Describe your ideal day- Ok I'll play.

PS Above is my most favorite header I've had in a long time: Doug Wheeler, light installation artist, everyone. Mmmm.

Above the Clouds at Sunrise. 1849. An early Frederic Edwin Church painting from his days when he still retained traces of religious symbolism in his landscapes (Notice the vague cupping hand shape of the clouds). Ever since I first saw it two years ago, I have wanted a poster of this painting to wake up to every morning. Simultaneously tranquil and majestic.

(The following is yet another inspiration from the girl who writes Healthy is Always Better.)

My Ideal Day

-Wake up warm, rested, and headache-less at sunrise

- Reese's Puffs mixed with Cheerios in my blue striped bowl. While sitting in bed. Listening to General Conference talks.

- Put on a skirt.

- Cobb's in a good mood and runs to hug me when I come in.

- Text from crush in the morning. Because, let's face it... crushes are the second thing I think about after I wake up.

- Drive Cobb around in my boss's sexy Land Rover and pretend for a second that it's mine. Then remember that I am getting PAID to drive said car, and subsequently cherish my own life all the more.

-Text someone I think could use a bit of encouragement, renew a friendship as a result

- Get off work early and metro to GWU Library, where beautifully illustrated books from InterLibrary Loan sit waiting for me, holding in their new glossy or old delicate pages tons of fascinating information that supports my budding thesis topic perfectly.

- Good workout at the GWU gym with a friend who is only slightly better than me to motivate me.

-Walk home from metro in the sunset (Preferably 68 degrees or warmer, this is important :)

- Get all gussied up while listening to my muse, Alicia Keys

- Go out to eat at one of the new and fun restaurants in the area with friends/boy; intensely thoughtful or side-splittingly funny conversations ensue

-Stroll around DC/VA neighborhood in which restaurant is situated. Find a cute piece of architecture and take a picture of it to send to dad.

- Say focused prayers and then go to sleep with much to look forward to the next day

I had a long lunch/I needed a creative outlet

Found this on an educational tumblr today:

Because I was REALLY bored 

Because the attempt to fit the entirety of Western art history into 9 smiley faces made my eye twitch, I decided to pare it down to just an American 20th Century History of Art (much more sensible):

I will not apologize for the use of the Comic Sans font. I was having a moment of nostalgia, and besides, I feel it gels really well with the smiley face theme.

Sculpture and I are having a moment

Tony Cragg. Outspan. 2008.

Maybe it's because this French impressionist class is so theory-heavy that I feel like stabbing right through every Manet painting I look at just to make the discussion about subjectivity STOP, or maybe it's because my conservation class is very biased towards objects; either way, I am really having a good time thinking about sculpture lately. Theorizing, ruminating, and thoroughly being captivated by the awe-striking qualities of art in three dimensions. Come with me, let's go there together.

GREAT example of how painting draws you into an illusory space.
Andrew Wyeth. Wind From the Sea. 1947.
One of my favorite paintings in the National Gallery.

Normally, I'm all about paint and photography. Two-dimensional art intrigues, puzzles, and delights me with its inherent theatricality. The creation of 2D art will always, to some degree, involve the artist thinking critically about how he or she is going to TRICK you into believing you're looking beyond the surface of the work and into some imaginary depth (well, actually, that statement could be contested when it comes to abstract expressionist and minimalist paintings*, but we'll just stick with my stereotype for the moment).



In short, 2D art involves illusion. 3D art, aka sculpture and installation art, involves... movement.

Henry Moore. Reclining Figure: Internal and External forms
(Working model). Bronze. Cast 1952-53.
Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden

What a change that makes! What a different experience, looking at sculpture! Instead of using your eyes, you must use your eyes AND your legs. Instead of a painstakingly-wrought single viewpoint (as in a painting), you have 360 viewpoints! The sculptor has to consider all of them in the creative process. He or she gets down and dirty-- and often quite clever-- when manipulating his or her materials. Their works of art must slide from one vantage point on over into the next seamlessly. In its finished form, sculpture has the potential to be a, well, for lack of a better word, a sensual experience. Yea, I said it. Sculpture possesses so much more force in a gallery, and it's because it takes up your space. Or rather, you take up ITS space. While you may glide past paintings, you must maneuver around sculptures (or suffer the wrath of the security guards...). I had a brief love affair with an ever-arresting Henry Moore bronze this weekend at the Hirshhorn (See above). I literally couldn't keep my hands off it, but I was saved at the last moment (before I actually touched it, don't worry, I'm an obedient museum patron), I was lured away by the siren call of a blinding Dan Flavin light installation.

