Sun rise, Sun burn

July 31

July 30

A toad in the hand

We scout locations. We hike in flip-flops. We make videos in mud. Everywhere we go, my interns find frogs, butterflies, and magic. It seems like the world does have this capacity after all.

July 29

July 28

July 27

Historic Mecca

Graffiti on Mecca Covered Bridge

I drove my interns to Mecca, Indiana on Thursday. It was about fifty miles one way, with a crazy detour through Amish country. The nice farmers (who all looked like the actors in "The Witness") waved at us as we passed, and I couldn't help feeling overall warmth toward the countryside. The drive there was less of the flat, monotonous corn fields, and more of the rolling hills, scattered forests, and fields of cone flowers that made the idea of 'rural life' an appealing alternative to the hours of gridlock I happily left behind in California.

Mecca is a town of about 350 citizens, founded in the mid-nineteenth century. It apparently had a boom and decline associated with the opening and closing of a tile factory. All of my information on the town is related to me by the kind woman, Judy, who showed us around. (Mecca seems to be too small for this information to have found its way to the Internet.) Judy showed us the old 1-12 school house that is now used as the sole store and restaurant for the town. Many of the class rooms are used for meetings, historical displays, veteran displays, or are preserved as they were used fifty years ago. Judy also took us to a 19th-century, one room school house by the covered bridge leading into town. This school house was replaced in 1901 by the large brick school we visited (which closed in 1987-- I don't know what has replaced it).

This field trip into educational history was an effort to find the perfect setting for one of my video scenes. It seemed perfect, so they only missing criteria were miniature actors. I asked Judy about passing out fliers to get volunteer children to act in the school house. She was happy to oblige.

The next day, I got a phone call from a Mecca citizen, asking what would I like the children to wear. I repeated the description I had on the flier. She said, "Well, the school house is from the mid-1800s. Would you like the children to dress for that time period? Most of the kids in town have those outfits, as they perform in a reenactment there every year."

Of all the art that is made all over the world throughout the year, I love imagining this group of children in this tiny town coming together to act out school days for the entertainment of its 300 citizens.

July 26

July 25

July 24

July 23

Video Work in Progress

Today was our first day of shooting for "All Good Things Will Come to You Soon." After months of dreaming, weeks of planning, and days of bossing around interns, the first day of shooting has finally arrived and ended. I would like this piece to be a surprise, so I am not planning on putting clips of work-in-progress, but I would like to comment on thoughts that have come up in this process. First of all, I am collaborating with actors, artists who have certain ideas about things are portrayed, etc. Today, my actor was very young, being directed by my young interns while I oversaw the process and results. The scene is supposed to represent the struggle to create something perfect (perfect for a vision you have, whether clear or not). It is also supposed to represent how this struggle is a life-long quest, as opposed to a foot race.

So the scene depicts a young woman trying to make a drawing. Each drawing isn't quite right, but she is satisfied each is a step toward that goal. I am listening to my assistant direct her, things like, "Look happy about that. Was that a good line? Should that other line be different?" She is looking at the drawing with contentment, every now and then giving a little smile, or biting her lip. That is what acting like an artist should look like, I suppose. That image will read as "real."

When I make work (here and here), I don't seem to have such a face. It is an intent, intense face, mostly with pursed brows, pressed lips, leaning on my hand distraughtly. I never feel that euphoria I suppose everyone imagines artists have... it's hard work. It's draining. It's frustrating. But what else would I do with me time-- what would be the point? I don't know what I would do without it.

July 22

July 21

4-H Fair: Showing small-town pride in your children

There is a phenomenon us city dwellers have heard of (not in a detailed kind of way, but in "the name sounds familiar" kind of way) and that is the 4-H club. I was in a 2-H club in high school--the history and humanities club, but I am pretty sure it's not the same thing. 4-H has something to do with raising animals while in school. Even when you read about it, it is fraught with vagueness, like this giant, inside joke that city folk specifically aren't supposed to understand.

