FEMINISM.

That's quite the loaded title, huh? I guess I've always known I would have to unpack my thoughts about that subject (slash methodology) sometime, and, for several reasons you are about to understand, today is that day. The writer's fire is burning me up, and it's burning pink. :)

I am not a feminist. Not really. It feels so wrong to write that down, but it's important to start off there. This morning, when I glanced at the mobile I have hanging in my room-- a little contraption of coat hangers, string, photos, and postcards I collected on my European study abroad-- a strange pattern jumped out at me. Of the ten pictures I've got spinning around in little orbits, seven of them feature women. 70%. I had seven women gazing out at me this morning. I hung them there two years ago upon my return from my glorious art history study abroad in Europe. Obviously, though I might not have been cognizant of it, the idea of womanhood meant something to me.

Johannes Vermeer, Girl with Pearl Earring

Matthias Grunewald, The Concert of Angels and The Nativity


Sandro Botticelli, Venus and Mars


Nicolas de Stael, Portrait d'Anne (Can you see her in there??)


Postcard of Marie Antionette from Versailles


Photo of the sculptor Camille Claudel, who has one of the most tragic and epic stories in all of art history- I fell in love with her story way back in my freshman Humanities class.

Alfred Stevens, Mary Magdalene

I'm refraining from completing the second half of my post about Manet's The Railway this week in order to talk about feminism. Tiny juicy piece of gossip, though: the model Manet uses in The Railway (the model of the older girl) was a famous mid-19th-century socialite and prostitute named Victorine Meurant. She also happened to be the mistress of Alfred Stevens, who painted the hauntingly beautiful picture of Mary Magdalene above. Fun connections!!!

If you caught me offguard and asked me my opinion about feminists, I'd no doubt respond in the same tongue-in-cheek way that the Marxist art historian T. J. Clark did: to me, they're "shrill" characters. And sometimes I think their energy is mis-focused and borders on greed,

Then... if you prod me further, and make me think about it, I'll remember and admit that my field, art history, actually owes a huge debt to feminists. Their work, their determination, changed the way we look at art. They pointed out to the unconscious public that it set WAAAAAY too much store in artwork made by "geniuses," who all turned out to be men. White, rich men that all knew each other. (Tangent: in my opinion, genius is not even a real trait. You've got skill, both inborn and developed, and then there's usually luck involved... and showmanship and business acumen and pure passion and tenacity. THOSE things are responsible for the world's great art. Not some mystically-instilled germ of genius that infects only a sliver of the population. Such a notion is purely the construct of a romanticized history.)

Feminists were the first people to point out that there are other things, other people with unique stories, that are worth studying. What about the daughter of an artist who was denied the ability to study like men but managed to slip her art into her father's fray anyways? (Her name was Artemisia Gentileschi). What about slaves who did not have access to training or museum collections at all, but focused their creative energy and skills on quilt-making, the only media they had at their disposal?

Feminists were the first group of intellectuals to call attention to the fact that our society carries a viral amount of institutional biases. They highlighted very interesting flaws in academia's working vocabulary and tools of analysis. The landmark feminist art text is titled Old Mistresses... which in and of itself points out an immediate, unfortunate difference in society's perception of the two genders. How far the gap is between "Old Master" and "Old Mistress"!! Do you see what they're driving at yet? :) If you get nothing else from feminism, let it be this lesson: there's so much more out there to see and do and understand and appreciate than society and history currently advocates!

But I've been talking about feminism in art history. Feminism in general is an overarching study of how being female impacts your life and the world, and I can't think of a time in history where there is a bigger need for such research. Everything vital to our gender is currently under intense scrutiny and even assault by the world at large: Family structure. Integrity. Chastity. Lady-like grace (see every image of Lindsay Lohan ever published for bad examples). Love. Safety. Independence. Motherhood.

The main reason for this post today was my discovery that my alma mater, Brigham Young University, is severely cutting back (and potentially disbanding) its Women's Research Institute. By doing so, as a colleague on facebook noted, my school is essentially confirming the institutional bias that Accounting and MFHD are the only true lifepaths worth pursuing. PSH. I'm really disappointed with BYU for this decision (although I'm sure there are at least a few legit reasons for it, including lack of budget, interest, and/or qualified professors.) But I can't help but think of the times I've succeeded at that school, how good I felt when I worked hard, and how many girls all over the world lack that same feeling of confidence and hope. I have always been so proud of my school for their international educational focus, for the seriousness with which the faculty and staff takes the mandate to bring light to the world. (There's a link to petition for you to sign if you agree with me at the bottom of this post, in the pink box).

I don't judge or hate men for doing what they're doing, and I firmly believe that gender, and gender differences, are God-given and should be celebrated. Most importantly, I feel that the best and purest achievements of humanity only come when all the disparate parts of our race-- the different sexes, education levels, ethnicities, languages, interests, temperaments, etc.-- work together, something even the field of feminism, colorful though it may be, is very, very right about advocating. (Ps Baby-making! The perfect example of us working togeter to achieve great things! hee hee hee :) People only find their deepest, most satisfying peace when honestly, diligently pursuing the path God has laid out for them. I am grateful for that knowledge, though it comes with great responsibility.