Like a moth to one of those moth-zappers... I just can't help myself. ^Dan Flavin, untitled (to Helga and Carlo with respect and affection), 1974. Flourescent lights. It's glorious! You can't tell from this picture, but this installation artwork stretches about 40 feet across the length of a gallery in the Hirshhorn. Wish I had people in this picture so you could get a sense of its fabulous dimensions. The light squares come up to about my hip, just think of it that way. I just love Dan Flavin. I love that he uses clean lines, the simplicity of light fixtures, to reinvent a gallery. The light sweeps over you and the museum itself, so that you can't ever quite assertively say, "THIS is where a Dan Flavin light sculpture comes to a halt." You just can't fence it in like that.

Picture I took on my cell phone from one end of the gallery looking towards the other end of the gallery this weekend at After Hours. C'est magnifique, non?

Ever since reading over The Agony and the Ecstasy this summer (a fictionalized 1960s biographical novel of Michelangelo, which cut me to the core- how DARE the author actually put words in The Immortal's mouth, pretend to know what he was thinking when he created The David??), I have renewed my love for Renaissance sculpture. Maybe that's where this all started. I re-Googled all my favorites: Michelangelo's highlights, Claus Sluter's priestly sculptures around the tomb of Philip the Bold, Bernini's Rape of Proserpina, etc. Mandatory illustrations of said masterpieces:

Two of the Sluter Mourners - Only about 18 inches high,  they ring the tomb of Philip the Bold in Dijon. Their deep-cut folds and touching expressions of angst have intrigued art historians and visitors for centuries. Look, 3D views of each sculpture found HERE, enjoy!

Rape of Proserpina. Really this viewpoint is all you need to see.
Fingers indenting into a thigh... BUT IT'S ALL MARBLE!!!!!!!!!! GAAH!!! MY LITTLE BRAIN'S GOING TO EXPLODE!

Tony Cragg. Elbow. 2008.

Ahem. Despite the wonders of Renaissance-era naturalistic sculpture, I still find myself equally enthralled by modern and contemporary sculpture. It absolutely astonishes me. In an era where innumerable images arrive onto my laptop as fast as I can click, the presence of contemporary sculpture, the way that it accosts and silences you, its simultaneous monumentality and serenity, makes for an invaluable and irreplaceable artistic experience in my life of looking. Its use of plastics, glass, iron, found materials and electricity... I find a little bit of my world reflected back at me in each of these media. That's what keeps me intrigued, I think.

GASP! I just figured something out! Remember how I was saying 6 inches ago that abstract expressionist and minimalist painting could arguably NOT be about theatricality? Here's some Barnett Newman and Clyfford Still to illustrate my point:

Newman's Adam. 1952. Tate.

Still's 1948-C. 1948. Hirshhorn.

What you see is pretty much what you get here, huh? No depth, no illusion. Just glorious meditations on paint over canvases.

MAAAAAAAAYYBE the modern/contemporary sculptures of Henry Moore, Dan Flavin, Tony Cragg, Louis Bourgeois, and the installation work of Matthew Barney, Olafur Eliasson, and Janine Antoni, to name a scant few, have fired my imagination of late because they, in their very physical-ness physicality-- in the way that they order me around a gallery, alter my ability to see, and affront my every sense-- have surpassed painting as the more theatrical type of artwork! Only I am the actor!

Cheers to you if you are still following me. Crap. I'm beginning to sound like Michael Fried, I can feel it. Milan, Maggie, and Erin, I expect only you to be keeping up with me.

M. Barney's The Deportment of the Host. MOMA. 2006.
Cast polycaprolactone thermoplastic and self-lubricating plastic

The point I want to end on is this: one of the reasons I tend to stay away from studying sculpture is because it feels too daunting. It requires too much memory. I experience so many more emotions when I wind my way around Matthew Barney's lustrous The Deportment of the Host installation than I do when facing, say, a Hiroshi Sugimoto photograph. It always feels nearly impossible for me to even begin to explain my thoughts about sculpture, or think critically about what the artist has done or may be trying to say through his or her work, when it comes to sculpture and installations. 360 ways to look at it, remember? But that doesn't mean I don't love to stop by and continue my love affair with the 3D media. It just means we will always be working things out. I will be a forever fervent admirer, and it will always be invading my space. Wouldn't have it any other way.

Funnier than adding "In the Bathtub" to the title

So I'm preparing a lesson for my singles ward Relief Society right now on... Eternal Marriage (sigh). Aka the same thing we've been talking about for 6 years (but I'm not complaining! Got plenty to learn!). I am, however, throwing in a twist today for my own sanity. I'm making it a rule that no one can say the words "single" or "dating" in their comments. We're just talking the bare-bones principles of the essential ordinance of marriage today here, ladies.