I did know there were supposed to be animals, and as that is my favorite part of the LA County Fair, I tricked two of my NYC friends (who also find themselves inexplicably in Indiana) into going. As we were later going to a play, they asked me with dubious arch of eyebrow, "so, should we go there for an hour, then off to our play?" An hour? But what if it is wonderful? What if it is the best thing there is? (Keep in mind, I almost invited them to the Fort Ouiatenon Spring Festival, which ended up being boring except for jumping into the river. So I was a little worried about talking it up too much.) Just in case of a bust, we also arranged to have drinks between fair and play, and the three hours I asked them to set aside seemed more logical.

When we arrived, we couldn't help noticing the smallness of the county fairgrounds. The only county fairs I have ever been to have been in counties with populations as big as this state, so I should have expected it. I became afraid. We walked through the booth area. There were only six booths. I became very afraid. Then we saw the baby animal tent and all was well. It's amazing how baby animals melt all hearts equally, even those of the coolest New Yorkers. Here you see my beautiful friend becoming so overcome by the cuteness of a goat, that she cannot pose for a photograph. As least she is there for size comparison, and as a reference point for delight-reaction.

We ended up spending the three hours looking at the animals, cakes, and science projects. We also watched a horse-ridding demonstration. In case you haven't googled 4-H by now, it is basically a fair of agricultural and craft/home-making demonstrations by school-aged children, so they can grow up to be smart in rural knowledge. You know, all that stuff city-folk have forgotten (like milking cows, slaughtering chickens, baking pies, sewing dresses, racing horses, castrating sheep, etc.).

Some of it seemed so surreal. For example, all the kids were wearing helmets on the horses (while helmets are not required or encouraged in this whole state-- I have definitely left California). No sooner had we commented on it, when a running horse fell and half rolled on his young rider. [I thought, oh no, not again. Luckily, there was a doctor closer to her than me.] Other surrealnesses were in our plain ignorance. In the sheep pens, we noted some were sheared, others not, and some seemed to be dressed like klansmen. I'm sure there is a reason. We are still learning the local language and something has been lost in translation.

Blog Guilt

I had meant to never let more than two days go by without making a performance for this site. (I didn't want a whole line of graves stone posts. People will get the wrong idea.) Let's say I have been reserving my performances for private audiences! But I didn't mean to let so much time pass! My excuses are quite real (lame)-- I finally took pictures to create an entry, but didn't have the upload cord with me. I had to write a job description for my fall student assistant. I had to run auditions. I had to go to that bar. I had to go see that naked play (Some Men). Eventually, I will find that cord and get that post up about small town cuteness. I promise. I don't know how many more graves will go by before you see it, but it will happen.

My favorite albums I am listening to around town are MGMT and the Moods. I am late to the party on MGMT (click here to see the HD music video-- it made me buy the album. Warning: long time to load and some hedonistic activities), as many of my favorite Internet personalities wrote about them months ago. But at least I have learned the error of my ways. The Moods are friends of mine in LA, and I am happy to say I was one of the first to that party, hearing their early practice sessions on an iPod, seeing most of their first shows, and I got the CD before it was released. Yes, that's how connected I am.

I only mention the albums for something to post, but there are days when I feel like good music gets me through the day. It's probably why I was so excited by this little "Mix Tape" thing in my sidebar over to the right. I can find any song I never owned and make fabulous music. People have been doing this on MySpace forever, I know, with weird little box-MP3 player things. But this actually makes it seem like a mixed tape, referencing the fine art of selecting songs and orders and the tone of the whole tape. I was never good at these things, because I would slap together an odd mix of music that made me feel certain ways (just for the glory of these songs making me feel things on command) and I tended to put contrasting emotions right next to each other. Offspring's Smash right next to Coldplay's Yellow followed by Madonna. I'll have to find that tape and try to recreate it one of these days. After I find a tape player.

July 20

July 19

July 18

July 17

July 16

July 15

Small town photos

Carving of a bird with a thought bubble containing a name and a Masonic symbol.
My foot at bottom for size and texture.
Pine Hills State Park, 2008

I hate to always say something good with something bad but I am going to give a couple here.