I want to close with a story, one I wish BYU understood better. This is the story of one of the most aha! moments of my entire internship at the Hirshhorn. It is within this story that I hope you will see the need for the research and ideas that organizations like the Women's Research Institute puts forward:

I participated in a 6-week training course to be an Interpretive Guide while at the Hirshhorn (remember how I used to stroll the galleries 12 hours a week and talk to strangers about the art? Yea. That.) Me, four other college students, four older (aka age 55-75) long-time docents (all women, and all hilarious!), and two full-time education staffers all congregated every Monday to discuss the Louise Bourgeois exhibition, and the different methodologies we could use to encourage people to think about her art. The most interesting conversation we as a group ever had, hands down, was when we looked at Louise Bourgeois' art through feminism. The conversation turned to feminism itself, and it was soon discovered that all five of the younger participants were reluctant to claim any adherence to feminism as a belief system. Like I said, it's shrill.

The older ladies were AGHAST. They truly could not believe we eschewed advocacy for womens' rights. "You don't understand," explained the eldest docent, "when I was a newly divorced mother I had to undergo birth control and pregnancy tests before they would even consider me for my house loan!!!" (Can you believe that?? Such an appalling invasion of privacy!!) It was such an interesting dynamic in that classroom; a really tense atmosphere for quite a while, as us the young and they the old poked and prodded each others' stands regarding activism, propriety, and womanhood. Eventually I could see the other ladies start to form this contemptuous assumption in their minds: "Oh. They aren't feminists yet because they haven't NEEDED to be."

I decided to be the brave young one to attempt a reconciliation, especially since the topic was veering towards a veneration of Roe v. Wade as the supreme moment of liberation and triumph for feminism, something I disagree with. "You know," I started, "I think there are various types of feminism today, and our younger generation works within those, without realizing it. I can totally recognize that we build upon the achievements of your generation and we are so thankful for that! I belong to the largest women's organization in the world, and it's called the Relief Society, it's part of my church. Its members meet together weekly all over the world to teach one another about family skills and avoiding domestic abuse. It's also where we make friends and celebrate God, who loves his daughters." Silence reigned for a few seconds. I couldn't believe I'd just said that. I usually let my religion lie low in my art circles, because Mormonism has way too many stereotypes that I don't like people judging me by (it's always a fun moment when art friends find out I'm Mormon LATER, after getting to know ME. I can see their eyes widen as they realize actual Mormons don't conform to stereotypes). Tangent.

The older ladies grudgingly assented to my olive branch of sorts. I swallowed my surprise that the first time I "came out" about my religion was related to feminism of all things. And that moment became the turning point in the day's discussion. Feminism, it was agreed, can analyze and celebrate many different aspects of womanhood. In my final opinion (phew! I've given you a lot today!), its greatest moment of success is when the little people, the regular participants of every-day life, open their minds a little bit and discover their innate ability to stand up for themselves and move forward and do something great, all thanks to that knowledge and confidence they gained from considering gender differences, qualities, and achievements.

This is hilarious, and a fitting final image:



Congrats if you made it through this. You are the few, the brave, the enlightened, and, for lack of a better word, the SEXY!!! Hahahahahaha. Also, it begs to be stated: feminism is not for the ladies alone. I am so appreciative of the many men in my life who take the time to respect women and all the unique things we are capable of. Like I said, we work better when we work together!!

Update: after reading over a lot of the official BYU press releases on this decision, I've come to the conclusion that this move is simply bad taste on the part of the administration, who sees the WRI as a derelict flagship. Time and again they assure the public that funds for research will be more widely available, and I sure hope that will really be the case! Good luck to them.

Pain? Suffering? SUCCESS!

"Dad, we learned about political parties today, and I think I am a Democrat."

-Once around age 13 and 8th grade, being at the time a student of US government, I thoughtfully approached my dad at work on his computer to make the above proclamation. I had some trepidation about making this statement, of course. I vaguely understood at the time that my dad was a Republican, and a persistent one at that. I remember he took his hands off the keyboard, turned to face me, and said kindly, "That's ok, Linds, your grandpa is a Democrat, too." Then he cocked his head in that psychoanalytical, battle-ready way he has (my siblings all know exactly what I'm talking about!) and asked, a little more belligerently, "So what about them makes you want to be one?" I bravely announced that we had learned in class that Democrats think it's important to help the people who are in need, and that their leaders, like FDR, establish programs to help feed and clothe them, and THAT, I thought, that sounded like the humane way to go. I just felt so bad for those who didn't have any food and blankies or mommies to love them.

And that's when dad wound up and began his speech: "Well, yes, Democrats DO make those kinds of programs, but you know, Republicans believe ___________ and ___________. Don't you think those sound like better ways to help?" Haha, I can't remember the examples he selected, but I will always remember that moment as the beginning of my foray into the Republican and conservative schools of thought, which I have since adopted as my own (insert the sound of my dad cheering [here]). I guess I'm a poster child for the adage, "If you're not liberal when you're young you have no heart, and if you're not conservative when you're old, you have no brain."

