NEW CONTENT! MARK YOUR CALENDARS!

I haven't been able to post much to the blog, though my Twitter account has been very active.
For something new, I will show you an article about a project my students did for class. I am very proud of them.

Read it here.

Play-Dough

This semester has offered me many new students, new courses and new
conversations. The classes have been moving along, down a wild river,
and I am in the back with the rudder, steering us down the routes I
have planned, occassionally going to one side or the other for the
excitement of the passengers. Occassionally, we hit rapids, even
rocks. Sometimes it is exilerating, sometimes unnerving. Sometimes we
see things I have forgotten, or I get to see anew through their eyes.

Last week, some of my students were talking with a philosopher. I
enjoy philosophy, but this man's speciality was ancient Greek
philosophy. The more I listened, the more I thought, this is the
stupidest thing I have ever heard. Has no one had any interesting
thoughts since then? Do our arguments now have so little merit
compared to Plato?

My students wanted to relate this to their own experiences. They asked
about Plato's intent. "No no, no one knows or cares what the intent
was. That's how we should look at art too. Artists don't always know
what they are doing and are idiots at explaining it."

Needless to say, I had to step in.

Later, my student came up and said, "if the artist's intent doesn't
matter, why have I been working on this artist statement for so long?"

"You are not two thousand years dead," I said. "You are a living
artist working in a post- (post- ?) modern period. Of course it
matters. Once it's out there people will try to take what they want,
but you will have controlled the context and your insights help
historians and critics put it in context."

Or something like that. I began debating whether I should assign
"Death of the Author," even if it was the one reading I couldn't bear
to look at in grad school.

Last night, I saw our production if "the Pillowman." I almost laughed
at the irony and relevance of the themes (except I was near tears at
the intensity of my student's performance, who performed with such
energy and abandon, he fell to the stage and concussed himself): a man
who would rather kill his brother and be put to death than see his
creations destroyed (even if they are unseen). Is the death of the
author preferable to the death of the content? We certainly hope all
our love and sweat and pain can communicate on their own, possibly
outliving us. Maybe the "gist" of it will suffice in that
circumstance, that the reader will get what they will (at least, they
think they got it on their own), and go on and respond to it, never
knowing they are doing and thinking exactly what the author wanted
them to.

Right now, I am on a plane (offline, don't worry). I was so tense
about the crowd and the luggage area and the stuffy hot plane air, I
sat in the wrong seat (D instead of C, both on the aisle). When the
rightful owner arrived, I saw my mistake and began to move. "Dont
worry," he said, and took my assigned seat. I looked over at him later
to see what he was reading (one of my quirky, nosey plane habits). I
couldn't tell, but the man in B, next to my assigned seat, was reading
Plato.

Dodged that bullet.

Sent from my iPhone

Really, I am going to make it

I miss my blog. It's so pretty. And nice. Green, and friendly. Right now, it is riddled with days and days of tombstones. That's depressing! I miss carefully plotting the content of these entries. Will I dance for a camera? Record time delayed videos of my hours of working? Will I make drawings based on crazy conversations I over hear? Those were the days, weren't they?

Now I am lucky to plan text. Plain. Boring. Text. And not even interesting narrative text. Just text. Ramblings of a mad man. Most of the text I plan is in my head as I am walking from point A to point B. It never makes it to the computer. (Forget all those times I have used the physical page... the days of the sketchbook diary are far behind me.)

I haven't even called family in a while. They are likely to think I am dead. Again.

At least there is this. My tiny rock thrown up at the tsunami of the fall.

Teaching

At the beginning of the term, there are new faces, new students, new adventures to be had. Students come to class with preconceived notions of what art and photography are or can be.

I am excited to see what will happen, what they will make, what they will say when they see art, theories and ideas that are new to them. Students' perspectives are so unique in the beginning, unhindered by all the images, images, images that I have seen.

It is easy to take my own knowledge for granted as 'obvious' or commonsense, yet I am often surprised by how complicated images are, how difficult they are to talk about. I know it will be a struggle for my students, but I envy them to be learning this for the first time, to be surprised and awed by the power and magic of the photograph. It is so enriching to learn something deeply, but also so actualizing to learn something for the first time.

we are all just prisoners here, of our own device

Today was one of those days that I should label "bad," but in the grand scheme of things, it is not really bad. I can't call it bad at all-- no one died, there were no car accidents, lay-offs, diseases, disasters, tragedies. In the vast landscape of days before and following today, this one is destined to fade from memory completely (unless, of course, I read this).

So while it was not what I would call a bad day, it is one I am glad to have over, glad to be rid of, glad to come home to a person and two cats who love me. A pox on your existence, August 29th. Good riddance.

Last night, I thought to myself, gosh, I don't think I have cried in months. I can't remember the last time I did. That's good, right? OK, movies don't count. Listening to Hilary talking up Barack and trying to brush off her disappointment brought tears to my eyes. (No, I am not talking about politics, I am talking about empathy for that bitter disappointment.)

Moving on. I thought this last night, then thought, "I wonder if that is why I have so many hives and allergic reactions right now." You know, the tears allow you to vent, or you bottle it up and it sneaks out through your pores. I know I know. New Age bullshit. But when you are this itchy, you resort to crazy thoughts.

This morning, I had an upsetting dream. The content wasn't significantly bad, but I was very upset in the dream, and when I woke up, I started crying just thinking of it. When I remembered the thought I mentioned above, I felt relief ("Oh good, now I've cried.") and instantly stopped crying ("Darn, that's probably not enough."). Even though it was a short cry, I did become melancholy most of the morning.