I was talking to the library archivist today and she was saying these areas I have been hiking have been popular destinations for more than one hundred and fifty years. They would load up in the back of a wagon, take all morning to get there, have a picnic, and ride back by evening.

We went on a marvelous hike before J left town again at the Big Pine State Park (right next to Shades). The above was taken at one of these ancient picnicking spots. It is no wonder that the cliff is covered in ancient and charming graffiti, from generations of wily youths. How many of my students are off doing that same thing right now?

So my complaint is about the photos I took (using a funny camera, I admit, but still. More here). I used to get very good pictures developed and printed at Target, and for some (dumb) reason, I was convinced that Walmart's mail-in service would be similar. No. Probably the worst prints I've ever seen, and the CD was hardly well done enough for heavy Photoshopping for the Internet. Lesson continually learned: you get what you pay for.

Another contrasting set of random events.

My step-mom had to put one of her/our cats to sleep today. She was sixteen or so. That's a lot for a cat, but it is still sad.

And I am confirmed for a solo show in January in Georgia. I am now confirmed as a nationally showing artist.

July 14

I Could Touch the Sky

Fresh food and fireflies

I went to prepare my lunch sandwich just now. It might sound banal, but there is something very appealing about cleaning up the dishes and preparing a delicious sandwich. I have been using the beautiful romaine leaves from the plants grown before I left for N.Y. I was surprised to find these perfect romaine heads on my return. The corn did not reach knee high the month I was gone (clearly, hefty fertilizers are involved in those fields), and the zucchini (normally a garden champion) succumbed to the attacks by the weeds. But my beautiful little lettuce was thriving. I only planted one, and looking at it, I think it would make a good salad for one. To spread out the delight it gives me, I am reserving its leaves for sandwiches-- two per day. When I went to pluck my two leaves, I found this little fellow, reminding me of the videos I had prepared for you, waiting silently on my camera. I apologize for the delay, and will post them now, post-haste.

The fireflies here seem to not trust the dark. They are all gone by 10:00 P.M. or so, and with a 9:20 sunset, it is not a lot of time to see their full, lightening spectacle. Here is what they look like. Kind of ugly at first, then when I realized what they were, I thought he was quite a pretty fellow.

Here is an example of their flying/lighting action.

This video, taken at 8:30, is at the height of their activity in my front yard. Your challenge: count how many you find.

July 13

July 12

Those Midwesterners

When I moved here, several people (who had moved here before me) said they thought people here were very nice and I would be pleasantly surprised by them. It is true that they smile at you on the street (they do this in California too, but I couldn't get anyone to smile at me in Rochester)-- well, maybe half do. And when it was obvious our lawn mover was broken, a neighbor lent us one. That was nice.

But mostly I've found people had very poor manners, meaning they tend to be rude, which I will always extrapolate into not-nice. It's been hard to explain, because I didn't have any good examples. Until today.

Kristen is in the basement of the antique store. It is 4:45 P.M.

Old Lady: "Is anyone down here?"
K: "Yes."
Old Lady: "Oooooh."
K: "Are you closed?"
Old Lady: "Not yet."

Old Lady turns out the lights. Kristen makes a noise of surprise, then stumbles through the dark basement full of rusty crap towards the stairs.

Old Lady: "Were you done?"
K: "No, but I guess I am now."
Old Lady: "Was there something there you wanted?"
K: "Don't know, I can't see now." Reaches stairs.
Old Lady: "I could turn the lights back on."
K: "Don't bother."

July 11

Things to love

Believe it or not, there are things I love here, unexpected, mundane everyday things that have called for my attention, and I have carried throughout the day like a sigh of relief. They are as follows:

A beautiful breakfast sandwich, made with mozzarellas (I will never want one with cheddar again), eggs (white only), and bacon from Grandpa's Farm in Ohio (a tourist stop, not my Grandpa). Lightly toasted and delicious.

