am terrible at picking just one word, so some of them will have multiple answers. (And thanks, James Lipton!)
1. What is your favorite word?
Loquacious. Ellipsis. Caravaggio. Jazzed--which is really the only one of these that I use in everyday conversation.
2. What is your least favorite word?
Swoon. Womb. Munch. Hate them all.
3. What turns you on?
People who are interested and interesting. Passion. Kindness. Wittiness. Sincere smiles.
4. What turns you off?
ARROGANCE. Pretentiousness. Misogyny. Violence and cruelty, especially against things that have trouble defending themselves, like children and animals.
5. What sound or noise do you love?
Above all--laughter. Especially when you are with your friends and family and you are all laughing and none of you can stop. And your sides hurt. My little cousins have the most wonderful giggles in the entire world. Other sounds--rain hitting the roof, when dogs sneeze, the way tennis balls sound when they are served, the way shoes clatter on stone streets.
6. What sound or noise do you hate?
Sirens, not just for the noise, but because they mean that something bad is probably happening. People yelling. I get irrationally annoyed by hiccups, whether mine or other peoples.
7. What is your favorite curse word?
Thanks to my flatmates, I learned that curse words are the most effective when strung together. I particularly love: arsing hell, bleeding hell, bollocking hell. Although it is hard to beat a well placed F-bomb (and all its variations) when the need arises.
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
I would love to be a mystery novelist, in a Dorothy Sayers meets art history sort of way. I would like to live in England, write mysteries, maybe work in (or own) a bookstore, preferably on the North Sea. Or learn how to bake really good bread and do that and decorate cakes. Or, since I don't really have a profession as of yet--be an art historian! If we're going completely outside any skills that I actually have, I would want to go to Africa and study gorillas. Someday I want to hold hands with a gorilla.
9. What profession would you not like to do?
I would be very unhappy working in any business that thinks of people in terms of numbers and statistics in order to maximize profit. Any job without much human contact. I would be very bad at firing people. I am also very bad at math, so I would be a terrible accountant or math teacher.
10. If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God(dess) say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
Welcome.
1. What is your favorite word?
Loquacious. Ellipsis. Caravaggio. Jazzed--which is really the only one of these that I use in everyday conversation.
2. What is your least favorite word?
Swoon. Womb. Munch. Hate them all.
3. What turns you on?
People who are interested and interesting. Passion. Kindness. Wittiness. Sincere smiles.
4. What turns you off?
ARROGANCE. Pretentiousness. Misogyny. Violence and cruelty, especially against things that have trouble defending themselves, like children and animals.
5. What sound or noise do you love?
Above all--laughter. Especially when you are with your friends and family and you are all laughing and none of you can stop. And your sides hurt. My little cousins have the most wonderful giggles in the entire world. Other sounds--rain hitting the roof, when dogs sneeze, the way tennis balls sound when they are served, the way shoes clatter on stone streets.
6. What sound or noise do you hate?
Sirens, not just for the noise, but because they mean that something bad is probably happening. People yelling. I get irrationally annoyed by hiccups, whether mine or other peoples.
7. What is your favorite curse word?
Thanks to my flatmates, I learned that curse words are the most effective when strung together. I particularly love: arsing hell, bleeding hell, bollocking hell. Although it is hard to beat a well placed F-bomb (and all its variations) when the need arises.
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
I would love to be a mystery novelist, in a Dorothy Sayers meets art history sort of way. I would like to live in England, write mysteries, maybe work in (or own) a bookstore, preferably on the North Sea. Or learn how to bake really good bread and do that and decorate cakes. Or, since I don't really have a profession as of yet--be an art historian! If we're going completely outside any skills that I actually have, I would want to go to Africa and study gorillas. Someday I want to hold hands with a gorilla.
9. What profession would you not like to do?
I would be very unhappy working in any business that thinks of people in terms of numbers and statistics in order to maximize profit. Any job without much human contact. I would be very bad at firing people. I am also very bad at math, so I would be a terrible accountant or math teacher.
10. If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God(dess) say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
Welcome.
Friday, 18 February 2011
Friday!
And the sun poured in like butterscotch
And stuck to all my senses--
Oh, won't ya stay, we'll put on the day,
and we'll talk in present tenses.
--Joni Mitchell, Chelsea Morning
Today I was hanging up some Valentines on my wall (my friends and family rock, hardcore) and I realized what a good mood I was in, for no particular reason. I apologize for my lax blogging of late, but nothing has really happened that especially warrants a blog post--while at the same time, I've been fairly busy with every day things. Today, for example: I got up quite late (Thursday night fun + no Friday classes), went for a long walk, managed to vacuum most of the rock salt off of my floors, did a massive apartment clean, and am now in the process of baking a broccoli quiche, sipping a glass of pinot grigio, and awaiting a visit from two of my friends who just made a Wendy's run and are bringing me a frosty.
I think the main factor behind my good mood (seriously, I keep singing along to Joni Mitchell and bouncing around my apartment) is the weather. It has been 60ish for the past three days, I have not had my heat on once, and currently have all my windows open. I know this is only a blip before it turns cold again, and I am used to very cold winters, and like winter. But spring is my favorite season and this is reminding me of it. This type of weather also makes me really nostalgic for Geneva, when everyone migrates to the quad and you start seeing lots of madras shorts. Spring weather in upstate NY is hard to beat, truly. But the sun right now is perfect. I've also been sick this week (seriously, immune system? C'MON) and finally can breathe out of my nose and sleep without coughing so that is making me very happy too. My energy is back!
Energy that will be undoubtedly be spent this evening doing some reading. I had two fun nights this week already--Valentines group date and usually Thursday night activities, so I need to buckle down. But thanks to these two group dates, I have two flowers sticking out of a wine bottle on my counter. The red rose is a Valentines present from one of my friends, who got us all flowers because she is awesome, and the purple and white carnation is from last night. There were some people selling carnations as a fundraiser for a children's hospital on the street, so we all got some. As three of us were waiting for the bus home, three frat-type boys stopped by us and said, "what up, rose girls?" to which one of my friends responded, drily, "they're carnations." We have decided to carry flowers with us at all times now. It'll be our signature.