I share that experience with you because sometimes I still feel a little bit different than a lot of my conservative friends. I mean, my core-- my childhood tabula rasa-- was slightly tinged blue, can you believe it?? The little Democrat on my shoulder appears only at one particular moment anymore: when I see a failure by some Reps to recognize and allow for the plight and/or needs of those around them with empathy. I hate listening to politicians use harsh stereotypes and loud language against "enemies," and I feel like this diverse of a nation should and always has been a land of compromise, first and foremost (insert sound of my dad chomping at the bit to interject [here]). Yes, libs criticize and stereotype, too (Paul Krugman... boo.). Not an excuse. And I'm ending this post's political nuances right there, because believe it or not, I actually came here to write about ART.

Painful art!

The kind of art that asks you to experience the feelings of another that are not pleasant and pastel-y, but perhaps just as poignant and important. Believe it or not, you already know and love works of this kind. Remember this big guy from my first foray into the blogosphere? YOU ALL LOVED HIM AND YOU KNOW IT!

On the back burner of my mind I'm currently brewing a nerdy conference paper submission about "The Poetics of Pain" (the conference's choice of title and subject, not mine). My new graduate course about American mural art has me thinking about the way that "The Powers That Be," especially governments, show up in the art and literature that express pain. I'm currently seeking suggestions of literary works that do the subject of pain justice- all I've got so far are Dostoevsky and Kafka. Anyone got better ideas? I'm reading this dry, boring book about the art in the US Capitol Rotunda, and I swear, after each paragraph detailing the who and what of each frieze and mural, the author compulsively adds in a line about how the artworks' subliminal message is a steady, propogandistic demonization of the Indians, courtesy of an 1820's-era federal government bent on procuring support and enthusiasm for the intrepid settlement of the West. Sigh. Politics. And pain.

My as-yet cloudy thesis will state that pictures of pain used to be utilized by the powers that be for their own purposes. The Mayan temple pavilions at Chichen-Itza feature carvings of dozens of splayed sacrificial human bodies spouting blood. Ow. For example, the chipper fan-like shape in the middle of this photo is, in fact, the graphic illustration of a sacrificial, ceremonial decapitation for some calendar event by the religious and national leaders of the temple. Ah learning about these carvings in my Mesoamerican art class at BYU felt so thrillingly rated PG-13 it was AWESOME! No doubt the government wanted the Mayans to get jazzed about sacrificial pain, too. Kept them in line.

To your right is my example of pain from the powers-that-were in Colmar, Germany, in 1515, but it was apparently used not to terrorize viewers, but to help them. The owners of this village chose to place what my professor deems the world's most painful picture, The Crucifixion, by Matthias Grunewald, in their hospital for the poor and the plague-besieged. This altarpiece would have been opened up to the bedridden occupants' view only on feast days. My professor thought that this was a caring, empathetic gesture on the part of Grunewald and his patrons. The visual reminder of the Savior's suffering (via greenish skin, twisted limbs, and emaciated body) would have hopefully been something the poor plague-suffers could have identified with. Well I don't know about that; if I were bed-ridden, the last thing I'd want to contemplate in the world would be this poor Savior right here. But hey, I've never had the plague, so I don't know. Misery does love company, they tell me.

Around the twentieth century, successful images of pain start to be used by people against the powers that be. Politicized images urging action against government and leadership are abundant in our culture. Francis Bacon's terrifying pictures of the pope, anyone? Picasso's Guernica? Martha Rosler's anti-Vietnam collages? The two Obama pictures in my last post? My pieces-de-la-resistance in this essay I'm brewing will be analysis of two contemporary works that are pretty much disgusting, and it's Sunday and you're probably getting sad from reading all these macabre ideas so I'll stop there and keep it to myself. They're really juicy, though. Poetics of Pain. Ew. I promise I'm not a crazy person, but it is a topic I haven't ever thought about in art history before, and to my surprise, a lot of good art examples popped into my mind as I contemplated ways to illustrate and elaborate pain.

Movie quote!

-"What do you think about leaping off a building?"

"I don't think about leaping off buildings. I try to think of nice things"

-"Everyone thinks about leaping off--"

" Well I CERTAINLY do not think about leaping off a building."

-"I don't know how to kill Harold Crick. That's why they've sent you." :)

If Mona Lisa Smile and Texas Chainsaw Massacre had a baby...

...it would look something like this chilling American-art-world opinion piece (Thanks dad! I'm still shuddering! So scary. And awesome.)

vs.

(^Only time you'll ever see Obama OR a Dark Knight illustration on this blog. Mark My Words.)

PS *****GIRLY ALERT****** The following two posts made me cry (good cry) so I'm posting them for all the girls out there, who have the same abundant amount of free time I've apparently enjoyed this last week, and who are tired of reverting to Little Women or A Walk to Remember in order to get their feminine cry session over for the month.

Post 1- Jayci, my darling, unique, creativity-infused friend from Palo Verde, became a mom earlier this month! Hers is the most touching, honest, and beautiful post I've ever read on any friend's blog before about motherhood (note to all: it's the play-by-play of the day her son was born.) I really appreciate hearing and thinking about the sacrifices of motherhood from a real-time vantage point, from a real-life colleague and friend. I'm so proud of her and so delighted to see just how sublime and how worth it those sacrifices are, to those who wait and plan for it with their families in the proper, patient, and faithful way. Congrats, Reeder family!