Summer wild flowers-- they are heftier than the spring ones were, and they wave at me from the sides of the roads, like hitchhikers beckoning me to take them home with me. I am convinced the purple one is a wild onion, and is has a sweet smell that has filled my dining room.

New hair color, paired with great grandma's beads I have never worn. I needed to touch up the color, and with a new cut, I thought I would start with a clean slate altogether.

I had been slightly influenced to change my color by the fact that, last weekend at a 5th of July party, I was being confused with "the other blond lady in the art department." Perhaps the greatest problem with teaching at an all male college is women are rare enough, folks (OK, only the men were doing it) surrender to their temptation of distinguishing us by the tones of our tresses. At the time, someone shouted, "no, she isn't that one. She's the one that saved the man from the river." OK, at least a more exciting a description than 'the blond.'

Anyways, I was ready to change my locks' shades. Last night I took the plunge into the bottle, this morning, unleashing my new color on the masses. Today, I had a technology meeting with a friend from across campus, who happens to have a similar color of hair as my new one. Oh, now I can be confused with her! I'm starting to see that this is not the answer to being a unique woman in a small town in Indiana.

I am at work right now. The evening security guard came by to lock up the doors. He's seen me before, usually just says hello and moves on, but for some reason, stopped in just now and asked if I was the new Costume Design person. No, I'm not. "Oh, because I ran into her husband and he said they just moved here." Nope, not me. "Oh. Then you're the one who saved someone from the river." It is so hard to distinguish women around here.

July 10

July 9

There is a lot of corn here

and it is way higher than my knee.

There are also bugs I can see from across the street, and not just the kinds that light up.

It is hot, and kind of sticky, but I need a coat to go into my office.

The sky keeps lighting up, though the fireworks have long since run out.

July 8

The perfect photo

When I was 18, I was a lifeguard. It was the summer time, and I was about to leave for college, to the great hippie-oasis of Northern California. I was gathering clothes for my new (used) wardrobe, and decided I would crochet myself a purple parka-wrap similar to ones I had seen in photos from my mom's youth, and period movies. During my breaks as a lifeguard, I worked on it. It took a couple weeks all together, and even now I can't believe I would lay it over my lap, like a blanket, in a California summer. The stitches were immaculate, the pattern consistent and reflected the constant tension I held on that yarn all summer.

For whatever reason, I never wore it in Santa Cruz or after. Because of how warm I made it, it makes the wearer about twice their normal size. I think that's why I never wore it. But I was so proud of its craftsmanship, I held onto it.

As I was cleaning out my house, preparing to sell it and move to Indiana, a neighbor would volunteer to take my extra things to a shelter she ran, where everything was given for free to the poor. When she saw the funny purple hat I bought at the Renaissance Fair, she told me about a sweet old woman who loved the color purple and who would love it so much. I was working on a performance project ("Yard Sale") at the time, so I asked for a picture of her in the hat. I never got one, but later she told me again about how much this woman loved the hat, and how she had recently been hit by a car. I suddenly remembered the wrap I had made ten years earlier and never worn. I sent it with her for this woman, and was glad someone would get use of its warmth.

Last month, I received a letter in the mail. In it was this photo. At first, I didn't recognize it. Who was this ancient woman? What is this strange pose she is holding? But the whole thing is such a strange, amazing photo. It seems so perfect, her gesture, the heart-shaped window bars, the tilt of her head, and this wild purple parka. I can't tell you how it made my day.

July 7

July 6

A series of unfortunate events

I have been trying to come up with how exactly to write this post for twenty-four hours. Well, just under twenty-four. I am looking at the time on my laptop, and I can't believe it hasn't been that long yet. The events of those twenty-something hours have a certain poetry to them and I want to make sure I capture that poetry, as macabre as it is. I should warn you it isn't a pretty, fun, or uplifting poem, but one the likes of Edger Allen Poe.