Also, I found out that the teacher gets to pick which hymns are sung at the beginning and end of her lesson. My roommate and I got a great kick out of debating which hymns would have the most thematically inappropriate undertones at the end of a marriage lesson amongst older single girls. My favorite rejects:

Does the Journey Seem Long?
I Need Thee Every Hour
The Happy Day At Last Has Come
Did You Think to Pray?
Praise to the Man
Silent Night
I Have Work Enough To Do
Father, Cheer Our Souls Tonight
The Time is Far Spent

And, the ultimate winner:
Tis Sweet to Sing the Matchless Love

This is the place.

This is the stuff.

This is the end goal.

This is precious.

This is just because.

Rules of Chillin

For Kathryn the Energizer bunny, who does not know the joy of unproductivity

1. Start by walking into your room and donning your sweats... with NO intention of working out.
2. Go to your fridge and look in it multiple times for funzies... After a while pick something to nibble.
3. There should be at least four tabs open on your browser: facebook, an interesting link someone posted on facebook, and two or more of your other internet guilty pleasures. (if you are not a big internet surfer, some suggestions include mymodernmet.com, dcist.com, the nytimes style section, cooking blogs, or hulu.com. Guys, I'm really enjoying Cougartown. There. I said it).
4. Ideally, you should have a roommate and friends around so you can discuss such non-pressing issues as kissing, your next grocery run, the eternal work-out-or-not-work-out debate, and what would happen if the squirrels of DC attacked Virginia.
5. Text Somebody!
6. If there is a couch, sit on it. If there is a footstool, or a coffee table, or pretty much anything foot level in front of the couch, put your feet up. Use the remote.
7. If you are lucky enough to have a significant other, CUDDLE CUDDLE CUDDLE! Do it baby. Take one for the team.

In short,

You MAY:
Listen to music
Be outside on the grass
Be on vacation
Pop popcorn
Fall asleep
Be Happy

You May NOT:
Learn stuff you will use later in life
Burn calories (except from laughing or chasing squirrels)
Clean
Accomplish anything you had intended to do when you got up this morning
Worry
Grow old before your time

Any questions??

Illustrations:

Objectivity

Today I was just shuffling through large object boxes in the NLEM storage facility where I am currently working (aka the “police treasure trove”!). I’ve handled some really cool stuff since I’ve been here: a piece of the World Trade Center, delicate and beautiful arrest warrants from the early 19^th century, rows of police badges from seemingly every precinct in America… but nothing really prepared me for what I saw as I took the lid off of Box #7 this afternoon: a crimson red Ku Klux Klan mask, made of a stiff linen fabric and obviously sewn on a home sewing machine. The small, neat hemlines told me it had been made with care, probably even with pride. The mask was just lying there, benignly, on top of a layer of special Japanese unbuffered tissue paper. Beneath it were two sets of KKK robes: one crimson, one white, both similarly swaddled for preservation purposes.(I really didn't feel like putting up illustrations of this object, so here's a link to the Google image results for KKK mask if you really need visuals.)

Now, normally I’m not an object-based girl. I don’t get the thrills my coworkers get from handling and inspecting museum treasures gingerly with their gloved hands. I get distracted with wishing that I had a real reason to don that sheriff’s Stetson hat, or swing that wooden noise-maker-looking thing around (my boss explains it’s a “police rattle,” which they used before sirens to get the attention of crowds, mid 19^th century. I guess they are VERY LOUD, but ours is brittle, and therefore no one will ever use it to make a sound again…. boo). I’m glad I guess that I work mostly with archival materials, because with documents, I have the chance to use my objects to their fullest extent! I get information out of them, exactly like their original users did! And I get info not only from the written words; as an archivist, I learn things from the handwriting, the date, the paper, the seal, the stamp, the enclosures, etc.

Back to today. I finally experienced a real, visceral reaction to an object, one that was surprisingly strong, and unpleasant. The white of the paper showed eerily through the gaping holes where the eyes—the morally blinded eyes of its owner— would have peeked out. I did not not want to touch it, or even continue to look at it for very long (and I DEFINITELY had no desire to put it on). I just wanted to put it away. It was a very vivid experience, different from all other times I’ve seen KKK masks, in movies or plays (like Genna’s The Foreigner at BYU! That was good times.) No doubt it was my prior knowledge of the lawlessness, the horror, and yes, even the conspiratorial drama that the men who wore this kind of thing effected that was affecting me (Nice English there, no? :).

I couldn’t put it away quickly like I wanted, I had to fill out a condition report first. But I breezed through that pretty quickly, picking the object up by the corners of the tissue paper, seriously almost holding my breath the whole time. It’s still weird to me that something so simple, so obviously homemade, could affect me like that. I told me boss it made me a little sick. She explained that it was donated by an FBI field agent who had been on the case of the KKK during the Civil Rights Era. Fairly good backstory, right?