There really is no point to this post, other than to say that I like it here. I am a bit homesick right now, because my whole family is visiting my grandmother and I wish so much that I could be there, but for now, here is a good place to be. I hope your Fridays are as lovely as mine is.
And stuck to all my senses--
Oh, won't ya stay, we'll put on the day,
and we'll talk in present tenses.
--Joni Mitchell, Chelsea Morning
Today I was hanging up some Valentines on my wall (my friends and family rock, hardcore) and I realized what a good mood I was in, for no particular reason. I apologize for my lax blogging of late, but nothing has really happened that especially warrants a blog post--while at the same time, I've been fairly busy with every day things. Today, for example: I got up quite late (Thursday night fun + no Friday classes), went for a long walk, managed to vacuum most of the rock salt off of my floors, did a massive apartment clean, and am now in the process of baking a broccoli quiche, sipping a glass of pinot grigio, and awaiting a visit from two of my friends who just made a Wendy's run and are bringing me a frosty.
I think the main factor behind my good mood (seriously, I keep singing along to Joni Mitchell and bouncing around my apartment) is the weather. It has been 60ish for the past three days, I have not had my heat on once, and currently have all my windows open. I know this is only a blip before it turns cold again, and I am used to very cold winters, and like winter. But spring is my favorite season and this is reminding me of it. This type of weather also makes me really nostalgic for Geneva, when everyone migrates to the quad and you start seeing lots of madras shorts. Spring weather in upstate NY is hard to beat, truly. But the sun right now is perfect. I've also been sick this week (seriously, immune system? C'MON) and finally can breathe out of my nose and sleep without coughing so that is making me very happy too. My energy is back!
Energy that will be undoubtedly be spent this evening doing some reading. I had two fun nights this week already--Valentines group date and usually Thursday night activities, so I need to buckle down. But thanks to these two group dates, I have two flowers sticking out of a wine bottle on my counter. The red rose is a Valentines present from one of my friends, who got us all flowers because she is awesome, and the purple and white carnation is from last night. There were some people selling carnations as a fundraiser for a children's hospital on the street, so we all got some. As three of us were waiting for the bus home, three frat-type boys stopped by us and said, "what up, rose girls?" to which one of my friends responded, drily, "they're carnations." We have decided to carry flowers with us at all times now. It'll be our signature.
There really is no point to this post, other than to say that I like it here. I am a bit homesick right now, because my whole family is visiting my grandmother and I wish so much that I could be there, but for now, here is a good place to be. I hope your Fridays are as lovely as mine is.
Sunday, 13 February 2011
Quotables
A recurring featurette where I type good stuff that I have read or heard lately, in an effort to procrastinate instead of reading more stuff.
in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little lame baloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddyandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer
old baloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisabel come dancing
from hopscotch and jump-rope and
it's
spring
and
the
goat-footed
baloonMan whistles
far
and
wee
--e e cummings (1923)
Yeah, I know it's not spring and I have read this poem aplenty before today, but the words "mud-luscious" and "puddle-wonderful" were dancing around my brain today because it was 52 (FIFTY TWO) degrees and everything was muddy and slushy. But no matter. I spent some time tramping around the fields by my apartment while waiting for my laundry (getting my sneakers very gross in the process) and then opened all the windows in here. It is hard to be grumpy when the air smells like dirt.
"Rubens is the nastiest most vulgar noisy painter that ever lived. His men are twisted to pieces. His modeling is always crooked & dropsical & no marking is ever in its right place or anything like what he sees in nature, his people never have bones, his color is dashy & flashy, his people must all be in the most violent action, must use the strength of Hercules if a little watch is to be wound up, the wind must be blowing great guns even in a chamber or dining room, everything must be making a noise & tumbling about, there must be monsters too for his men were not monstrous enough for him. His pictures always put me in mind of chamber pots & I would not be sorry if they were all burnt."
--Thomas Eakins in a letter to his father, December 2, 1869, excerpted in American Art to 1900: A Documentary History: U of California Press, 592.
One thing I am learning from this American art class is that 19th century artists and art reviews are HILARIOUS. I don't feel this strongly about Rubens (I quite like his colors and compositions a lot, actually), but I enjoyed this too.
And near the unpeopled stream-sides, on the ground,
By her Spring cry the moorhen's nest is found,
Where the drained flood-lands flaunt their marigold.
--Part of Dante Gabriel Rossetti's sonnet (I think it's a sonnet), Spring.
I came across this poem (sonnet?) while doing some research about Botticelli--Rossetti wrote it in honor of Botticelli's Primavera. And as I seem to be fixated on spring (spring spring spriiing) I copied it down.
"walnut church pews. 9ft. 7in. over 60 years old . good condition $100.00 each"
I was on craigslist looking for a chair (unsuccessfully, so if anyone has a chair they want to give me..) and under furniture was listed some church pews--with pictures!--for sale. My first thought was, "I want that," before cooler heads prevailed and I realized that they would be 1. probably uncomfortable, and 2. waaay too big for my apartment
On the reported Spice Girls musical, Viva Forever, "For many readers this may consist of Wannabe (their ubiquitous debut hit) and "the other ones". But for a sizeable minority of young people who were children when the songs came out but will have significant disposable income by the time the show arrives on stage the list of meaningful Spice Girls songs is much longer and includes the likes of Say You'll Be There, 2 Become 1, Mama, Spice Up Your Life and Viva Forever."
I don't know about the "significant disposable income" part, but would I go see a Spice Girls song-based musical? Absolutely I would. Check out the article here.
Un segno risplendente
della bontà di Dio!
Per tre sere dell'anno solamente,
all'uscire dal coro,
Dio ci concede di vedere il sole
che batte sulla fonte e la fa d'oro.
--Puccini, Suor Angelica
Translation:
A shining sign
of God's goodness!