It was in this mood that my boss accidentally slammed my finger in the door.

I wasn't going to make a big deal of it-- I want them to hire me. But as soon as he left, my lip began shaking and I wanted to cry. I go to my office-- and there is someone in there using the printer. And they need help. For the rest of the day. And interrupted me while I tried to work. So I didn't get my work done. And I left late, ruining my Friday night plans.

Later, I'm in my office, alone briefly, and a man wanders in (who looks homeless). He asks if I have seen the other professor, and explains he was this man's student thirty years ago. I say no, he doesn't come in on Friday. The man asked if he could leave him a message. I said, you could, if you would like, you can use my phone. He starts leaving his message, explaining who he is, and "your secretary says you aren't in..." to which I interrupt, "I am not a secretary." He turned back to the phone and said, "she says she's not your secretary." He hemmed and hawed and then asked where the bathroom was. Anything to get him the heck out of my office.

The icing on the cake of the day: yesterday, four guys wanted to add my class, today, none of them do, and someone dropped my other class. Normally, I am happy to have a smaller class, but short of getting the Dean to run me over to give me a pity-job, I am convinced I need to show my worthiness and usefulness in all these imperceptible ways. (Yes, tricky, I know; see above about the hives.)

I walked home at 6:30 (I got to work at nine, had a work-related lunch, so didn't leave the building that whole time. Apparently, it rained at some point.), during which I called the Illinois auction house (I couldn't go to, from having left so late) to make an absentee bid, and buy myself a quirky, arty present. Assuming I win the auction. This would be the highlight of the day, by the way.

As I turned onto my street, I see the local pedophile, standing legs-straddled over the sidewalk, staring in my direction. I don't know if I have mentioned him here before or not, but he is my direct-next-door neighbor. I usually avoid eye-contact, but the last time I saw him as I left home, our eyes did meet, so I felt obligated to say hello. He continued to stare at me in his creepy, menacing way, and neither smiled not responded. Hence, when I saw his opposing stance down the street, I decided to take the alley instead. That would never have been true in California.

I came home to discover my sweetheart had reinstalled my computer without my asking, knowing, or backing up of data first. Everything is fine (I think), but I don't even step on cracks or walk under ladders this close to three major exhibitions (of which the work is not printed or burned into a DVD yet).

Basically, I am having trouble with folks of the opposite gender right now, and I am trying not to feel paranoid that I also work at an all-male college.

And that was my day. Should be bad, but really, I did my job, even if it was inefficient. I will have good classes this fall, even if not as full as I'd like. And nothing terrible happened. That's what I keep telling myself.

The Seasons Turn Turn Turn

In a few hours, the summer is officially over. It has been wonderful, busy, and transformative. I hope for more such moments. I have entries in my mind about academics, about living in the rural Midwest, about teaching in an all men's college (as a woman)... But I may not have time to write them before they are lost in the chemicals of my brain, doomed to be flushed out with a strong sneeze or violently spicy dish. Alas for those thoughts. Probably not worth repeating anyway. Sent from my iPhone

The art world through a magazine

I have just spent my lunch hour in the campus café, perusing my recently arrived copy of Aperture magazine. I had to break down and subscribe to apply for a portfolio review (which I also paid a fee to be considered for), and normally, I am 100% morally opposed to paying a fee to have my work seen. However. It is Aperture magazine.

I haven't read all the articles completely, and I haven't digested all the images fully, but it is really a stunning magazine. [I hear you-- "This is common knowledge, Kristen. You kind of missed the boat to blog about this." I don't care, I am using my First Amendment right to be redundant.]

The magazine size, printing quality, paper stock are the technical beauties that make the magazine worth looking at. Believe it or not, this is very important to me! I will not print my images on 'plain paper', or have them made by Walmart One-Hour photo (you get what you pay for), so it is delightful to see magazine reproductions that make the work as beautiful as I suspect it is in real life. It is a magazine that makes me smile to crack its binding open.

The cover itself is graphically wonderful-- everything an art magazine should be. Art Forum International also does a lovely job with layout, but they do not use such nice paper. [In their defense, they come out more often too.] What I am looking for specifically is an aesthetic approach that actually compliments the artwork, rather than trying to exploit every inch with some extra feature that might entice you to open it (if the cover model jammed into the tight space between text isn't enough). Aperture doesn't even put the date on the cover. Title, art, no other text. There isn't even a barcode.

All of that is superficial. Content is king, I know, but if I feel dirty even touching the thing, I am less likely to read the articles. These articles I can read with pride, and are written so I am likely to finish them completely. Each article is complimented by several pages of full color images, again with no extra junk to distract from them. There is a fascinating article on a Hitchcock film and the associated film stills. Two of my art heros are in there (Joel Sternfeld and Duane Michals-- with new work I haven't seen yet, and such a nice way to see it). There are articles on classical photography, photojournalism, contemporary art, and virtual art (via Second Life). A new artist I loved (new to me) was Claudia Angelmaier. She re-photographs books. Her image of my favorite Dürer painting pretty much had me sold (sorry, can't find her piece online).

I have used my lunch hour and have to go back to work, but the articles are awesome... check them out. I think I will be using the Hitchcock movie article by David Campany in my beginning class. It isn't on the website yet, but it is very interesting.

Performing the Academic