We had a whole debate at lunch about whether or not we as museum professionals would treat this object differently (aka refuse it) if it had been offered to us by, say, its original owner. Technically, we shouldn’t (treat it much differently). We have to look at things from a broader perspective. The object is most assuredly an interesting addition to our collection, which has the stated aim of creating “a greater understanding of the law enforcement profession and the critical role it plays in American society” through all of its accessions (all the new objects it collects).

The last few weeks, though… well, this whole first year of graduate school, actually, have taught me that I am really bad at this kind of thing- suspending my personal beliefs and reactions in order to adhere to a higher set of standards or beliefs that all fall under the category "objectivity." I have an intellectual temper like no other. You start telling me an opinion or belief that I can’t agree with, I tune you out, or worse, get angry. Obviously, this is a major flaw I get to work on! (Must learn to be more encyclopedic in scope, more benevolent in judgment, and/or more able to patiently listen to opposing viewpoints and then craft and deliver a succinct defense of whatever I think is the real truth! Someday… I'll be good.)

How would the meaning of that mask change if it had been given to us by a Klansman who wanted it to be “immortalized” in the collection? By taking it from an agent, haven't we accomplished that already, in a certain way? Eventually, my colleagues and I came to a tenuous and sticky conclusion that where it came from doesn’t change the object’s value to the museum itself. This sticky consensus is very emblematic of the type of ethics-laden questions curators and museum directors have to deal with all the time. It’s part of the job. As museum professionals, we’ll take this historical object, iron it, pack it in tissue paper, store it in a long line of textiles,and use it to tell the story, to tell the truth, about an important and horrific vigilante movement in the American South. (Ironically, Box #7 sits in between boxes containing bullet-proof vests and the uniforms of Lucius Amerson, the first black sheriff in the South since the Reconstruction). In my final analysis, the ideas that this mask and robe may evoke, the story of American law enforcement that it helps tell, gives us is its final value. We do NOT value it for its original function.

That is my favorite part of being a museum professional. Finding things that open up my and others’ eyes a little more and ask us to push back. All this in order to make us realize that we are a part of the history that came before us, even (or rather, especially) the history that makes us sick and challenges us to leave a better legacy than others have done. Such is the glory of objects.

I still hate that mask though.

Back to the secret files of J. Edgar Hoover… I love my job.

Running

Welp, I started this blog at 12:50 am, which means it's no longer Valentine's Day and I am no longer under obligation to talk about love. I'm gonna go ahead and run with that...

... what a coincidence: the topic of running is my starting off point today.

About two months ago (back when DC was just a wintery grey, not its present snow white), I was midway through my favorite run along this canal thing in my neighborhood that culminates in a meet-up with the Potomac River, when the thought randomly crossed my mind- "Is there any type of art that really, truly captures the sensation of running?" Almost instantly, I had my answer: LANDSCAPES. Why? Landscapes try and encompass all that you see before you, try to bring you in to that space. There's no story involved, no figures for you to narcissistically identify with, no giant brushstrokes for you to be confused by. Just you and the land. Just like running.

Winter semester 2010 means Art History 254: American Landscapes in the 19th Century. I signed up for this class because, admittedly, I do not like landscapes, nor do I know much about them, and I knew I should probably fix that (and, I love America!!!). They all seem essentially the same to me: a horizon line through the middle, with earth beneath and sky above. Usually there's some kind of weather and rock formations thrown in the mix, too. Case closed. One of my favorite paintings to say hi to everyday at the BYU Museum of Art, though, was a landscape. It is by the southwestern painter Maynard Dixon, Mesas in Shadow, oil on canvas, 1926, at left. He sure is a pretty canvas, now isn't he? I love(d) this painting because it feels exactly how my high desert clouds look, rolling on over my neighboring mountains.

Now, a little over a month into my course, I write to you as maybe not a changed woman, but definitely an intrigued and thoughtful one. My in-class landscape learning thus far has consisted of philosophical discussions (my fav... NOT.), and just two slides: an artist's self-portrait and a depiction of a guy getting his leg bitten off by a shark (??). This week, however, I had homework with illustrations-- amazing ones!-- and for once, landscapes have my full and complete attention and admiration! Maybe it's because of the twelveish-day streak of sitting in my house contemplating nature. Maybe (and a lot of art fans out there would probably say this smugly) it's because landscapes really are that important to art history. Either way, what I might once have dismissed as just artists showing off their skills ("Let's see how realistic I can make this leaf..."), I now see as very valuable records-- snapshots-- of how people view their own time and place; what seems important and beautiful enough for them to document.

Albert Bierstadt, Merced River, Yosemite Valley, 1866.