On three evenings only in the year,
as we come out of chapel,
God allows us to see the sun
falling upon the fountain and
turning it to gold.
I went to see Il Trittico over the weekend (gushing blog post about that forthcoming) and while Puccini is not my favorite, Italian + nuns = win. Suor Angelica is lovely, lovely too. I think it's something about the all-female cast that I like.
Roux: I should probably warn ya: you make friends with us, you make enemies with everyone else.
Vianne: Is that a promise?
Roux: It's a guarantee.
--Chocolat. My friends and I watched it last night (after procuring all manner of chocolate and strawberry champagne from the grocery store). What a good move it is. And Johnny Depp (Roux) as a River Rat? I heartily approve of him, his Irish accent, and his French braid. I love the score, the dialogue, the scenery, and Vianne's clothes. Oh, and the chocolate, of course!
And a picture, worth 1000 quotations:
Winslow Homer, Apple Picking, 1878, watercolor over graphite
Courtesy of the Art Institute of Chicago
in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little lame baloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddyandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer
old baloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisabel come dancing
from hopscotch and jump-rope and
it's
spring
and
the
goat-footed
baloonMan whistles
far
and
wee
--e e cummings (1923)
Yeah, I know it's not spring and I have read this poem aplenty before today, but the words "mud-luscious" and "puddle-wonderful" were dancing around my brain today because it was 52 (FIFTY TWO) degrees and everything was muddy and slushy. But no matter. I spent some time tramping around the fields by my apartment while waiting for my laundry (getting my sneakers very gross in the process) and then opened all the windows in here. It is hard to be grumpy when the air smells like dirt.
"Rubens is the nastiest most vulgar noisy painter that ever lived. His men are twisted to pieces. His modeling is always crooked & dropsical & no marking is ever in its right place or anything like what he sees in nature, his people never have bones, his color is dashy & flashy, his people must all be in the most violent action, must use the strength of Hercules if a little watch is to be wound up, the wind must be blowing great guns even in a chamber or dining room, everything must be making a noise & tumbling about, there must be monsters too for his men were not monstrous enough for him. His pictures always put me in mind of chamber pots & I would not be sorry if they were all burnt."
--Thomas Eakins in a letter to his father, December 2, 1869, excerpted in American Art to 1900: A Documentary History: U of California Press, 592.
One thing I am learning from this American art class is that 19th century artists and art reviews are HILARIOUS. I don't feel this strongly about Rubens (I quite like his colors and compositions a lot, actually), but I enjoyed this too.
And near the unpeopled stream-sides, on the ground,
By her Spring cry the moorhen's nest is found,
Where the drained flood-lands flaunt their marigold.
--Part of Dante Gabriel Rossetti's sonnet (I think it's a sonnet), Spring.
I came across this poem (sonnet?) while doing some research about Botticelli--Rossetti wrote it in honor of Botticelli's Primavera. And as I seem to be fixated on spring (spring spring spriiing) I copied it down.
"walnut church pews. 9ft. 7in. over 60 years old . good condition $100.00 each"
I was on craigslist looking for a chair (unsuccessfully, so if anyone has a chair they want to give me..) and under furniture was listed some church pews--with pictures!--for sale. My first thought was, "I want that," before cooler heads prevailed and I realized that they would be 1. probably uncomfortable, and 2. waaay too big for my apartment
On the reported Spice Girls musical, Viva Forever, "For many readers this may consist of Wannabe (their ubiquitous debut hit) and "the other ones". But for a sizeable minority of young people who were children when the songs came out but will have significant disposable income by the time the show arrives on stage the list of meaningful Spice Girls songs is much longer and includes the likes of Say You'll Be There, 2 Become 1, Mama, Spice Up Your Life and Viva Forever."
I don't know about the "significant disposable income" part, but would I go see a Spice Girls song-based musical? Absolutely I would. Check out the article here.
Un segno risplendente
della bontà di Dio!
Per tre sere dell'anno solamente,
all'uscire dal coro,
Dio ci concede di vedere il sole
che batte sulla fonte e la fa d'oro.
--Puccini, Suor Angelica
Translation:
A shining sign
of God's goodness!
On three evenings only in the year,
as we come out of chapel,
God allows us to see the sun
falling upon the fountain and
turning it to gold.
I went to see Il Trittico over the weekend (gushing blog post about that forthcoming) and while Puccini is not my favorite, Italian + nuns = win. Suor Angelica is lovely, lovely too. I think it's something about the all-female cast that I like.
Roux: I should probably warn ya: you make friends with us, you make enemies with everyone else.
Vianne: Is that a promise?
Roux: It's a guarantee.
--Chocolat. My friends and I watched it last night (after procuring all manner of chocolate and strawberry champagne from the grocery store). What a good move it is. And Johnny Depp (Roux) as a River Rat? I heartily approve of him, his Irish accent, and his French braid. I love the score, the dialogue, the scenery, and Vianne's clothes. Oh, and the chocolate, of course!
And a picture, worth 1000 quotations:
Winslow Homer, Apple Picking, 1878, watercolor over graphiteCourtesy of the Art Institute of Chicago
Friday, 11 February 2011
Guest Blog: Bloomington Eats
I love food. This is an admission that comes as no surprise to most people who know me, and happily I have fallen in with a crowd who brings cookies with them to bars (genius) and are as excited as I am about trying new cuisines and all the awesomeness that this town has to offer. And happily, my sister's roommate is a Btown native with parents who routinely feed me, because they are nice like that. Since she is a cool kid (Hi Arianna!) she agreed to write a guest blog for me about eating out here. Enjoy. I know I did.
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Few people would know (other than the millions that I've personally told) that Bloomington, Indiana, is rich in culture. Sure, there's the Lotus festival, which is held "once a year" (read as "year-round") and features a full week of folk and traditional music from across the world. And sure, we have the Tibetan Cultural Center that has hosted the Dalai Lama several times. And sure, there's the University that attracts thousands of international students. But I feel the best way to talk about multicultural Bloomington is through food.