The poem starts with us listening to an episode of "This American Life," about Prom, but that segment was about a prom disrupted by a tornado. I was thinking it was pretty funny, because Proms are lame anyway, and the teens had a video camera at the time, so their audio of being jerky-drunk teens was hilarious. And we know ahead of time it is a tornado, so we know houses will be knocked down and that will suck, but somehow it doesn't strike me as sad. Toward the end, one of the kids they keep interviewing was talking, recapping all the bad things that had happened in the past year. His dad had died on his birthday, his mom couldn't afford their east-end home so they moved to the west side where the new house was destroyed by a tornado. He says he feels doomed. The narrator explains he is going to college in the fall, but wants to work on an oil rig instead and give the money to help his mom. By then, the story was sober enough, we weren't laughing at them any more. To drive home the fact we were jerks for laughing at all, the main narrator, Ira Glass, comes on at the end, and says this same kid died in a car accident a few weeks later. I guess some people are just doomed after all.

That is the moment we pulled off the freeway into Crawfordsville, fighting little tears at the futility of this poor kid's truncated life.

The town looked the same with the exception of the number of fireworks stands set up in the empty lots. The house was where we left it-- someone had moved the lawn by the sidewalk, but weeds were chocking the cracks of the walkway to our porch. A contractor had installed a new lock and replaced the kitchen ceiling while we were gone, so I didn't have a key. J dug for it in his bag while I made trips from the car, anxious because the next-door-neighbor-sex-offender was in his yard watching me (I know he only likes children, but I don't like making eye contact with him--I don't want him to see how disgusting I think he is). We finally get inside. In the house, I sigh in relief, but "it smells a little in here," then go to switch on the light. But the light doesn't go on. There is stuff all over, moved about by the contractor (and paint on the floor, and grease in the bathroom sink-- but that is a different story). On the table by the door is the pile of the last mail my friend took in before the vacation hold stopped the delivery. Right in the pile is the notice we owe $25 and if it isn't paid by the 20th, they will shut off the power. Fourteen days ago. There was a little of this "I thought you paid this," "No, you were supposed to" kind of nonsense, but it was futile and we both knew it.

Hesitantly, we approached the fridge to reveal the smell. We happen to be the kind of people who rarely have a stocked fridge. That should have worked in our favor. However, before I left, J had surgery and I had stocked the freezer with frozen food for him. He ended up going to California before eating any of it.

The fridge smelled bad, but nothing like the freezer. A vomit-inducing odor lay in wait there, the tiny fruit flies hovered over it eagerly (I think they were vivaciously celebrating their revenge against me for the genetic experiments we did on them in college-- I was tempted to check them for the classic mutations we were supposed to document in our lab books). J put on gloves to carry out the contents of the fridge, while I moved the rest of our belongings into the house. The lack of power, the fact our bathrooms were window-less, and my desire for a shower quenched any of my longings to join the 4th of July festivities we had planned to attend. The smell wasn't any better, and now had escaped the freezer and was at-large in the house. (I didn't discover until today, the panel at the bottom of the freezer, hiding the dripping ooze and maggoty remains of our food.)

So, we left to check into a hotel. The cats had food and water, so all was well. I said to J, "the only thing I want from a hotel is a pool. That can make this better. And beer. Lots of beer." Driving down the road to the grocery story, we passed this.

We pulled over to take this picture, and I was picturing this post, how to express how I was feeling about this town and being back and the chaos that is living in a rental, when a woman (townie) walked up to ask what I was doing. I was feeling so defensive, I was curt with her and wanted to take my pictures and run. She was persistent, and before I could stop it, was going on about the fire and the town. She kept saying, "this is an historic landmark, it was built in the 1950s!" In a town where everything was built before 1880, this didn't seem impressive to me. And she kept talking about all the animals in the pet shop that burned up, how they died in vain. I couldn't imagine how else they could have died, other than being eaten, but it was cruel and unusual. She wanted me to walk around the building with her to try to see the burned remains. I was suddenly worried about leaving the cats alone in our house. In a town like this, it could catch fire any moment.