The Hudson River School of artists were the first Americans to take up the mantle of creating a distinctly American style of painting that could compete with the Europeans. They chose as their weapon the American landscape. Why? Because they felt (and rightly so, in my opinion) that the land of the free and the home of the brave contained something brand new to art, history, and society. Their gorgeous pictures of the untamed, idyllic beauty of the West symbolize the freedom and majesty inherent to our democratic system of government. The Hudson River School also frequently depicted the Eerie Canal and the Hudson River it connected to (hence their name). This was because the canal (363 miles long, finished in 1825) symbolized man's innovation, engineering prowess, trade potential, and also the still-new nation's great potential for growth. I'm looking forward to finally getting to discuss these images in class, someday.

My dear mom keeps getting after me and my siblings for never taking pictures of our worlds. She likes to be able to envision where we are when we tell her the stories of our various social and educational escapades (it must be the artist in her). Well, I was browsing through the 600+ pictures stored on my camera this week, and realized that I have taken quite a few landscapes of my own, and that these are often my very favorite photos (well, tied with the ones of me and my BFF's). In the spirit of the Hudson River artists (John Frederick Kensett, Jasper Francis Cropsey, Thomas Cole, and Albert Bierstadt... Google them if you want to see some jaw-dropping nature scenes), I am now posting some of my landscapes, so you can see where I've been (and maybe some day you'll share some of your own...). I love these photos because all of them have a story. All of them are visual records of events and places in my life that were important, or just breathtaking. Right now (I can't believe I'm going to cave and talk about love) I am just happy to have a horizon full of hope. My idea of love is pretty much the same as it was at the end of my V-day post last year, except that I've seen that that train flash by me a couple times now (and I SOLD that GRE book, instead of burning it- haha!) For all my friends in my same boat, let's just hang on, smile, and repeat the lines from my current favorite hymn: "Keep thou my feet I do not ask to see the distant scene; one step enough for me." Life is a beautiful thing. Keep going. :)



Wait, one more thing. Because it will get you to smile, it has great landscapes of Rio, and I'm a little obsessed with it right now:

Ankles, Elbows, and the Human Body in general

I had a really weird dream on Friday that is still so vivid that it's going to take over my post this week. (I'll spin it into an art discussion soon enough, don't worry). In the dream, while out and about with friends, I suddenly looked down and saw that I must have gone and gotten MASSIVE tattoos on my legs! Two 1.5-inch stripes of gothic red-and-black checker patterns ringed (rung? rang?) around my ankle bones, and above them unfurled beautiful, lacy, abstracted black and blue fairy-wing patterns. These graceful arabesques overlapped each other and covered entirely the lower parts of my legs, all the way to my upper calves. I was at first entranced by my boldness in getting these tattoos, since I belong to a religion that generally disdains them (although, small side note, I absolutely love them on other people! Asking about tattoos is always fun, they are almost always very special and symbolic to their owners).

In the dream, after overcoming my surprise, I ran around for a bit, literally kicking up my heels and enjoying the flash of blue and black that ensued. I became horrified, though, when I realized my tats obstructed and distracted the eye from my legs, which, as all those who know me well know, are a source of shameless and unhealthy pride for me. (But, hey, I always make sure and give full credit to my mom and my Nike's!). Anywho, I was FURTHER horrified as this thought scrolled across my brain: blue is the hardest ink color to remove. Semi-repentant as I now was, I knew I faced a long, painful restoration process if I ever wanted my calves back to their original whiteyness. At the same time, I looked down at the insides of my arms and found similar wing designs extending out from the crooks of my elbows!!!! Apparently I'd gone tattoo crazy!


When I woke up, I checked my elbows before crawling out of bed and it turns out, I'm clean. But the whole dream, the vivid dark patterns on my skin, and the keen feelings I experienced about my tattoos really made me think about my human body, and the human body in general this weekend. It gets treated so differently by different people. In my religion, we believe our bodies are our first and most sacred gift from God, something we have been sent to Earth to learn how to operate and control. These precious gifts, the only thing we really possess, come with a full, wonderful range of sensations and passions that can either help us or possess us, depending on what we do with them. Gordon B. Hinckeley, former president of our church, had this to say about the human body in 1992:


"Have you ever contemplated the wonder of yourself, the eyes with which you see, the ears with which you hear, the voice with which you speak? No camera ever built can compare with the human eye. No method of communication ever devised can compare with the voice and the ear. No pump ever built will run as long or as efficiently as the human heart. What a remarkable thing each of us is. We can think by day and dream by night. We can speak and hear, smell and feel.

Look at your finger. The most skillful attempt to reproduce it mechanically has brought only a crude approximation. The next time you use your finger, look at it and sense the wonder of it. While sitting in Symphony Hall in Salt Lake listening to a concert, I was in a position to see the fingers of the performers in the orchestra. Whether playing the strings, the percussion instruments, the brass, the woodwinds--all involved the use of fingers. One does not have to use one's fingers to sing or whistle, but beyond that, there would be little of musical harmony without the deft action of trained fingers.
George Gallup once observed, "I could prove God statistically. Take the human body alone--the chance that all the functions of the individual would just happen is a statistical monstrosity" . Our bodies were designed by our Eternal Father to be the tabernacles of our eternal spirits." Whole talk found here.