Bloomington's international restaurants are top-notch. I'd say I've been to a good 75% of them, especially those on 4th Street – and if I haven't been to one, I probably know someone who has. Also, most of these restaurants are or were once owned by families who had emigrated directly from their country, some of whom my family and I have gotten to know personally. Of course they're happy for our near-constant patronage, but there are also some fascinating stories behind the restaurants and families that own them.
So here's my list of my favorites. I'll try to keep it all short and not gush too much about any certain ones. They're also in no particular order, as I truly love them all.
Anyetsang's Little Tibet
Tibetan/Thai/Indian food
415 E 4th Street
Their specialty is Tibetan, but they also serve delicious curries. They're located in what was once a house. (There are apartments above them as well – can you imagine the delicious dreams you’d have???) I’d say the most popular dish is the Mo Mo – meat dumplings served with soy sauce and chili stuff – or the many variations on those. The Tom Ka soup is also a delicious savory-sweet choice. Most dinners come with lentil soup (different every time) and a small salad with the best dressing in the world.The waitresses (mostly college-age females) dress in traditional clothing when working and most are incredibly knowledgeable about the menu, so don't be afraid to ask. There's also a nice patio and garden in the back for when it's warm outside.
The family that owns this Little Tibet (and that cooks in the back) has a son who went to my high school. I see him occasionally, but I don't think he knows who I am, and that's fine. That's about the most exciting anecdote that I can tell you about this restaurant, though it's also delicious. Go there.
Red Sea (now closed) v. Ashenda's Abasha Restaurant
Ethiopian
420 E 4th Street
First generation Eritrean immigrants owned the Red Sea. My mom got talking to one of the main cooks, and I remember her being super helpful. She even gave some tips on how to cook Ethiopian/Eritrean food. Then it closed down.
Then a new restaurant opened down the street. I would argue it's not as good as the Red Sea, but it satisfies my love of Ethiopian food. There are only a few unique sauces, but then you can choose your meat or main vegetable. When you go with someone, the meal is served communally, and it’s traditional to use your hands to eat. Also, ask for extra injera (bread), which helps with the eating. Generally, the décor is a little tacky, with fake-y African prints and elephants and giraffes, etc. This restaurant also closed down a couple years ago, but it was reopened by public demand. Enjoy it while it's still here!
Tip on finding it: it's inside Puccini's Italian restaurant (just tell the maître d' you're there for Ashenda's).
Don Chuy's La Torre
Mexican
1155 S College Mall Road
I don’t know if this is the best Mexican in town, but I will go nowhere else. We've been going to La Torre for years (it opened when I was in 2000, I think), and I pretty much know everyone there by sight. The family is active in the community, and they try to hire immigrants who know little to no English and help them get on their feet. Also, so many of the waiters and waitresses have helped me practice my Spanish, so it’s a win-win situation. Don Chuy also runs the Taco Truck that’s around downtown Bloomington on drunken party nights. [editor's note: I've seen the truck! But never partaken of its wares. Will add that to my list of things to do.]
The traditional dishes are fantastic and are generously portioned. My favorite is the carne asada, but the carnitas are also delicious. Any choice is a good one here.
Shanti Indian Cuisine (aka Shanti's)
Indian
221 E Kirkwood Avenue (#G)
This food. Is. Delicious. But service can be iffy. The guy who owns it knows my family well and always asks how I am. We think there might be pressure on him, though, to hire members of his family – but the family doesn't want to work there. There are good servers here, but you might have to overlook some pricks and slow service to find them.
Back to the food: the butter chicken is a Shanti classic that I haven’t found as good anywhere else. I do not want to think about how many sticks of butter are in that little dish, but when you balance it out with potatoes, eggplant and homemade cheese with peas, it's all good. Recently dinner has been served with some type of appetizer and a salad, but I haven’t been there in a while (we also usually get a complimentary dessert). Also, dinner can be more expensive, so I suggest lunch if you're a student.
Turkuaz Café
Turkish
301 E. 3rd Street
This was my favorite place for a while, but the ownership changed. It's still really good, and they expanded the menu a little, but the best part of going in there was talking to the guy. My mom was working a long-time substitute job in an elementary school library on the west side, and it turned out that his son went to the same school. One night when we were there, he told his dad who my mom was (no doubt he recognized us before then, too). He came over and thanked my mom for being so nice and helping his son find books. That night, we all talked for an hour after our meal. I remember him being so happy to be in Bloomington and to have a successful restaurant. A few years after that, we heard he moved back to his hometown – TO BE THE MAYOR. Yeah, that's right. I know a Turkish mayor.
Like I said, it's still really good. The most popular item would be the pide – this pizza bread boat with different fillings. Dinner comes with lentil soup (different every day), and a plate of three delicious salads (tomato and cucumber, tibouli, and something else). I would also suggest the gozleme, which are these potato pancake things, though they've changed since I've had them last. It also comes with olives, cucumber and feta.
Tip: If you’re planning on staying for a long time, they have nice floor seating with plenty of pillows, though my back usually starts to hurt after a while.
Well all of this has made me extremely hungry and a little homesick, so I think I'll stop here. There are so many other restaurants and cultures I didn't cover and of those includes: Thai, Afghan, Burmese, Italian, Korean, Japanese, Chinese, Vietnamese, Creole, plus other Indian, Mexican, Turkish, and Tibetan restaurants. Also, there are others I haven’t even been to yet! I guess I can always work on that in the future.
Thursday, 10 February 2011
Focus On: Jackson Pollock
In honor of a pretty nifty documentary I just saw, Who the #$&% is Jackson Pollock? (2006), I bring you the IUAM's (Indiana University Art Museum's) own Pollock, Number 11 (1949).
(image courtesy of Flickr. Number 11 is not this murky in person, but I had trouble finding a better image, so this will have to do.)
Admittedly, I never thought much about Pollock or liked his works--that is, until I saw them for the first time in person. It is the textures that make them really interesting, at least for me. The way he layers paint is fascinating, with the thickness of some lines countered by thin streams of paint. In this work, the dominate colors are a mustard yellow, sky blue, navy, a tiny bit of red, and white. It's an intricate maze, a tangled ball of yarn, a birds nest.