Post 2- The love story of one of the brand-newly-married authors of theapronstage.com, a blog by four Mormon women in various stages of adulthood (one of whom I know from my singles ward out here). The line about cake vs. bread also had me shamelessly in tears in front of the computer... well, that line, and the two beautiful pictures. If you didn't know already, I am a MAJOR sucker for weddings; I cry at pretty much all of them, I save all my friends' wedding announcement photos, I don't really ever get tired of reception/engagement/bridal shower gossip, and if I come across a wedding photo album on facebook, you better believe I click through each and every photo... even when I don't know the couple! (Ok, that one sounded a little pathetic. Like you don't have your own guilty pleasures! :) After reading this post, can you blame me? True love has the ability to lift up anyone who gets around it!

Elegant Stress

Lindsey is out of the frying pan and into the fire. I think there's a rock and a hard place in there, too. What a week and a half!

To recap: I went back to Provo last week to walk across the stage and receive my shining white diploma cover (I was mailed the diploma itself in January :) I'm on the last month of my internship at the Hirshhorn. I didn't get the job that I coveted here (though I gave it an incredible shot and it felt good to try. And one of the senior staff members sent me a kind email basically telling me, "Good game. Try again after you get a couple years' experience under your belt.") I got into my #1 pick for grad school, The George Washington University's Art History Master's program. I can start in the fall. But I am really getting disconcerted by the level of debt my studies will accrue, and the fact that there is absolutely no promise of employment, or hire-ability (especially not in this economic climate) once I graduate. The idea of taking a full-time job and hugging tight to its stable salary and health insurance coverage winks alluringly my way.

Be timid, employed, and resourceful. Follow your dreams and get wildly into debt. Oh what a tangled web we weave... when first our dreams we try to achieve!! Any advice, family?

Other thoughts and ideas bouncing around the fire with me: Virginia is beautiful in the spring. Greener that any place I've ever lived in. Truly, this is the first location I can ever remember where I can watch things grow, and grow wildly, without a human hand begging them forward. Daffodils, my favorite flowers, dot every long stretch of grass that runs intermittently alongside the 395 beltway. There are four trees outside my third floor window (they’re my morning breakfast companions). Two weeks ago they all flowered pink, and when I came home from Utah they had switched to a full-bodied, emerald green foliage. I recently read in one of my many art reviews (or was it a political essay? Aah I absorb so many of both out here!) how culture and science have replaced a connection with nature and religiosity in the modern life. SUCH A SHAME!

Elegant Stress. That's what I named this post. The present, er MY present, is one giant kaleidoscope of beauty, temptation, clarity, dreams, fragility, loneliness, AWESOME memories, glamour, frustration, and opportunity! Somewhere in there is a lot of love, but it's really hard to feel it out here in DC sometimes. Now I know, I know… stop whining!!! I'm incredibly thankful for my time in Provo, and all the playtime I got with family and my amazing friends there! And I am so grateful that I have exciting opportunities headed my way. I just need to decide, and enjoy the ride. In Provo I drank in the now-rare experience of being surrounded by people who share my ideals, who love life the way I do and are working hard and calling on God the same way I am. I ran around a dark cabin playing sardines with my friends for hours on end. I got to hug almost all of my BFFs, and I got to dance with all the Browns twice! Once at my graduation party (Thanks Aunt Betty and Uncle Gary! As always, you’re AMAZING!) and once at Jonathan’s wedding (congrats!). There’s something magical and timeless about being around people who will buy me a mug just because they think the cute saying on it resembles my handwriting. Or who will give me a card they bought three years ago because they noticed it made fun of art history degrees. Hee hee- I love you all!

And then I fly back to DC, and the warm fuzzy of Provo evaporates. Underdog, Lindsey! Underdog! You’ve got to fight! Immediately I am inundated with thoughts about how much there is to despise about modern life-- networking, the hideous strappy platforms currently in vogue, Obama, Obamamaniacs, Blackberrys, Bono’s ineffectual ONE campaign, Matthew Barney’s happenings in LA that ended up getting some of the crowd hurt, energy price hikes, Statist control of Congress, etc etc etc!! Boo!

Elegant, modern stress. I’m sorry. As a wise conservative once said, “Calamity is unhappily the usual season of reflection,” and I am no stranger to that tendency. ODviously. (What movie??) But as another conservative recently said (in bumper sticker form):

Annoy a Liberal: Work Hard and Be Happy!

Hee hee… no wonder the 19th century saw a resurgence of Utopian and escapist landscapes. Artists were sick of watching their countrysides turn into smoke-belching factories, as the Industrial Revolution altered Europe forever. And so they turned their paintbrushes into “Remember when…” sticks and waved them around until they were completely surrounded by cutesy pictures of peasants and ponds. Heaven forbid contemporary art do that. They’re certainly doing something these days. I don’t want to do a new artwork today. No more art. Nope, I won’t go there. I’m too tired. It’s too confusing out there…

Hee hee. Bah Humbug.