Such I also believe. In addition, I believe it is very important to take care of our bodies, to keep them clean, to not show off every part of them to the world (DOWN WITH CLEAVAGE MONSTERS!), and to practice habits that make them function well for us. Regular exercise (doesn't have to be strenuous, peeps), a natural and balanced diet, and abstinence from anything that would lead to addiction-- yes, I include caffeine, alcohol, and white sugar here-- really help us in every aspect of our lives: emotional, social, mental, etc. Bonus: as a temple, the body really is a place that God may visit with his peace if we keep ourselves worthy of Him.


Elsewhere in the world I have observed people with very different opinions of their bodies. Not all of them are bad exactly, just... different: A prison. A sketchbook. A billboard. An adrenaline machine. Some people don't think much of their bodies at all, don't hardly use them. How sad. One thing I learned from being a lifeguard this summer and observing pool visitors is that God sure is some kind of sculptor. Truly. Everyone is built differently, and everyone is beautiful.

That is essentially the reason why people have for millenia sought to re-represent the human form in art. Portraits, history paintings, family photos, you name it. We as a species sure like to look at ourselves. With, ahem, good reason. Sometimes...

Special topic for the day: The nude. The nude is one of art's most prestigious (and snicker-evoking) subjects. It presents countless surfaces, expressions, and shapes for contemplation. The nude is considered by generations of artisans as the highest praise that their craft can render to God. To all the people I attend museums with: the naked statues standing around frozen will be most valuable to you if you simply try to imagine them as odes to God's creative powers. As man's attempt to emulate Him. As artistic explorations of one of the most riddling and enigmatic things that ever walked the earth, or took a breath, or made a sound. What about the body do you think is most fascinating? What would you try and recreate in art?

My best friend Jessica is funny, very opposite of me in the things she will geek out about. As opposed to museums and art, she will sometimes explode with great and brilliant things to say about, what else? The human body. (Science nerd!) I especially remember sitting around her room once, reading or listening to music or something, just chilling out, when I suddenly found myself struggling in vain to worm my way out of watching open heart surgeries on Youtube with her! Apparently, that's quality, uplifting entertainment for you (which I'm sure it is... when you have taken anatomy classes that prepped you to see something other than bloody goo on the screen). It sure is fun to have friends with different views of the world than you. I think I'll keep the science people around. There's a whole 'nother way of valuing the human body...




Because I couldn't escape this blog without including one small proof that my legs are awesome, er that me and Jess are BFF and that there are all sorts of different and beautiful body shapes in the world:


Have a great week!

This is the first Ben Shahn painting I ever saw... Always loved it.

They totally have little personalities, don't they??

Happy Thanksgiving! And while we're at it, Happy Black Friday, to all my cart-pushing, credit-card-swiping, shopaholic friends. :) I'll be in New York City and New Jersey this weekend, living the life. Adios.

..... NOT adios. My mom caught me- I did indeed once replicate the artwork above, in color, for an art class. The assignment was to combine the painting techniques of two different artists into a single, original work. I decided to combine the blackboard-like scratchy lines and vivid colors of Paul Klee's The Golden Fish, 1925 (at left) with the delightful little anthropomorphic carts depicted by Ben Shahn in Supermarket, 1950 (aka the one above. Like I said, loved it at first sight). Welcome to pretty much my only foray into the art world:

Lindsey C_______. The Golden Shopping Cart. 2007. Oil on paper.

Trailers & The Origin of Happiness, Brought to You by the NY Times

Seeing as how 100% of my female friends' blogs have featured links to the movie trailers of either Where the Wild Things Are or Whip It in the last 2 months (PASS on both for me!), I'm taking it upon myself to infuse the Internet with my own cinematic enthusiasm for something else! Something different and classy. Here are just a few select words about this film, Coco Before Chanel, taken from this Friday's New York Times' review:

Audrey Tautou, biopic, orphanage, 20th-century social mores, "The blossoming of her ambition," brutal candor, and PG-13.

WIN WIN WIN! I don't care what you say. It's gonna be good.

Confession: although I'm pretty darn sure they don't really care, I always love to flaunt the fact that I read the New York Times to my dad and my cuz Michael Brown, my two favorite hardcore conservatives. (Once in a while they humor me with a mock round of consternation). I read "Satan's rag" in the name of being well-rounded, informed, a little closer to "edgy," and last but not least: because I genuinely regard this paper as unmatched in terms of intellectual depth, robust questioning, and journalistic talent. (Dad wants me to add: and liberal eco-communism)

Back in May, for example, NYTimesOnline published an article by philosopher Simon Critchley entitled Happy Like God (full text HERE) that may or may not have changed my life! I have wanted to discuss its ideas ever since I first read it; I probably think about this article and its contents weekly still, four months later.