Most times I've been in front of a Pollock, there has usually been someone behind me saying "my five year old could do that," or "how is this even art?" which are opinions often encountered with modern or contemporary art (and one of the many reasons why I started putting in headphones in museums.) There is a formula/saying to use on these people:
Modern Art = I Could Do That + Yeah, But You Didn't.
I defy anyone to paint like Pollock. And "paint" is kind of a loose term here...he flicked and dripped and splattered, carefully. It's much more than painting. Who the #$&% is Jackson Pollock? played at the IU Cinema over the weekend and I went with some friends and it made me happy. (Sidenote: they just redid the Cinema, in the same building as the Auditorium. Free movies almost every night, with Benton murals on the walls. It's a win all around.) Before the documentary was another shorter documentary, 10 minutes long, about Jackson Pollock at his Long Island studio in 1950. It was when he was experimenting with painting on glass, so the camera was underneath and you watched him work from below, which was super cool. The main feature was about a retired truck driver who bought a potential Pollock at a thrift store for $5 dollars for her friend. They both thought it was ugly. Someone told them it might be a Pollock (her response was, "who the [bleep] is Jackson Pollock?" hence the title.) She started contacting art dealer-business people, who were hideous to her. The worst was a man from the Met who was every single stereotype of NYC elitist-Met curator snob-art snob ever. The interviewers asked him about the woman's "Pollock" (and by now the entire audience loved her because she smoked and swore and was sure she was right) and he said something like, "who is she? Nobody. I'm the expert here." After that, every time he was on screen, people booed.
The jury is still out on whether it is a Pollock or not--stylistically it is iffy, but they did find one of his fingerprints on the back. If you are interested in the art business, Pollock, forensics and art, or...truckers, it's worth a watch. So, Pollock. I'm usually pretty glad to see him.
(image courtesy of Flickr. Number 11 is not this murky in person, but I had trouble finding a better image, so this will have to do.)Admittedly, I never thought much about Pollock or liked his works--that is, until I saw them for the first time in person. It is the textures that make them really interesting, at least for me. The way he layers paint is fascinating, with the thickness of some lines countered by thin streams of paint. In this work, the dominate colors are a mustard yellow, sky blue, navy, a tiny bit of red, and white. It's an intricate maze, a tangled ball of yarn, a birds nest.
Most times I've been in front of a Pollock, there has usually been someone behind me saying "my five year old could do that," or "how is this even art?" which are opinions often encountered with modern or contemporary art (and one of the many reasons why I started putting in headphones in museums.) There is a formula/saying to use on these people:
Modern Art = I Could Do That + Yeah, But You Didn't.
I defy anyone to paint like Pollock. And "paint" is kind of a loose term here...he flicked and dripped and splattered, carefully. It's much more than painting. Who the #$&% is Jackson Pollock? played at the IU Cinema over the weekend and I went with some friends and it made me happy. (Sidenote: they just redid the Cinema, in the same building as the Auditorium. Free movies almost every night, with Benton murals on the walls. It's a win all around.) Before the documentary was another shorter documentary, 10 minutes long, about Jackson Pollock at his Long Island studio in 1950. It was when he was experimenting with painting on glass, so the camera was underneath and you watched him work from below, which was super cool. The main feature was about a retired truck driver who bought a potential Pollock at a thrift store for $5 dollars for her friend. They both thought it was ugly. Someone told them it might be a Pollock (her response was, "who the [bleep] is Jackson Pollock?" hence the title.) She started contacting art dealer-business people, who were hideous to her. The worst was a man from the Met who was every single stereotype of NYC elitist-Met curator snob-art snob ever. The interviewers asked him about the woman's "Pollock" (and by now the entire audience loved her because she smoked and swore and was sure she was right) and he said something like, "who is she? Nobody. I'm the expert here." After that, every time he was on screen, people booed.
The jury is still out on whether it is a Pollock or not--stylistically it is iffy, but they did find one of his fingerprints on the back. If you are interested in the art business, Pollock, forensics and art, or...truckers, it's worth a watch. So, Pollock. I'm usually pretty glad to see him.
Saturday, 5 February 2011
One State, Two State, Red State, Blue State
I am from New York (the state, not the city, thank you very much), and I have never bought into the "red state vs blue state" rhetoric, because while NY generally goes Democrat, my home county rarely does. If you are looking for conservative values and viewpoints, look no further than large amounts of ostensibly "blue" states, particularly Western and Central NY. I had to stop reading the letters to the editor in my hometown newspaper for this very reason.
But I had never realized, before moving to Indiana, that even a lot of my conservative friends (and yes, I do have aplenty!) are not that conservative by the rest of the nations standards. For example: I was hanging out with some friends last night, and one said that she was at work earlier that day and one of her coworkers said to her, "I don't have any contact with liberals." [the obvious response being, "you work on a university campus, I think you probably have."] Instead, my friend said, "you're talking to one now, actually." He stared at her for a minute and then said, "how do you people even believe what you believe." We agreed that we have never had that happen to us before, maybe because lately she and I have been living in "bubbles" of liberalism--me in liberal-arts-land and Brooklyn, and her in San Francisco and Boston. It was very odd.
Odder still is the fact that I realized a few months ago that I am not close to anyone who is Baptist. Of course there are Baptists in my hometown, but none of my friends really are. I said as much to my friend from Tennessee (we had been talking religion), who looked at me in wonderment. "It sounds like such a magical place you come from," she replied. "Everyone I know is Baptist." Is the United States really that ideological segregated? Are the political maps true? I hope not. It's like how commentators say, "oh, New York, that's not where real Americans live." Nonsense. I encountered the same ideas about "real" American stereotypes (gun-toting, religious, self-indulgent) in England--my flatmates were initially so dubious about my political leanings that they thought I was secretly Canadian, or that because I was from NY I was, certainly, connected to the mob. (Once we got talking, they got over that pretty quick. In fact, my proudest England moment was that in one of my flatmate's classes, someone was slagging off Americans and he turned to them and said, "I'll have you know that I live with an American and she happens to be lovely.")