Lucas Samaras, Book No. 6 ("Treasures of the Metropolitan"), 1962. Straight pins, glue, and book in a plexiglass case on wood base.

That’s a lot of pins. And a painful read. Why do I get the feeling this artist shares my current distaste? (notice the title- why would he have chosen to cover a book from America’s most prestigious art museum with spikey pins?? Curious…)

Life is Good.

PS photos of my fabulous graduation to follow shortly. Once I upload them to my shiney new-ish work laptop. :) Have the best day ever.

Underdogs

My wee tiny computer at work died today. I turned it on, it looked like all was going well, running through a couple of normal boot-up procedures, and then... it suddenly blinks the dreaded blue screen of death --{Fatal Error}--. I have seen that screen a depressing amount of times since I started college (this will be the 4th computer I have inadvertently burnt to a crisp. What am I doing wrong??)

The remains of my shiny, healthy-looking computer have mocked me all morning; somewhere in that sad little heap is all my files, everything I've worked on for the past four months. Irretrievable. Lost, like the gold plates or Amelia Earhart. Which means that for the rest of today I am relegated to the wizened old computer at the back of the cramped Hirshhorn library. Yet another reminder that I am the bottom rung, the pressure point under the high heel of my industry. I am without glamour, without the ability to procure a new computer, and without much sympathy from any of the paid employees. Ah the glorious life of an intern!

It all makes sense, though, in a way; I've been pondering all week about what it means to be an underdog. Last November I remember feeling unusually confident as I watched CNN's coverage of the presidential election results. "It's all right," I remarked to my brother and dad and anyone else who seemed profoundly disappointed by the implications of the elections. "I fight better when I'm the underdog, anyways."

And it's true. That's always been how I operate. My bestest internet friend, Dictionary.com, defines an Underdog as, "One that is expected to lose a contest or struggle, as in sports or politics; One that is at a disadvantage." Whenever I think of underdogs, images of the various kids from The Sandlot flash through my mind. I am always attracted to any person/place/thing/ or cause that is disadvantaged yet has all the heart and smarts, like those kids did. Only 1 out of every 4 people in the world is an introvert, did you know that? I consider myself one of the 25%. I've striven all my life to shed the vestiges of being shy, but I don't think I'll ever quite make it. But it's ok! The fact that I am aware of my limitations, and that I know I have to work to befriend others, makes my true friendships all the more valuable to me.

Yesterday, American conservatives threw over 700 Tea Parties across the nation, protesting the spend-and-tax profligacy of the current administration. Most of them were protesting for the first time in their lives. Most major news networks ignored the protests, other than screening a couple of shots of the more loony participants. I loved this event! I am proud of them, and excited to see those with sense stomping into the wonderful field of grassroots activism. Good luck to them, and to us all. Can you tell my tenure in DC has made me increasingly political? I used to have a strict No Politics Among Friends rule, but it's almost gone. Except how I still try first and foremost to maintain peace and respect in these conversations (reasonably possible, I've discovered). Just call me utopian, I don't care...

Earlier this week the DC Nationals baseball team almost-- almost-- clinched a victory over the reigning world champs, the Phillies. The team (which I had never heard of before I moved here, BUT NOW LOVE WHOLEHEARTEDLY) is in dire need of a pick-me-up. I am pretty sure that my added support will produce a fairy-tale ending for these dismal underdogs. Yay Nats! I'm adding attendance to a couple of their home games to my list of things to do while I'm here.

The list of Lindsey's beloved underdogs goes on and on: Michael Scott Paper Company, Belgium, works on paper including intaglio and engraving (no one ever pays good enough attention to artworks you actually have to examine!), Mormon culture (hee hee... mom pants and cub scouts forever!) People who never dye their hair, people who think sky-diving is NOT that attractive of a life event, people who refrain from purchasing $200 jeans, people who didn't even know there WERE $200 jeans, Hercules, PBS, T. C. Williams High School's 1971 football team (the one portrayed in one of my favorite movies, Remember the Titans)...

... Nope, there's more. I cheer for Jack Johnson, not mainstream but better than anyone who ever picked up a guitar. I look up to Henry Ossawa Tanner (see my January post Guess What?? if you don't know who he is.) I read in the scriptures about TONS of prophets who were stoned, crucified, ejected, and ignored as they told their friends about God's will. I study art to learn who in history has had an interesting journey, and who has produced art that was different than everyone else's... and why.

I'm championing the underdog cause, if such a thing is possible. As long as I believe it is the correct cause. I think that's part of the whole appeal of underdogs; unitedly they proclaim, "I don't care what the majority thinks, I'm doing this my own way and thinking my own thoughts!" and their stories and examples give us courage to do likewise.
Jeff Koons, Puppy, 1992. 43 feet tall, made out of steel scaffolding, 25 tons of soil, an interior irrigation system, and 70,000 FLOWERS! Standing outside NYC's Rockefeller Center in 2000.

Woot woot.

