Days of Shades

I tore out a bunch of the landlord's grass and planted cherry tomatoes. I planted them REBELLIOUSLY. My plants and I are chipping away at the empire (hey, the whole block!) of the white trash oppressors (my landlord would stain the name of bourgeois).

Now I ought to finish up the Olympia High School Baccalaureate program, but I want nothing more than to retire to the bathtub with my book and an ice-cream sandwich. And possibly candles.

Good revolutionaries always bathe with candles. That's why Marat had such wonderful chiaroscuro lighting when Charlotte Corday killed him in his bath. You don't think David* would have made something like that up, do you?

In case my digression has caused any confusion, I would like to clarify that I do NOT have a skin disease contracted while hiding in the sewers of Paris.

*Dah-VEED

...as a busker.

Pearls Before Breakfast

It's a long and occasionally over-dramatic read, but well worth it.

I'm not inclined to draw such dismal opinions as the article writers, for a variety of reasons. Firstly, the morning commute is really this side of people at it's worst. Secondly, what goes for a busy transit stop in DC does not go for the world, the U.S., or even the whole east coast. Thirdly, and with a note of smug pride, busking, as we buskers well know, is a different art than performance. A mediocre musician who is a great entertainer stands a better chance on the streets than a virtuoso classical musician. For one thing, the type of music requires intense concentration, which means you aren't interacting with the crowds, and stage performers aren't accustomed to noticing their crowds anyway.

Most importantly, I suppose, is that everyone's idea of the truest beauty is entirely and totally subjective. I love music. I describe myself, on occasion, as a musician by nature, an artist by profession. But on the morning commute, while I might appreciate running into music (granted, unlikely on the south end of capitol way, but still), I wouldn't say that it is the ultimate in beauty, that it defines or measures my capacity for appreciation. No, what proves that are the new leaves that line capitol way glowing in early light, the shine of sun on lowlying cloud, and the view that stretches clear to the brightening Olympics. That takes my breath away - Every. Damn. Time.

So the music is beautiful, but don't judge us too harshly if we need to focus before we realise it. It takes an inhuman occurence to break through to us when we're not expecting it.

No.

I am a Damn Fine Artist.

This marks the end of this month's anti-fine-art theme, for a number of reasons. The first is that I'm more bizarre than usual when I've been up past my bedtime recently. This fact has prompted research into the exact moment of my appropriate bedtime, and current theory holds that the best possible bedtime for Skellington, from the point of view of the observer, is always roughly 3 hours prior to any given moment.

But I digress.

Firstly, I realise that my generalizations about fine art students and the uselessness of fine art are just that - gross generalizations. They exist, but I also have classmates whose work I would love to have on my walls. Two of them were critiqued today. Secondly, I realise that only people who have some background in art, or just understanding and love of being creative, would understand the glee, the potential, the excitment I feel when I look at my beautifully gessoed hardboards (Canvas sounds much nicer, but I realised last year that I don't actually like painting on canvas - you've no idea how happy I am to be discarding a medium/surface rather than adding another to my list of options. I feel decisive, especially since I'm crossing out a surface that takes a lot of frickin' work). Looking at the new 'web' section of my online portfolio I notice that some of the stuff there really isn't that shitty. Or maybe it just looks nice at 300px wide. Or maybe my vanilla latte is going to my head. Regardless.

I have now risen above it. The self centered pettiness shall scurry on below me, as if I was high on helium. In short, my Ego has reasserted itself (it helps that when Virginia was asked by some official to mention a student who was 'not nessecarily academically the top, but well rounded, intelligent, and familiar with the programs' she pointed to me). It helps that I realised that by the time I graduate I will have had work in at least five shows within a 9 month period. Possibly six shows. Quality/attendence at the shows aside (does anyone ever actually go to the B-gallery?), that's a ducky feeling. A dancing ducky feeling.