But anyway, perhaps what makes the quasi-Midwest so different from what I am used to is the prevalence of more conservative religion. The billboards here can be pretty scary, re hellfire and damnation and such. The march last week on the Planned Parenthood in town was very religiously focused. When we crossed the state line for the first time, I texted a friend, "Just passed a 30 foot cross, 3 megachurches and a reaaally anti-choice billboard. Question: what am I doing here?" (her response was "Answer: Getting an education, apparently of the life variety.") And yet, religious activities are a huge part of my hometown too, and they are not a bad thing. Here is my guess: conservatism, in this neck of the woods, revolves a lot around religious belief, whereas for a lot of conservatives that I know, it does not. Case in point: I was talking to a friend about being in a class on globalization with a passel of rather awful Hobies (or Brobarts, if you prefer) who were smug and certain of their position in their father's real estate business or law firm or whatever (direct quote from one: "things really went to hell when women started getting MBAs"; I did not know what do), and she said that the people in her classes (at a state school in Southern Illinois) would always bring up abortion and gay marriage in class, which is something that never really happened to me.
Another example: Sex Education. I have never thought of my high school as a very progressive place, but in terms of sex ed, we apparently are. My friend from California had a similar experience. Her sex and drug ed classes were facilitated by students, so people could be really honest about asking things. I just remember my health teacher bringing in all sorts of contraception and explaining them. Awkward, yes, but effective. My friend from Tennessee, in contrast, said that her sex ed consisted of "a three hundred pound man who spoke like Foghorn Leghorn, lecturing us on the spiritual connection between a man and woman." My high school didn't, as far as I know, ban books. I suspect that it is hard to be openly gay in high school for many reasons, but people were in my high school, and as far as I know it didn't really matter. As recent news stories have shown, this is not the case everywhere.
In another vein, it is a total stereotype that New Yorkers are angry and impatient people. However--people are nicer here. I'm serious. I thought it was a myth. My friends and family are nice people, so it's not like I'm not used to it, but even people at the grocery store here are more polite. I had a 3 minute conversation with an older man last week about cheese while we were at the deli counter--this sort of thing happens all the time in Brooklyn, but not really in my hometown. The first time I was reintroduced into a room of NYers, it was a bit of a shock. I was catching a train from Chicago to Rochester before Christmas, and the train was 2 hours late, and oh, people were angry. This is the NYC mentality that sometimes rears its ugly head. As we stood in line waiting for a train to board to Detroit, one of the conductors came over the loudspeaker and said, "New Yorkers! DO NOT get in the line yet, or you will end up in Michigan. And if you are trying to go to New York, that would be a bit of a shock. You don't want to go to Michigan, do you?" To which the guy next to me yelled, "Who would WANT to go to Michigan, EVER?" And as I laughed, with everyone else, I thought, "these are my people." Early on last semester I was waiting for a bus and went and stood in the street, hands on hips, to see if it was coming. One does this in Brooklyn all the time, but apparently you don't do it here, because I turned around and everyone looked at me like I had just descended from a UFO. As I climbed onto the curb, one of my friends hissed, "what are you DOING? You could have gotten hit by a car!"
I still live in a liberal bubble, but it has plenty of other currents too. And that is not necessarily a bad thing. I can acknowledge when good points are made by someone whose beliefs I may not share, as long as they are not hateful. I don't talk about my political beliefs with someone unless I know them quite well (although I bet you can deduce where I stand, from this post!) and it is interesting to see the differences here, political, religious, or otherwise. And ultimately, the similarities.
But I had never realized, before moving to Indiana, that even a lot of my conservative friends (and yes, I do have aplenty!) are not that conservative by the rest of the nations standards. For example: I was hanging out with some friends last night, and one said that she was at work earlier that day and one of her coworkers said to her, "I don't have any contact with liberals." [the obvious response being, "you work on a university campus, I think you probably have."] Instead, my friend said, "you're talking to one now, actually." He stared at her for a minute and then said, "how do you people even believe what you believe." We agreed that we have never had that happen to us before, maybe because lately she and I have been living in "bubbles" of liberalism--me in liberal-arts-land and Brooklyn, and her in San Francisco and Boston. It was very odd.
Odder still is the fact that I realized a few months ago that I am not close to anyone who is Baptist. Of course there are Baptists in my hometown, but none of my friends really are. I said as much to my friend from Tennessee (we had been talking religion), who looked at me in wonderment. "It sounds like such a magical place you come from," she replied. "Everyone I know is Baptist." Is the United States really that ideological segregated? Are the political maps true? I hope not. It's like how commentators say, "oh, New York, that's not where real Americans live." Nonsense. I encountered the same ideas about "real" American stereotypes (gun-toting, religious, self-indulgent) in England--my flatmates were initially so dubious about my political leanings that they thought I was secretly Canadian, or that because I was from NY I was, certainly, connected to the mob. (Once we got talking, they got over that pretty quick. In fact, my proudest England moment was that in one of my flatmate's classes, someone was slagging off Americans and he turned to them and said, "I'll have you know that I live with an American and she happens to be lovely.")
But anyway, perhaps what makes the quasi-Midwest so different from what I am used to is the prevalence of more conservative religion. The billboards here can be pretty scary, re hellfire and damnation and such. The march last week on the Planned Parenthood in town was very religiously focused. When we crossed the state line for the first time, I texted a friend, "Just passed a 30 foot cross, 3 megachurches and a reaaally anti-choice billboard. Question: what am I doing here?" (her response was "Answer: Getting an education, apparently of the life variety.") And yet, religious activities are a huge part of my hometown too, and they are not a bad thing. Here is my guess: conservatism, in this neck of the woods, revolves a lot around religious belief, whereas for a lot of conservatives that I know, it does not. Case in point: I was talking to a friend about being in a class on globalization with a passel of rather awful Hobies (or Brobarts, if you prefer) who were smug and certain of their position in their father's real estate business or law firm or whatever (direct quote from one: "things really went to hell when women started getting MBAs"; I did not know what do), and she said that the people in her classes (at a state school in Southern Illinois) would always bring up abortion and gay marriage in class, which is something that never really happened to me.