*Addendum: it should be noted that on occasion, an underdog is picked up and championed by the majority. By so doing it sheds its underdogism and becomes a fad. Then, sadly, I have to leave it behind. I hate when this happens. I loved The Format and Maroon 5, then they got big. I rarely listen to either now. I used to be the only person I knew who liked wearing grey clothes (it's my favorite color... for secret, cheerful reasons). Now "charcoal" is one of the mainstays of fashion. BOOOO! And once upon a time I liked BYU sports... oh wait, they still have a couple hills to climb... I'm still a fan :)

The Tale of Lindsey's Brief Stint as the Undead

Good evening, and welcome to Masterpiece Theater(blog). Today is Tuesday, March 3rd. Since February 22nd, Lindsey has been on an adventure of sleeplessness, glamour, service, and sightseeing-- sometimes all at once-- resulting, as I mentioned in the last post, in a resemblance to a zombie. At one point during the week I told my friend Dani that I was experiencing something akin to a Mormon-style hang over. I’m looking forward to the day I finally get to detox.

Last Saturday and Sunday were sleep-deprived because of the usual combination of youth and social activities that extended past my normal bedtime. Unavoidable, and very enjoyable (except for this disgusting Peruvian chicken and butternut squash salad with couscous that I bravely attempted Saturday night in the Gallery District… bleeeeeh).

Monday was perhaps my favorite of all the adventure days. A woman contacted me over the weekend, explaining that she was from my home stake in Las Vegas and would be in DC shortly. Her name was Carol Ewing, and she has been legally blind for a number of years now. She wondered if I would perhaps be available to serve as her sighted guide while she was doing business on Capitol Hill. She is currently serving as President of the Nevada Council of the Blind and would come to DC as our state's rep. I told her yes I could help, and got work off (thank you, Milena! Best boss ever). Hence, I found myself climbing into a taxi early Monday morning to meet and escort this delightful lady around; by the end of the day, after visiting with our Nevada Senators and House Reps, both of us decided that our experience together was not service, but rather, a full circle of enjoyment and friendship. I got to listen to her present a wonderful set of issues to our state reps, and I really I enjoyed being able to see the Capitol and our democracy in action. Our representatives really are there to hear their constituents. I admired Carol for her strength and commitment to her various causes, and for just being a well-spoken, polite, and cheerful lady. Without her, I don’t think I would’ve ever had the opportunity to visit the Russell, Hart, and Cannon buildings, or taken the time to consider how much handicapped people still have yet to hurdle. And she was kind enough to introduce me to each of these important people, who in turn remarked that it was fabulous to see a young Nevadan “representing” over at the Smithsonian.

It was a great day. Funny sidenote: when I woke up on Monday, already tired, I thought, "Ok, she’s blind. I don’t have to do my hair or makeup." So I hit the snooze several extra times and shuffled into her cab a little on the shabby side. I was mortified later when I remembered where we were going and who we were meeting. By then, of course, I just had to suck it up and smile. Hee hee.

So after hanging with Carol on Monday, I managed more nights of staying up talking to various friends, chatting at Institute (a new experience for me- I’ve always had BYU classes to supply my gospel knowledge needs) and participating in late night grocery run, which all continued to sap my coveted night hours, and then… there was Louis Bourgeois.

The Exhibition opened this past week! Also, the fourth floor museum staff hosted their tri-annual board of trustees meeting (a very big deal, with very wealthy and important attendees). ALSO, after an 18 month search, the Hirshhorn selected a new director this week (Richard Koshalek… Google him). From my little outside corridor desk, I enjoyed a front row seat to all the energy, nerves, excitement, and sometimes panic of the senior staff members sprinting past me. It was a rocking week, to say the least. And then, of course, there was the Louis Bourgeois opening reception… which was NOTHING like my previous parties at the BYU MoA, that’s for dang sure. I think it'll go down in history as my first VIP event. Featuring a very popular open bar, of course, the event was replete with tuxedo’d waiters continually coming by with fancy drinks, and tiny delicious gourmet snacks, er, refreshements, stacked on silver platters. I basked in the glow of rubbing shoulders with senators, billionaires, and famous artists, being the little Cinderella girl that I am. All the while, I busied myself downing various European finger foods and sipping sparkling water from a fussy crystal glass. And talked art with the other interns and younger guests. I wished I had friends there to enjoy it with. Oh, and………. I Loved The Bourgeois Show.

I loved it!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Maybe it’s because this selection of her works thankfully excludes some of her less-than-appetizing pieces. Maybe it’s because the works’ placement in the familiar curving walls of my home museum makes them less officious to me. Maybe I’ve really just turned over to the dark side (actually, I think that’s the ultimate reason, scary huh?). At any rate, I was thoroughly enchanted with the show, and hobbled home that night, after eleven hours of work in fabulous three inch heels, to my first adult encounter with lower back spasms :) Stupid heels and horrific office chair... they’re trying to bring me down.

In addition to the fun zone of the museum, I had a best friend from BYU, Danielle Walton, in town this week; she sucked up my other nights. I was so happy to see a familiar face and share some wicked laughter. Our adventures included 80’s dancing, the National Symphony at the Kennedy Center, multiple movies at our friend Taylor’s house, and the requisite shopping that all young American girl friends enjoy. Great times. Great, exhausting times. DC is growing on me.