Aristotle says that "Happiness is the solitary life of contemplation." How many of you balk at that statement? I certainly did. Happy=solitary??? No way man. Most of my happiest memories entail a lot of familiar smiling faces! (and sunshine, and fast engines, and face cards*), but wait just a second. Mr. Critchley puts up a good fight. He describes the sensation of "reverie," as experienced by the philosopher Rousseau. Floating on a little rowboat in the middle of a lake in his homeland of Switzerland, Rousseau found perfect inner contentment just studying and delighting in the moments as they passed, thinking of nothing else. This is a more lasting and fulfilling state of mind, apparently. As I've thought more and more about this peculiar idea of mini, mental, and super-charged happiness, I've realized that I have had a few of these "reveries." They're tiny flashes, single seconds sometimes, where I don't do anything else, just grin. Unusually crystal clear in my memory, often for the oddest reasons, they DO have the peculiar power to warm me up just as much if not more than all the combined memories of, say, the hours playing Flip Over Tens at the CCC Cabin (one of my favorite activities growing up. :)

Most recent example: this weekend. Saturday, after volunteering a long 5 hours at the Hirshhorn at a children's art workshop (on a busted ankle, no less), I finished cleaning up the ArtLab, then walked-slash-limped around the sculpture garden and out onto a bench on the National Mall, where they had some "Festival of the Book" going on.

And I thought to myself, "This is home." A grin slowly spread across my face. My home. Not collapse-on-a-mattress-kick-off-your-shoes home, but perfectly-content-state-of-mind home. In that moment, I could have stayed there forever; by myself, with other people, I didn't care. I was happy! Gordon Bunshaft's impressive cylinder of a museum is at once imposing, interesting, familiar, and enfolding to me. I have friends and colleagues at that museum that challenge and esteem me. It is where I cut my art history teeth, and it's where I confirmed the fact that contemporary and modern art is my arena, my power alley. Earlier that morning I had enjoyed walking back through those doors, being greeted by name by one of my favorite security guards, seeing the new Nick Cave sound suit (at right), and helping kids see colors and shapes and themselves through artists' eyes. All these elements combined and welled up into that moment of sheer bliss on the Mall! I'm thinking (and hoping) that that memory will be good enough to sustain me through the long months of kid-herding at the NBM yet to come.

For those that are interested, it is in fact an actual suit. Nick Cave creates these fantastic... well, you don't even call them costumes, they're artworks! Google for more of them, they're crazy! When the artist has a show, he and other performers walk gingerly around IN them. This piece (sans human occupant) is one of the Hirshhorn's newer purchases, and it is such a delightful pastiche of kitsch, found objects, postcolonial disdain for high art, and glittering fantasticalness!! I almost made like a two year old and dashed up on its pedestal to touch it when I first saw it.

My point is, there are all types of happy. This philosopher in the NY Times wanted to hierachicize them, using the absence of any other impinging thoughts as the marker of the highest happiness. I'm still not sure I can agree with him on that, but it's made for great food for thought these last couple of months. I'm more inclined to take note now when I feel at ease, or devoid of worry, or totally glowing, and to call myself happy therein.

And life is good today. That's pretty much the end of this speech. Have a great week!

*Other loves: lakes, mountains, shirtless boys, possibility of injury, thumping beats, skating, cheering, getting cool points for being one of the few girls that will go do the crazy stunts, the Danvillans.............. I know the following video totally defies the above thesis on alone-happy-times, but I don't care. It is everything I love and miss about Utah and Santa B and SUMMER and I have watched it more times than I want to admit this week. Wish I was there. Enjoy! (My buddy Dan, the one in the yellow shorts who does a gainer with his bike, is the video artist. Genius. I may or may not have started humming this beat under my breath in sacrament meeting today when the speaker mentioned things that make us happy):

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." :)

Tales of a housewifey... sans house. AND spouse :)

I'm on Day 3 of unemployment. And officially ready for it to be over. Day 1 (Monday) was cool, I got a lot done, including putting up a lot of the art I've had stuffed into corners and folders since I moved (aaaah... it feels like home now). But then... Day 2 came. And that giant TO DO list I made on Day 1 was now reminding me of all the UN-fun stuff I still needed to do (I crossed off all the fun stuff on Day 1... dang it, why didn't I think to ration it out??) So I rolled up my sleeves, er went running :), and then later, begrudgingly, tackled a few of the unpleasantries.