Another example: Sex Education. I have never thought of my high school as a very progressive place, but in terms of sex ed, we apparently are. My friend from California had a similar experience. Her sex and drug ed classes were facilitated by students, so people could be really honest about asking things. I just remember my health teacher bringing in all sorts of contraception and explaining them. Awkward, yes, but effective. My friend from Tennessee, in contrast, said that her sex ed consisted of "a three hundred pound man who spoke like Foghorn Leghorn, lecturing us on the spiritual connection between a man and woman." My high school didn't, as far as I know, ban books. I suspect that it is hard to be openly gay in high school for many reasons, but people were in my high school, and as far as I know it didn't really matter. As recent news stories have shown, this is not the case everywhere.
In another vein, it is a total stereotype that New Yorkers are angry and impatient people. However--people are nicer here. I'm serious. I thought it was a myth. My friends and family are nice people, so it's not like I'm not used to it, but even people at the grocery store here are more polite. I had a 3 minute conversation with an older man last week about cheese while we were at the deli counter--this sort of thing happens all the time in Brooklyn, but not really in my hometown. The first time I was reintroduced into a room of NYers, it was a bit of a shock. I was catching a train from Chicago to Rochester before Christmas, and the train was 2 hours late, and oh, people were angry. This is the NYC mentality that sometimes rears its ugly head. As we stood in line waiting for a train to board to Detroit, one of the conductors came over the loudspeaker and said, "New Yorkers! DO NOT get in the line yet, or you will end up in Michigan. And if you are trying to go to New York, that would be a bit of a shock. You don't want to go to Michigan, do you?" To which the guy next to me yelled, "Who would WANT to go to Michigan, EVER?" And as I laughed, with everyone else, I thought, "these are my people." Early on last semester I was waiting for a bus and went and stood in the street, hands on hips, to see if it was coming. One does this in Brooklyn all the time, but apparently you don't do it here, because I turned around and everyone looked at me like I had just descended from a UFO. As I climbed onto the curb, one of my friends hissed, "what are you DOING? You could have gotten hit by a car!"
I still live in a liberal bubble, but it has plenty of other currents too. And that is not necessarily a bad thing. I can acknowledge when good points are made by someone whose beliefs I may not share, as long as they are not hateful. I don't talk about my political beliefs with someone unless I know them quite well (although I bet you can deduce where I stand, from this post!) and it is interesting to see the differences here, political, religious, or otherwise. And ultimately, the similarities.
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
Quotables
I'm in the process of battening down the hatches, or more accurately, staring out my window at the ice accumulation on the tree in front of my apartment. I still have class in a few hours, despite all the dire predictions for the Icepocalypse gripping the Midwest. I am dubious. I am not so dubious, though, to not hope with every fibre of my being that my Italian class will be canceled this evening, because it is Exam Night and I do not want to go.
So anyway, since I am clearly not reading or studying and I want to stay in my pajamas, I am procrastinating on here! And since the semester is in full swing and I spend every waking hour reading (when not with my friends or knitting or carousing), here are some of the best things I've read or heard this week. I suspect this may become a regular feature.
"'Umar said that the Messenger of Allah was with a group of his Companions when a bedouin came who had caught a lizard. The bedouin asked, 'Who is this?' They replied, 'The Prophet of Allah.' He said, 'By al-Lat and al-'Uzza, I do not believe in you nor does this lizard believe in you.' He threw it in front of the Prophet who said, 'Lizard!' It answered in a clear tongue which everyone heard, 'At your service, O adornment of the One who will bring the Rising!'...The bedouin became Muslim." --Qadi 'Iyad ibn Musa al-Yahsubi, translated by Aisha Abdarrahman Bewley, Madinah Press Inverness: Scotland, p 171
--I love this. I am picturing a lizard like Liz from the Magic School Bus. Most of the Muhammad parable-type stories (showing his miracles or kindness) were quite excellent.
I LOVE THE WAY PEOPLE EXPRESSED THEMSELVES 100 YEARS AGO. IN THE "IN YEARS PAST" SECTION OF THE P.J. THERE WAS A STORY OF A WOMAN WHO SHOT HER HUSBAND IN THE BACK OF THE HEAD AND KILLED HIM. THE LAST LINE OF THE STORY IS "IN VIEW OF CERTAIN KNOWLEDGE OF THE AFFAIRS OF THE TWO, SENTIMENT RAN HIGH IN FAVOR OF MRS. VOGT."
--email yesterday from my dad. The P.J. is the Jamestown Post-Journal, and they usually have a page of news stories from 100, 50, and 25 years ago. They are usually pretty good.
Paraphrased:
Sebastiano del Piombo: Um, Michelangelo? The Last Judgment Scene for the Sistine Chapel? I think perchance you could paint in oil on stone instead of fresco.
Michelangelo: What? What? Why would I do that?
Sebastiano: Well, it would last longer for one thing, and I've been experimenting with it a lot lately, with wonderful results.
Michelangelo: Absolutely not. Oil painting is a womanly art [he either said that or "effeminate," I can't remember] and I do not take advice from underlings. Go away.
Sebastiano: See, the problem is, I have an in with the Pope, and I told him to prime the wall for oil, not fresco. Sorry. Just trying to be helpful.
Michelangelo: Then we'll tear down the wall. And despite being your son's godfather, I am not going to talk to you for the rest of our lives.
--And he didn't. Thus proving, yet again, that Michelangelo is a diva and a real piece of work.
"By now I was actually starting to feel a little hypoglycemic. I needed a sugar hit. Luckily there was a small cookie provided. It had caught my eye earlier due to it's baffling presentation: see image 4, above. It appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. You certainly wouldn't want to be caught carrying one of these through customs. Imagine biting into a piece of brass Richard. That would be softer on the teeth than the specimen above."