And now, just for my beloved mother’s sake, an artwork, (well... for her, and anyone else who has actually made it through this monstrous tale). Art, as you’ll have noticed by now, can endear itself to you via multiple means: its historic beginnings, its morals, its compositional elements, etc. This is one of my mother’s favorite paintings, which immediately attatches it to my heart. When she saw it in the National Gallery several years ago, its soft colors and gentle movement, along with the surprise of learning that it is by van Gogh (who she had never really been impressed by) etched it in her memory forever, and I went and paid it a visit in her honor last month. For you, Mama. Enjoy. PS did you know this may be the only painting of roses v.G. ever did? They don't know why...
Vincent van Gogh, White Roses, 1890. The National Gallery of Art.

"You look like a brown popsicle in that picture" -Marie

These are the times that try men's souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his country, but he that stands it now deserves the love and thanks of man and woman (and, I would add, God). Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly.

-The immortal words of Thomas Paine, repeated by Sheri Dew in my roommate's book that I picked up last night and started reading. (Sigh... life in an apartment without a TV requires me to constantly "improve my mind by extensive reading." wahoo.)

I can't think of a better string of words to describe my experiences right now than old T. Paine's. I have had several requests to spin you the story of what it was like to actually BE on the Mall during the Inaguration this week. Well, I'll tell you:

It was the one time in my life where I could really say there were people "as far as the eye could see." Millions! The biggest crowd I've ever run amok in! And most of them were wearing Obama hats and pins and carrying Obama totes and snapping pictures of their man Obama up on the jumbotron screens, and they were all just so... happy. Jubilant, even, to be there to witness such a historic moment. I borrowed this picture from my friend Adrienne's facebook album to illustrate my vantage point of the occasion. Lots and lots of FREEZING people. Oh brr it was so miserably cold. We turned around and booked it home across the river the second that lady stood up to give her horrible poem (I feel bad saying that, being a contemporary art historian, but that really was a load-of-junk poem. Terrible. Especially compared to the melodious sounds of Barack Obama's honey-covered speechifying.)

I normally refuse to talk about politics ever, even among friends, but this is my (shudder) blog (STILL hate that word), so I'll just state my simple, personal opinion now that the whole shebang is over, and be done with it: Obama has a God-given talent for oratory. We can all feel it. By the end of his speech I was even cheering for him (though not as loudly as I did for Bush... everyone else in the crowd boo'd and hissed-- not cool-- and then laughed when the four Mormon girls kept cheering amidst total silence). Everyone really was very generous to us, though, more than I expected. Like I said, they were so happy. Willing, for once, to join in bipartisan celebration. Yes, Obama can talk the talk. But I left his speech with the uneasy feeling that I will trust him about as far as I can throw him. He's acting in the way he thinks is right, though, that's the last thing I'll say.

And now it's time for me and all my other faithful conservative friends to prove our mettle. We will not esteem lightly the blessings of this country's government and freedom, and it is time to commit to not being summer soldiers. To fight the fight.

And now, ON TO THE ART! I'm so excited to show you something:

Sanctuary, 1988

Isn't it GORGEOUS??? The Hirshhorn's own painting by Gerhard Richter, an artist I can't yet seem to wrap my head around. I stumbled across an image of this painting on the Hirshhorn's website, and its harmonious colors, and somber, ridiculously professional control of paint and line just drew me in. I mentioned earlier that certain artworks just exhibit this strange pull over me; well, from the very first glance, Gerhard Richter had me hook, line, and sinker. Finally. I've been worried for two weeks now that contemporary art is not for me. I haven't seen much that I think is beautiful or valuable, and it's been enraging to have to keep reading reviews and essays from intellectuals who take this supremely absurd joy in affirming that EVERYTHING is art. No, people, it's not! Art, whatever them hippies want to call it, is a business. Someone still calls the shots. If I work hard enough, maybe that'll be me.

In my thesis class last winter I kept noticing that I gravitated towards the so-called Marxist theoreticians, meaning that I liked studying not just the paintings but also the nitty gritty history of artworks' and artists' levels of fame across history. I liked learning about the real, hidden reasons why they painted and why certain movements and works shot to stardom (money, patronage, inspiration, intrigue, etc. These help add blockbuster-ness to a work, have you noticed? Or maybe I just like hearing stories, whereas others are content just to see pictures... who knows. I'm new at this.)

Ok, so I'll give you an example of a Marxist reading of a painting. The world's most famous smile. You know it: the Mona Lisa. Why is she famous? It's a simple combination of being a very good painting by a very intruiging artist, and having an equally fantastic life AFTER she was painted. The Mona Lisa came into this world around 1503. She was carried by her maker, Leonardo da Vinci, from Italy to France, which was weird. Despite copious amounts of first-person writings by da Vinci, he never said a word as to why he kept Miss Mona instead of giving her to her commissioner. Like I said, weird. After her brief tenure with Monsieur da Vinci, she bounced from wealthy royal owner to wealthy royal owner, through the line of French leadership. Her actual identity remained an enigma because, as I said, she hadn't gone home with whoever originally bought her (although they now have enough evidence to suggest that Lisa Gherardini, wife of a wealthy Florentine merchant, was the lovely subject). The painting has travelled down through the centuries inspiring whispers, wonder, and theories, really reaching acclaim in the second half of the nineteenth century as the Symbolists began to praise her as the ultimate depiction of femininity. Fame continued to grow when she was stolen right out of the Louvre in 1911. She was found two years later hidden in the false bottom of a trunk. And so on and so forth until today, when Mona Lisa is still making waves, starring, as I'm sure you have all read, in Dan Brown's acclaimed book and all of the attendant conspiracy theories since.

