Snowball full of turds

A tragedy occurred on our campus recently, and it has affected segments of our community in a variety of ways. Some feel their mortality, the fragility of their perceived youthful power and vitality. Some feel ambivalent, as the victim seems to have been a loner, an angry person, a self-destructive lost soul (all rumors). Many are afraid. Fingers are being pointed by everyone, at everyone. Who's fault is it? Who will take the fall? Is it because of this tradition or that precedent? This can be changed, but that cannot because it will infuriate the donors/alumni. It seems all of the outcomes involve innocent people getting hurt and blamed.

All of it is very frustrating. I have my own opinions too, of course, but what good are they? I remember my own college experience as being safer, more open minded, more intelligent, more diverse, but it cannot be replicated here.

There is also the economy (another terrible debacle of 'what happened' and 'who's fault is it') and the upcoming presidential election (that seems to have brought out the very worst in everyone).

These are the three most common conversations right now. At the same time, we have just finished the theatrical production of "The Inspector General," a story of greed, corruption, selfishness, and finger pointing, as well as alcohol abuse. I don't know if I am the only one who saw it as hitting too close to home in the current climate.

Iodine

How I spend the memorial day.

Art Tourist

I set off to be an Art Tourist today. First, I went to the Memorial Art Gallery (from the website, I had no interest in going at all, but after my tour of the artists' graves at Mount Hope Cemetery, learning it was erected by a grieving mother after the lose of her 20-something painter-son, it became a little more interesting to me), where they were having an "Art and Treasures" sale. I don't know what 'treasures' means-- it looked like all the random stuff from my grandma's china hutch that no one wanted. I bought a rabbit print by Esther G. Rolick for two dollars. It isn't signed or dated, but I also bough a sketch of rabbits that she signed and it's dated 1964. The odd thing about Esther, is when I google her, I can find obituaries of her family (she might still be alive, I can't tell), references to her in art magazines from the 60s, pictures of her teaching or swimming or touring Europe, but no images of her art. It seems strange to me-- like she was a good enough artist to be noteworthy for her influence, but not to have any of her images online (either in museums or for sale).

This dismayed me. It may sound silly, but I worry about my work disappearing. Some of it will and should, but all of it? Right before I have shows, I suddenly think, "This would be a terrible time to die. No one will know what it is supposed to look like. No one can finish the series." It's incentive. I am happy to say in my rally against disappearing, I completed and signed a special set of six images to donate to the archive collection at Visual Studies Workshop. I don't know what will happen to them there, but for a little while, my work exists outside myself, in a collection to be cataloged and archived. I love being archived.

Ah, I completely lost my train of thought. Art Tourist. Right.

I also visited the George Eastman House today. This post has gone too long to share images, as I did enjoy taking pictures in the house. The exhibits were alright. The technology exhibit was awesome for a cameraphile like myself. The photography exhibits seemed surprisingly under-whelming, with the exception of the video in the Curse of the Black Gold exhibit, and some of the photographs relating to Africa from the permanent collection. The images of Eastman himself were sort of surprising. He appeared to be a grumpy, lumpy, unimpressive character--if it weren't for all the money he was throwing around and the presidents and tycoons he was bumping elbows with. I was disappointed to see he seemed more interested in his house and business prospects than in photography. I always imagined the invention of the Kodak camera to be a labor of love, bringing photography to the people. Obviously, it was also an excellent business opportunity and he became filthy rich for it, but I still wanted it to be because he loved photography.

This concludes my experiences as an art tourist. I will be adding flickr images of the Eastman House soon, but I am tired of being in the creepy basement alone, even if it is where the scanners and WiFi are.

I love you.

Collections

I have added a new set of photos to flickr. Basically, all this cemetery hopping has brought more clearly into light how much I love these carved little lambs, and how they bare their ravishment by time and elements. I have been taking pictures of them "for fun" (I know-- is that allowed?) and decided I finally had collected enough that I could put them here. All the grave stone reading has been starting to get me down, believe it or not. These cheer me up. Are you asking, "don't they remind you of all the dead children they represent?" My answer: well, you are very negative, aren't you?! Yes, of course they do, but in a way, they are also these beautiful little homages that have far outlasted the lives they represent, have taken on a new kind of life as aesthetically beautiful, perfect objects. Who can claim such an achievement in their own lifetimes?