By the time we got to the hotel, it was 9:50, and the pool closed at 10. Forget it, I said, I want to just go drink all this wine and sleep in the king-sized bed.

But the fireflies on the way their were amazing.

July 5

July 4

Cute overload

Chasing bugs

Here is the Hair before and after shots. So much better, I think. Inspiration!

After the talk last night, several of us met up at a bar on the beach of Lake Ontario. It was very fun with only minor bug bites from the sand. After, J, Lisa, Pants, Marleen, Tammy and I went on an adventure to hunt Fireflies. This may seem a simple and childish thing, but the whole existence of fireflies is crazy (they're bugs that light up at night!) and they are unique to the east, south, and midwest. I guess that means they aren't that unique, but they weren't in Florida, they aren't in California, and I never saw them in Hawaii. Ergo, they are amazing. We drove to this remote trail, walking way off the main road, into the dark (a few drinks to the wind), and marveled at their twinklings. I am sad to say, the evening was cut short by mosquitos attempting to carry me away. (I swear I have had more garlic this month in an attempt to be less appealing to them. I guess that doesn't work.) Even so, what's a few bug bites? Thank you guys for such a wonderful last night in Rochester!

Minus Twelve Inches

My haircut took a long time-- I was almost late for the talk. And I had such mixed feelings as I was waiting in the lounge area of the salon about what I would allow to happen-- all clouded by fear. Every few years, I usually cut off about six inches of hair, and no matter what idea I came in with, I would leave with the same haircut and tears of regret.

So while I was sitting in the salon, my printed pictures in hand, casually thumbing through a haircut magazine for other ideas, I became afraid. In a fit of conservatism, I selected a back-up cut that would meet my needs and be less dram-/traumatic than the one I had selected.

I saw a person come out of the cutting area, with a cut cute for her but something my mom would get and I feared. She had a young girl with her, maybe in her teens, with the exact same haircut. I shuddered. Then the young girl paid for her cut and left, and I realized the older woman was one of the stylists. My fear shoot up. Is this the woman who would cut my hair? Could she possibly create the fun, young, chunky haircut I desired, or would I also have the feathered beehive that would turn into a mullet in the Indiana humidity? I hid my printout under the magazine, turning to the page with the longer (easier-to-grow-out) cut, even imagining that after all this, I still might say, "Just an inch off the bottom, please." The stylist went back behind the curtain. Sigh, not for me.

Eventually, I young woman with medium length, thick hair, and a big tattoo on her arm. Good, I thought. A young woman with a tattoo could get it right. The print-out came back out.

As she began talking to me, looking at my profile to judge the length, massaging my scalp, I started to see how young she was, and I started getting nervous again. At one point, she said, "ok, now I am going to consult with Chi-Wah. That's what we do here." Chi-Wah turned out to be a person, not just the name of the salon. And she turned out to be the woman I had seen earlier. Perhaps I was wrong? Perhaps that young girl wanted an older haircut?

As the cut progressed, it also was revealed my stylist was Chi-Wah's daughter, and while Chi-Wah was checked the other stylist's progress also, she hovered near, checking on the progress of my hair. They both said, "Would you like to keep the ponytail?" I have kept them in the past, but always had to ask. This was so formal! Sure! The hair was carefully pony-tailed, and attention drawn as she cut it off. It was dramatic, but not tramatic like the last time I had had that done. ("You're too old for long hair, I'm just going to chop it off.") She did it, and I didn't cry. It felt good, lighter.

So, blah blah, the girl starts cutting, and at one point, Chi-Wah comes over and starts critiquing, then offers to help, and soon both are flat-ironing my hair and when it is time to cut the layers, Chi-Wah takes offer, talking her daughter through the steps, and referring to me as "the client." When it was done, I was shocked, but not unhappy. I flipped it around. I liked it more.

Here is what it looked like the next day. It was still holding the shape/style/ironing of the cut yesterday, although my atrocious roots still need attending.

And here is what it looked like post-shower. My hair has some natural waviness, and I had asked for a cut that could work straight or with this wave. I'm pretty pleased!