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.

Rock, Hard Place

Yesterday I started writing about the crazy volcano images we're all looking at, then I switched in quick succession to such meh topics as my archival work, the Owl City concert I'm attending in two days, faith, how to efficaciously commiserate and simultaneously commemorate the scourge known as finals week, and, again, how much I miss my family, particularly the funny ones. None of it made the cut ("ODviously!" What movie??).

This morning I crafted a near-perfect facebook status, but my reluctance to actually join the human race in their online drivel-reporting prevented me from hitting the button and committing to its publication. (The status, in case you're dying to know, reflects my somewhat jaded view of online social media. It reads, "I love/hate the Lakers/Jazz/finals/sunshine/my boyfriend... [random inspirational or movie quote]... listen to my bands X,Y, and Z... [narcissistic link to my blog]... and the worst thing ever: Look, FB- my baby pooped!")

What I'm trying to communicate through this list of the past 48 hours' worth of half-baked thoughts is that I am currently suffering from both writer's block and writer's overload. I need a fresh jolt of creativity... and also, less mental stimulation. Maybe at the end of next week, after I have exhaustedly handed in my fatty papers, I will know peace and smart writing again.

It has an end, right, void? If you are reading this and have no finals, are enjoying the freedom to work and earn money, or watch a movie, or use your mind to contemplate whatever you want, give thanks!!!

That being said, here's a few pictures from a recent art event I attended (Hat tip Maggie and Caranine)... because when you've got nothing else to say, when the words come slower than frozen ketchup out of an old school glass bottle, pictures can still spin an interesting story!

Best regards,
Thoroughly Modern Lindsey

Blown Fuse

"What are you thinking right now?"
"I'm going to blow a fuse. Our ward is too cerebral. Have hope, talk to God, and enjoy your life! That's all we really need to hear."

-My itchy emotions during a nebulous, too-theoretical discussion in Marriage Prep last Sunday.



Introducing some American Tonalist painters: Homer Dodge Martin, Thomas Dewing, and George Inness (well, technically, Inness was only Tonalist at the end of his career, but that's getting a little too deep...). These artists were all about venting their emotions, too. But theirs are a lot more peaceable emotions, I think. And certainly more picturesque:


Homer Martin. A North Woods Lake. 1867. Oil on Canvas.

Are those two mini sailboats or just whitecaps at the bottom, center? I'm intrigued... Also, way to go on those clouds, Homer. Me likey.






Thomas Dewing. White Birch. Ca. 1896-1899. Oil on canvas. Washington University (St. Louis, MO) Gallery of Art.

Can you see the white??? I'm a little blindsided by all the green. But, as always, I am a fan of any poetic and illustrious-looking ladies running around wildernesses :)






George Inness. Lake Nemi. 1872. Oil on canvas. MFA Boston.

No words for this one.


To be a Tonalist, one must be concerned in painting with achieving harmony in colors; no jarring contrasts, no flaming bright switchbacks between light and dark. In 1905, Clara Ruge, early art critic, put it succinctly:

"Here, then... is the motive that the Tonal School has made its own. The arrangement of colours must be kept in harmony because it must reproduce not merely the facts of the landscape, either separately or in mass, but, rather, the effect of the scene upon the painter's feelings, the emotion it evokes. Not alone the grass and the trees, with whatever delicate recognition of gradation of colour, but the mood, of which they are the embodiment and cause, is to be transferred to the canvas."

I'm really feeling little in my writing-about-art powers. Writing-- powerful, descriptive, assertive paragraphs and prose-- is the tool of my trade, and I can't concentrate long enough on any art article to learn anything about it from the masters! I blame the Internet (as I go back to Googling my Tonalists... when I'm supposed to be researching them :)

Have a fabulous day!
PS. Click on these images to get them really big. They'll blow your mind!

Down with Chipmunks!

I'm gonna pull another Hermione and start a club for a very underrepresented portion of society. You may now address me as Lindsey, the President of SPARCL: The Society for the Protection of Anxiety-Ridden Christmas Listeners.

The following was going to be my Facebook status for this week, but it was too long to fit, so I'm shuffling it over to the blog, because I feel this is a VERY important minority opinion that too few appreciate:

Lindsey Ann C_________ is one of those Grinches who HATES listening to Christmas music before the 22nd of December. Before you protest, check it: Christmas is a two-day holiday stretched into a month-and-a-half long music and marketing marathon... and y'all know it. Now, I certainly believe in the reason for the season, but I'd rather focus musically on him on his birthday, and maybe on the eve of his birthday, by singing hymns around a piano with loved ones. I'd rather not be subjected to Mariah and Archuletta and the Chipmunks warbling about nothing but cheer for weeks beforehand.The same fifteen songs get remixed over and over again by a galaxy of pop stars hoping to turn another million dollar iTunes profit, and it is TORTURE for us Grinches! Have mercy on us! The radios on my bus started playing carols on the 20th of freaking November this year, for crying out loud!!! I had to take midterms with Paul McCartney's truly galling "Wonderful Christmastime" rolling around in my brain!!! November 20th is far enough back into autumn territory to turn anyone into a Grinch, if they hadn't been already. I have a life. And other emotions to stoke via my music selection. Thank you. PS this rant is not directed at you, cheery Christmas lovers. I hope you know that. It's at the marketing machine and the retailers who tricked us all into thinking nothing except "Snow+Buy presents" since November 20th.

