Woohoo, art history midterm complete!
I feel however that my massive compilation of notes has not really been adequately utilized; not that I want a more comprehensive exam, but…does anyone need some 19th century art history notes? They are kind of burning a hole in my google docs.
Also after eight hours of brain gelling study and amalgamation, I find that I totally did not get to talk enough about some of the shit I wanted to. Anyone up for a sprightly discourse on Slave Ship or the Death of Marat or something? (I know, I know. I don’t recognize me either).
But I recognize this! Ha!
May 4, 2015
April 29, 2015
Ye golden gods do I have a lot of opinions about art.
I never would have assumed it, for me art was always something that existed more or less in a vacuum, the only possible reactions being ‘I like that’ or ‘I don’t like that,’ with obvious ranges of extremity, such as ‘I hate it’ or ‘I love it.’
I never learned shit about art, is what I am saying, and I always kind of believed that anyone that did was kind of a twat. There is a decided part of my being that still feels like this. I am sitting at home, eating salami and chevre and trying to feel all classy and shit while I attempt to write about art, and the only thing I can really accomplish with verity is that I have opinions.
Opinions like, fuck everything that came before realism and naturalism, these two are my lungful of air in a school term where I enjoyed class and neoclassicism way less than I enjoyed precalculus. I surprise myself on a regular basis.
One of these surprises is, I apparently hate a lot of great art. I think it sucks and I have no appreciation for it. Which realization has week to week made me feel like a plebe, and like this community college art history class was being wasted on me, not to mention my dollars, until we got to something I could actually identify with, so many chapters in. And suddenly, I am super interested in all of it. Now that I have found some relatable art to glom onto, every other style is just this contrast to it, like everyone that isn’t the Broncos. All at once I have this drive to have thoughts about the art I encounter, to wonder about where it originated and how it evolved into its finished self. I have this total twat urge to talk about it at least one tenth as much as I talk about math. And I totally wonder, art:
April 24, 2015
I got John Cusacked on my walk home today.
I say ‘walk home,’ but really it was more like an impromptu fitness training from hell bootcamp home, where I sprinted in spurts until I couldn’t breathe and walked in stints until my heart was no longer in danger of exploding.
When I went by Burgerville on Hawthorne I was already dripping and it was busier than I had ever seen it and I swear to god everyone inside just gawped at me like meerkats over their pawsful of burger, and I felt like a crazy person. Also very sorry for self.
I still feel very sorry for self. Running fucking sucks. It is one of the very lamest things a person can do, except for very short spaces of time when that person feels like bursting their chest and face up to the sky with their arms pumping gloriously for like a block or two, tops. More than a block or two and the chest bursting becomes less metaphorical and more traumatically realistic. Also my abs hurt, which I feel is unnecessary. It’s not like my abs were doing the mad dash with the feet they have on the end of them.
However overall I am feeling mostly overwhelmed with relief, because I was carrying my laptop in nothing sturdier than a tote bag, so
PS. Those are actual drips all over my face. I was basically a very fast, gasping swearing water feature.
April 21, 2015
This last weekend I tried to buy a bike.
Apparently I am not a precious snowflake, and every other person in Portland also tried to buy a bike last weekend. One would think therefore, that as I am clearly not a precious and/or unique snowflake, that finding a bike could not possibly be so difficult. This however is not the case. We went to five different bike shops in search of that perfect combination of cute and serviceable, and lo, we did not find it.
I began my bike shopping career firmly under the impression that all I cared about was cute. This was not a bad assumption to make. When you are me, you require all your things to hit that maximized point where cute and dependable meet, and if you can’t find it then you just go without. Take for example the case of my nut grinder. There are lots of perfectly decent nut grinders out there, and I really do miss having ground almonds with honey on my oatmeal, but I cannot find a new nut grinder as cute as my old nut grinder, the one that I finally broke all the teeth out of, and therefore: therefore I do not eat oatmeal anymore.
Then I saw some bikes that were extremely cute but not very nice to ride, and, more to the point, I rode on a bike that was an absolute and utter joy but was ugly as crap. I decided as the day wore on that I was drifting surprisingly ever more toward the realm of function versus form, and that all of the super cute bikes were in fact mostly prissy. Nobody over here is going to be gliding at a gentle two miles per hour over ancient Italian cobblestone streets with their blouse neatly tucked into their waistline and a damn baguette in their bike basket, is what I am saying.
So now I am wondering, what are the awesomest ways to take an ugly bike that is the best thing you have ever ridden, just strong and light all at once, sturdy and lithe simultaneously, inducing feelings of both jaw jutting confidence and gleeful free-wheeling jubilation, and make it beautiful? I exaggerate, of course. I do not need it to be beautiful. But I would certainly like it to be one damn color (of my own particular choosing) and ugly-ass logo free. Duct tape is all I can think of right now, and I am not yet insane enough to think that would be much of an aesthetic improvement.
April 18, 2015
March 9, 2015
For exactly one year and eight days now, we have lived behind a nasty patch of old pine needles and accumulated flotsam like cigarette butts and bits of food wrapper. It has been ugly. It has been imposed upon, as the needle tree has its own entire patch on which to scatter its dead hairs; it does not need to blow them all over into other uninvolved patches of dirt. Furthermore it has been useless, except, as aforementioned, as an unnecessary additional trash storage annex, which was woefully undersized and under organized anyhow. But mostly it has been ugly.
Yesterday morning I got up at what my body considered to be eight thirty, and I raked all of the crap out of this patch of dirt for literally hours and pulled all the weeds and their horrible clever old roots out of it and eventually after literally hours it turned into beautiful soft warm dirt. Also I have callouses.
And the dirt is jammed so far under my fingernails that at all times and regardless of grooming implements my fingertips faintly reek of fertilizer. But hey! Potting soil’s not going to fling itself onto the ground in uniform poofiness.
And now there is salad planted in it! This previous king of the eyesores is now home to a bunch of lettuce and spinach, and hopefully there is some room left in there for kale, because ideally I want to just walk out my front door and pick a salad bar.
HOORAY FOR SPRING