--excerpted from a complaint letter to Sir Richard Branson, owner of Virgin Atlantic, about the really bad airplane food on a flight from Mumbai to Heathrow. The pictures included are worth a thousand words. Full article? See here. It's hilarious.
"[Winslow Homer] is almost barbarously simple, and, to our eye, he is horribly ugly; but there is nevertheless something one likes about him. What is it? For ourselves, it is not his subjects. We frankly confess that we detest his subjects--his barren plank fences, his glaring, bald, blue skies, his big, dreary, vacant lots of meadows, his freckled, straight -haired Yankee urchins, his flat-breasted maidens, suggestive of a dish of rural doughnuts and pie, his calico sun-bonnets, his flannel shirts, his cowhide boots...a very honest, and vivid, and manly piece of work. Our only complaint with it is that it is damnably ugly!"
--Henry James on Winslow Homer's paintings in the New York Exhibition of 1875, excerpted in American Art to 1900: A Documentary History: U of California Press, p 575-576. About this: 1. Henry James wanted to be European, so I don't think he really has much room to criticize Homer, who is lovely, and 2. as my professor put it, "James was a better critic than he was a novelist, in my opinion." His whole review is witty and snippy, although I still have no idea what "rural doughnuts and pie" actually is. I would read more reviews if they were all like this.
"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, 'O me! O life!...of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless...of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?' Answer. That you are here--that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?"
--Dead Poets Society
Stay safe out there everyone--there is a storm on!
So anyway, since I am clearly not reading or studying and I want to stay in my pajamas, I am procrastinating on here! And since the semester is in full swing and I spend every waking hour reading (when not with my friends or knitting or carousing), here are some of the best things I've read or heard this week. I suspect this may become a regular feature.
"'Umar said that the Messenger of Allah was with a group of his Companions when a bedouin came who had caught a lizard. The bedouin asked, 'Who is this?' They replied, 'The Prophet of Allah.' He said, 'By al-Lat and al-'Uzza, I do not believe in you nor does this lizard believe in you.' He threw it in front of the Prophet who said, 'Lizard!' It answered in a clear tongue which everyone heard, 'At your service, O adornment of the One who will bring the Rising!'...The bedouin became Muslim." --Qadi 'Iyad ibn Musa al-Yahsubi, translated by Aisha Abdarrahman Bewley, Madinah Press Inverness: Scotland, p 171
--I love this. I am picturing a lizard like Liz from the Magic School Bus. Most of the Muhammad parable-type stories (showing his miracles or kindness) were quite excellent.
I LOVE THE WAY PEOPLE EXPRESSED THEMSELVES 100 YEARS AGO. IN THE "IN YEARS PAST" SECTION OF THE P.J. THERE WAS A STORY OF A WOMAN WHO SHOT HER HUSBAND IN THE BACK OF THE HEAD AND KILLED HIM. THE LAST LINE OF THE STORY IS "IN VIEW OF CERTAIN KNOWLEDGE OF THE AFFAIRS OF THE TWO, SENTIMENT RAN HIGH IN FAVOR OF MRS. VOGT."
--email yesterday from my dad. The P.J. is the Jamestown Post-Journal, and they usually have a page of news stories from 100, 50, and 25 years ago. They are usually pretty good.
Paraphrased:
Sebastiano del Piombo: Um, Michelangelo? The Last Judgment Scene for the Sistine Chapel? I think perchance you could paint in oil on stone instead of fresco.
Michelangelo: What? What? Why would I do that?
Sebastiano: Well, it would last longer for one thing, and I've been experimenting with it a lot lately, with wonderful results.
Michelangelo: Absolutely not. Oil painting is a womanly art [he either said that or "effeminate," I can't remember] and I do not take advice from underlings. Go away.
Sebastiano: See, the problem is, I have an in with the Pope, and I told him to prime the wall for oil, not fresco. Sorry. Just trying to be helpful.
Michelangelo: Then we'll tear down the wall. And despite being your son's godfather, I am not going to talk to you for the rest of our lives.
--And he didn't. Thus proving, yet again, that Michelangelo is a diva and a real piece of work.
"By now I was actually starting to feel a little hypoglycemic. I needed a sugar hit. Luckily there was a small cookie provided. It had caught my eye earlier due to it's baffling presentation: see image 4, above. It appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. You certainly wouldn't want to be caught carrying one of these through customs. Imagine biting into a piece of brass Richard. That would be softer on the teeth than the specimen above."
--excerpted from a complaint letter to Sir Richard Branson, owner of Virgin Atlantic, about the really bad airplane food on a flight from Mumbai to Heathrow. The pictures included are worth a thousand words. Full article? See here. It's hilarious.
"[Winslow Homer] is almost barbarously simple, and, to our eye, he is horribly ugly; but there is nevertheless something one likes about him. What is it? For ourselves, it is not his subjects. We frankly confess that we detest his subjects--his barren plank fences, his glaring, bald, blue skies, his big, dreary, vacant lots of meadows, his freckled, straight -haired Yankee urchins, his flat-breasted maidens, suggestive of a dish of rural doughnuts and pie, his calico sun-bonnets, his flannel shirts, his cowhide boots...a very honest, and vivid, and manly piece of work. Our only complaint with it is that it is damnably ugly!"
--Henry James on Winslow Homer's paintings in the New York Exhibition of 1875, excerpted in American Art to 1900: A Documentary History: U of California Press, p 575-576. About this: 1. Henry James wanted to be European, so I don't think he really has much room to criticize Homer, who is lovely, and 2. as my professor put it, "James was a better critic than he was a novelist, in my opinion." His whole review is witty and snippy, although I still have no idea what "rural doughnuts and pie" actually is. I would read more reviews if they were all like this.
"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, 'O me! O life!...of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless...of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?' Answer. That you are here--that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?"
--Dead Poets Society
Stay safe out there everyone--there is a storm on!
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