Gerhard Richter's paintings are quickly forming the type of story I can get behind. I said he was professional, I could see that before I even knew the name of the artist, in the masterful way he layered (squee-gee'd) lines of paint over and through each other, much like the precise inking process of a printmaker. A painting like Sancutary would take hours and hours, having to know precisely when it would be ok to blend and layer certain colors and not have them turn into a murky wet mush.

By art history's standards, Gerhard Richter is a chameleon, bouncing from ingenious abstraction to grey-toned conceptual canvases to his signature "fuzzy photorealisitc" paintings (see below). I really want to read more on him. So many of his paintings look nothing alike. He's a German artist who grew up as a little Nazi, and has subsequently hated all forms of ideology since he saw what terror and havoc it wreaked on his country. Said he,

"Strange though this may sound, not knowing where one is going, being lost, being a loser, reveals the greatest possible faith and optimism, as against collective security and collective significance. To believe, one must have lost God; to paint, one must have lost art."

That's a perfect illustration of where I'm at today, as I round up week three of my DC adventure. I'm on earth, away from my Maker, trying to pass the test of mortality and come home to him. And I'm lost in a big huge art world. And step by step, finding my way out.

Reading, Gerhard Richter, 1994. (yep, it's an oil painting. Photorealism, baby... I can't believe anyone can paint that well!)

Week One- All By Her Lonesome

Ok, I can’t believe I’m finally doing this. I’m blogging. I swore I never would…. Or at least that I wouldn’t until I was married and we could make that cute little “Lindseyand_______.blogspot.com” blog. My goodness I hate even the sound of the word blog.

Other offensive-sounding words include Munch and Mingle (that’s the name of the forced socializing event I will attend next week in my new ward, with a smile on my face!), and Meade and Glebe. They are the (actually quite quaint) nearest cross streets, here in the cozy new little land of Arlington, VA.

That’s right, folks. I’m here! Lindsey has succumbed to pressure and started a (shudder) blog so that you can keep track of my adventures.

Thus far the vast majority of my adventures go under the “All By Her Lonesome” category. Not that that’s the worst thing in the world. I arrived in DC late last Tuesday night, and spent Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday getting to know the metro system (-slash-getting lost) and walking around the Mall. Oh the Mall. How I love it already. My favorite part of every day has been that minute or so when my subway car pops out of the earth of Virginia and travels along a bridge over the river and I can look out and see the Jefferson Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument, and even though I can’t see them, I can envision the barely-hidden-from-view White House, Capitol, Reflecting Pool, and the two best buildings in the world: The Hirshhorn Museum and The National Gallery. They’re all speedily approaching me, nestled in the heart of Washington, DC. I am an unpaid intern in the center of American politics and culture, and it is that fact alone that keeps me so delighted to be here.

You see, I left the world’s greatest people behind in Provo and Vegas, and so DC kind of has its work cut out for it in the friends area. I’m sure when I give it time it’ll grow on me, though. Pray for me, k? I anticipate both a lot of work and hopefully some kind of reward in the social and also the missionary aspects of my life here. Great opportunities, I’ve noticed, to let people know they are children of a loving Heavenly Father. I almost shouted it on the subway the other night, I was just so happy to see such an amazing melting pot of people, something I really missed in Provo. “I feel my Savior’s love/in all the world around me!”

Back to the work part. Today was my first day of work. I LOVE my boss. I knew I would. Milena Kalinovska, the Director of Public Programs at the Hirshhorn Museum, is a sweet, heavily-Slavic accented GENIUS. And so kind. And so involved in the arts scene. I feel very much like I am here solely for the purpose of getting a splendid, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to work at the Smithsonian Institution. I’m privileged to be working at its contemporary and modern art hub.

Uncle David I know wanted to be able to read about my experiences in the art world, well I’ll close with my first one. I’ll be honest, I was a little mad when I first visited the Hirshhorn last Thursday. I told my mom I felt… blind as I looked at a lot of obtuse, inaccessible art. I adore the magical pull of many other kinds of art, and I was disappointed to only feel small, occasional blips of interest as I went through my first time. Then, I saw him.

Untitled (Big Man)

Yeah, baby. Isn’t he UGLY???????????????? He stands about 8 feet tall, and he is the most REALISTIC piece of art I have EVER seen. I literally just stood there, kind of wavering back and forth, because I seriously felt like he was going to come alive and hoist himself up out of his corner and sit on me with his fat naked butt. I’m not kidding, it was a scary viewing experience. The thing has bulging veins, I’m pretty sure he has stubble, and he even has weird rough scaly dimples on his elbows, which were my favorite part.

The disappointing sculptures I had encountered upstairs were largely abstract shapes, and I had been overwhelmed with the worry, “What if all the art I study is this BORING?” Big Man was the ginormous, even hilarious, answer that this will not be the case.