And here I sit, Day 3, facing the few miscellaneous items remaining on the TO DO list, with all the time in the world and not a single shred of motivation. And I find myself thinking about this newest adventure, my (hopefully brief) stint as a "housewifey," waiting to hear if I got my job as a swim instructor for the summer and if my other resume-required applications have impressed their addressee's. And then my mind skips to the REALLY important matter at hand: What works of art will I hang in my future permanent residence? I've been staring at the bare wallspace of my tiny apartment for three days now, can you blame me??

Anyone who has ever witnessed a room of Lindsey's in the last couple of years can testify that I am a visual person; I fill my surroundings with things to look at. And not the cutesy normal things to look at like Anne Geddes photos or Relief-Society-spawned fake flower arrangements. I go for the thought-provoking and memory-triggering. In my future house I am also sensibly considering what kinds of artworks my kids would be inspired by (aka which works will require me to regale them with art legends) and which artworks will create the kind of pleasing ambiance and sacred space I try to create wherever I live. (woo... I'm starting to sound like my dad, huh?)

Now, keeping in mind the fact that my list of future house-works changes continuously as I come across more and more enchanting artworks from every stage of art history, here are the all-stars that have been hanging on the walls of my mental dream house for years now:

In my bathroom:

Matisse's Goldfish, 1912 (?) I'm not too official on dates... these pictures are family, not homework!

In my office (or in the hall if I don't have an office):

Caillebotte's Floor Scrapers, I can't remember when- 1880's? Parisian, naturally.

Durer's Melencolia I, 1514, which I did my undergraduate senior thesis on. Aaaah the memories... the hours and hours and hours of research... good times. I knew I was in the right line of work when I could spend 5 months looking at something and still be excited to see it later.

Over a couch somewhere:

Yes, it's a Dan Flavin light installation. Hey, a girl can dream!

Kitchen-Time:

Wayne Thiebaud, I can't remember the title. Although I might replace this with a decent still-life or a Morandi if I can find one to suit my tastes.

Entry-way (cuz it's one of my all-time favorites and it still makes me smile when I see it):

Van Gogh's Cafe Terrace at Night

For Memory-Triggering's sake:

[Insert perfunctory pictures of family and friends here, hopefully they look as good as Genna's pics] and also:

Dad and bebe Lindsey, in Virginia, probably 1987

Hung in a prominent place like a stairwell or mantle (because yes, I do appreciate the importance of having images that inspire devotion in the home, and am veeeeeeery selective about it):

This big beautiful sketch is something my dad did long ago of the Cardston, Alberta Canada Temple-- I definitely have a post-it note stuck to the back of this picture, claiming it after my parents die :)

Confession: I most definitely judge people based on what they have hanging on their walls. Now, don't be worried, your decor rarely says anything negative about you (except... if you use a lot of Andy Warhol, I may mentally scoff. He and I have an longstanding disagreement about art economics). I believe that what you choose to surround yourself with speaks volumes about who you are, what you care about, and what makes you happy. I delight in asking people about their choices. For example, I love going into guys' homes here in DC, because guys' walls are usually a lot more sparse and simple (similar to guys' overall approach to life). If they have any decor at all it's fairly utilitarian, with a specific purpose (like a love-sac) or a memory, e.g. it's from a mission, or has a great story behind it that really impressed them (or... it came with the house :) My Aunt Cheryl, on the other hand, has the most creative, alive home ever, with green and purple swirled rugs and a gorgeous hand-drawn enlargement of an illustration from my favorite children's book, Ferdinand the Bull (framed in a beautiful, candy-apple red, custom-made frame). From these pieces everyone can understand what an invigorating, creative lady she is. My dad's decorating philosophy is FAMILY PICTURES ONLY, which I've always disagreed with... I got in trouble one summer for daring to hang a van gogh print in the living room. But that should at least tell you what makes him happy and what he cares about.

Feel free to infer all sorts of things about me from the above compilation. Oh, and just for posterity's sake, the gaps in that list are:

American Color Field painting (I haven't found a favorite Morris Louis yet)

Whatever wall hanging my husband brings to the table

Photography!!!! (American landscape, visual Pop photography, etc.)

Portraiture (I have one in mind... I need to dig it up out of my 19th century European art book. The most lovely self-portrait, done by a Romanticist who died young... can't remember his name)

Modernist (Ikea furniture tries to fill this gap for me)

Something ancient... although that is by far my least favorite time period to study. Snore.

Incidentally, and completely unrelated to the rest of this post, Can DC Mormon Guys Get A Little Libido? I give you leave to hit on girls. We enjoy it. Thanks so much. You're all hot, by the way, don't even worry about it. My favorite moment of this week has been talking to my buddy Brian, who is Catholic, and nice and up front about liking girls. He never tries to submerge anything in shades of candor and friendship and stonewalling confusion. And to my friend James goes a close second for his gentlemanly remark: "Come back, we never made out!" Ah, soooooo refreshing. Best action I've gotten the whole time I've been in DC, thanks fellas :)