Let me know what you think.

Mount Hope Cemetery

I went on a tour of the Mount Hope Cemetery this morning. In the rain. Seemed like the best thing to do on a Saturday morning, for a follow-up post to yesterday! I couldn't help being distracted by the group of school teachers also on the tour, who giggled and talked the whole time, then asked questions the guide already answered. Every time we saw a grave of someone remotely young (my age and younger, really), whether the guide said, "died of typhoid" or just "died suddenly," they would chorus together, "ohhhhh, that's soooo saaaaaaddddd!!!!" Later they mocked the Victorians for thinking about death so much as to plan their monuments and grave sites.

On the walk back, I asked the tour guide if we were passing the Ironic section of the cemetery. The group looked over to see what I did:What do you want to bet he adds that to the tour from here on out?

We must shrink from being fully alive

Untitled from the Landscape sequence of "Rapt in the Nameless Reverie"
30" x 30" lambda print, 2008

I want to put a few lines here, but not go on too long. Far greater writers have written far more numerous accounts of what I want to say. I acknowledge them. But for a moment, a few lines, I want to speak of death, of knowing of its existence. Any moment, any time-- it can come. And mostly we fight it. We fight the illness, the attacker, the elements. For the most part, we avoid direct confrontation when possible (we are passive aggressive that way), except in rare cases. Occasionally, one looks out over the rushing river and sees someone drowning, losing the fight. One sees them giving up, and makes the choice to fight the dark specter on their behalf. Sometimes, you fight when you don't want to, and other times you get to choose your battles. Many times we win, but alas. Eventually, a day will come when we have expended all our strength to our cause, and we will choose to lay down our weapons in search of peace.

Then there are other kinds of death, sneaky, conniving, stab-in-the-back types. Those types do not give us the dignity to fight or choose. These deaths aren't at all fair (if any are). Some are accidents. But others... well, I leave to your imagination.

So to you, Driver, who decided to run a red light at 50 mph (in a 35 zone), when opposing traffic was already in the intersection, as was my fragile pedestrian body (missed by a mere two feet), to you I curse with seven terrible attacks this week, at least one of which will be VD.

Subject line quoted from Ernest Becker.

Regrets

This morning, I was going about my business in my little apartment, eating my breakfast, packing my briefcase, getting ready to head into the lab for a long day of scanning and digital drudgery. I opened the front door, and saw a little white fuzzy. It looked just like the cat's toy with the exception of a rather life-like (though short) tail.

And then I realize it is a real mouse, not a simulated mouse, and I am looking at his little white belly, which is slightly flattened from being under the door.

I didn't know what to do, so I closed the door back on it.

Obviously, not a solution. Once I realized that, I opened the door again and considered my options (running and finding a person who worked here to get it, was my first thought, but that seemed lame). Little dead mousie went into a grocery sack (another use for the terrible things!) and was carried directly to the dumpster.

Only an hour or so later did I think, "Man, that would have made a cool scan-o-gram."

Peace and War

Patriots and road trips

Us Americans invented the road trip, right? "Go West, Young Man!"

I had this whole diatribe planned about "dead presidents" and how we normally relate to them as money. The diatribe was really good, I promise, but I am too tired and past my interest in it to write it out.

It was going to climax with "The true American road trip must include a visit to the chapels and bedsides of our great dead presidents." Something like that. Anyway, here we go.

This man served the second shortest term in presidential history. Nothing to brag about (not even the shortest term), and yet I was lucky enough to visit a large monument in his honor.

I was struck by how similar this tomb was to my visit to the Basilica of Saint Francis of Assisi. There was a beautiful alter-type thing, a balcony with an extensive view, and a sign pointing to the basement, toward the tomb and the restrooms.

And sure enough, you walk down the stairs to see the door to the restroom, and to the left, coffins. Right there. Not even encased in protective concrete like Saint Francis.

The decor in the main level was pretty amazing. There are saint like figures for each of the states (not each one-- some random selection of eight or so), and the allegorical figures of "Peace" and "War."