I have two musical instruments sitting at home in silent potential, three gessoed hardboards waiting for paint, sketchbooks to fill and webpages to populate. Life is good - at least until I come down off of my caffiene high. (Cost saving tip - if you quit caffeine for a month, getting that single shot gives you BUZZZ).

Now, fenmere, don't think for one moment that this means I'm backing out of the Propaganda Project. Quite the contrary, I'm in it with a will. With zest. Possibly even spit & vinegar. In point of fact, I have today hit on a delightful, a clever, yea, even a fiendish idea for the bombardment of the school. I'm not sure whether I can pull it off, and it will require some careful preparation, not to mention a few guaranteed casulaties - but do remember to ask me about it next time I see you.

I have a new theory that anytime I am up at 2 am I should damn well be making a lot of noise. This may not hold up to closer scrutiny when I'm well rested, but since I'm never well rested at 2 am, this rule has a good chance of standing for my lifetime.

Hence, another random fiddle concert in the empty art building last night. This morning. Y'know.

My 1st webpage project for class is up. My logo was absolute crap (which I knew), and my webpage in all other areas was the most technically nifty of the lot - which I guessed. The general reaction to the page layout and design was better than I expected, but other than that, I was reminded of this monty python sketch:

"I wrote a story. It was a short story, but very boring. I took it to a publisher, and he confirmed my opinions. He said "This story lacks...everything. But most of all it lacks the elements of sex and violence.""

Let this be a lesson to you - if you're ever designing a webpage and you don't know what images to use, get something you can associate with real american culture. A stripper is always good. If you can't find a stripper, get a devil chic...and if you can't find a devil chic, try a UFO.

Thanks, Mr. Chantry.

Today is one of those pseudo-meaningful run-on sentances about the meaning of art and my identity as an art major and being 'interested in this idea that' a day can be a sentence evern a run-on and the fact that this run-on itself is generated by me not getting home until 4:30, never mind bed, all of which is related to the State of Being an Art Major, and our perrenial dichotomy of amazing self-assurance and crushing self doubt, and the fact that we can get away with clothes no one else would ever want to, and I drew cartoons in class today. Or something. Wait, did I use punctuation? I think I violated a rule.

Quoting other people is always more classy than making grammatical mistakes yourself, so allow me to direct your rapt attention to two links which madalchemist has at one time or another pointed out to me: TBM Guide to Picking a Major and this Guide to basic College Skills Everyone Should F*cking Know. In particular, these bits:

( Other People's Sagacity )

I have a thesis & Outline on a subject I haven't picked due tomorrow at 9:30, and the process book for webdesign due wednesday. Anyone wanting to have serious, lucid conversation with me should wait 'till thursday. If lucidity isn't an issue, I have to admit that I might be kinda fun to watch.

Audio prof asked if we could identify a mic. I answered that it was the spaceship. Loudly.

Normally I keep these things in my head.

So, thesis statement etc. is pressing, and I'll just have to leave you guessing about other exciting events in Saja-ville, like the fact that on Saturday night my life turned into a D&D game (which might be more amusing if I'd gotten to pick my character, or if I knew how to play D&D).

If there is an art which could truly focus the emotional experience of being a student in the academia beaurocracy, that truly brings to light all of the raging stresses, joys, and thrills of being, especially, an art student, I think that that art might just well be...

BLUE SLIP ART!

collage, sculpture, aye, even unto veritable blue slip intsallations!

Right.

I was blue slipped into a 400 level class today. A class for which I'm missing two course prerequisites and the entire design area junior portfolio review/stamp-o-goodness. A class during which, in the 2 hour intro period, I happened to be the one with the answers to all Madge's questions...yes, I am unexpectedly registered in Internet Design!

GO ME!

In other news, my computer is now wired (litteraly), my mouse now turns left in the living room instead of the bedroom so we don't have to listen at night, and Desiree and Kathryn are BOTH in my audio recording class, which kicks ass.

Ciao!