Oh man she's cute. Replace the bulb she's holding with this one and you'll get a perfect illustration of how I feel right now:

Well, insert "Music" underneath "Christmas" right here^ aaaaand there you go. Welcome to my world. It's not such a bad place, you know. It has a lot of different music playing all the time. Very enjoyable.

Auntie J, I promise the story behind Manet's The Railway is coming soon. And it will not be what you expect. Get excited!

I finally understand sculptor Henry Moore!

(*UPDATE: I'm feeling a little bit sheepish now. Consider this post a vent session, which in no way reflects my actual ability to compose art historical writings. "My mom reads this, professor, I swear! It was a humorous sketch for HER alone!!! I'M SORRY I PROFANED THE NAME HENRY MOORE!")

Henry Moore was a prophet. He looked into the future, saw the convoluted mush of Lindsey C_______'s brain this midterm week, then returned to the 20th century with his new inspiration safely stowed away in his memory and chiseled it into marble and wood and stone! Quel genius!

Why no, I don't think it's narcissistic of me to discover in myself his inspiration. The man, this most famous of British Modernist sculptors, was an educator: a professor of art at the Royal College of Art in London (late 1920's-ish). Naturally, he will have had sympathy for and an affinity with students. Probably, he had to suffer through the same types of philosophical readings as I am in order for him to teach modern art correctly (hee hee hee... you all always suspected modern sculpture was just messing with your brain!! Truth be told, the philosophers messed with ours first, and that's how it all got started. Modern art can be seen as the history of intellectual dementia).

Sure, the other phD-toting art historians will tell you hum-drum stories called facts about Henry Moore. They'll tell you "he particularly admired the sculptures of ancient cultures, [and] believed in creating a visual language appropriate to the twentieth century." They'll assertively and persuasively inform you that he used his sculptures to explore and embody abstract concepts like "monumentality" and "surrealist biomorphism." Sure, those art historians might have primary, secondary, and visual sources to back up their claims. But I just feel instinctively that I am right about these jumbles of shapes mirroring the look and feel of my brain right now!!

Later in life, after WWII, Henry Moore switched to a more figurative (translation: more human looking) style. He even dwelt on the theme of family quite a bit (hooray!). This fact is quite in line with my thesis. Just as I will (hopefully) emerge from the devastation of this week's 11-hour-a-day hw sessions with a renewed desire to make myself more figurative and human-looking again, and just as I will redeem a beautiful priceline.com ticket and go home to Utah and Vegas this weekend and see my family, so Henry Moore sculpted/prophesied my next week in the second half of his career (see later work at right for an example).

I state again, Henry Moore is a prophet. He knew and still knows where my mind is evolving, and put it into physical form. Genius. (Can you tell I'm a bit little cracked right now??)

I'd like to thank and acknowledge Dr. Valerie Fletcher, senior curator at the Hirshhorn, for allowing me to quote her thoughtful investigation* of this important 20th-century sculptor. And I'd also to like to remind you that my opinion is better and cooler :P I'd also like to put up a few other images that I think also accurately illustrate my mental state right now:

These images are courtesy of thisiswhyyourefat.com, Drew Shumway Should Really Stop Complaining So Much (my favorite facebook group that I don't actually belong to), and Google image search. The book I'm reviewing right now is currently trying to convince me that art historical writing is like a spiderweb: "a confusion of umbra and penumbra, a picture whose naturalism is inseparable from its internal coherence."** Hey. Author. YOU'RE a spidery confusion of coherence... trailing off.... mutter.... Ok I have to go back to work. Anyone else want to tell me what visual symbols their minds or hearts or other various appendages of import look like right now? Spencer I know might give me the picture of a blender for his brain, poor guy. Keep up the good work!

*Valerie J. Fletcher. "in depth: Henry Moore." Adapted from The Human Figure Interpreted: Modern Sculpture from the Hirshhorn Museum (1995). http://hirshhorn.si.edu/visit/in_depth.asp?key=33&subkey=102 accessed 10/11/2009.

** James Elkins. Our Beautiful, Dry, and Distant Texts. Pennsylvania State University Press. University Park: PA. Pg. 225. This really is a good book, even if it's over my head. I emailed the author this week and asked him a question about it, which he responded to promptly and kindly! I felt like a kid who's just gotten a signature from Mickey Mouse at Disneyland.


One more note and then I absolutely HAVE to get back to work [sound of my heels dragging goes HERE]. In my art history class at BYU where we actually had to DO all the different art styles that we would soon be evaluating (awesome class!), the teacher used Henry Moore for our sculpture assignment. We were given rough blocks of alabaster and told to make something out of them that looked organic, or biological. HOURS later, my hands were rough, raw, cracked, and bleeding, and my "sculpture" looked decidedly more like a piece of rock with several edges beveled off. I have a testimony that Henry Moore was the MAN and that this was hard work! The end.

Words I Don't Know, Part II.

It's busy homework season out here in DC/NOVA, I am SUPREMELY cranky today. Not just for homework's sake and the related disappearance of my free time; after an hour-and-a-half wait at this morning, I finally saw an insidious doctor who enjoyed poking my greenish-purplish ankle and asking me whether or not it hurt (could you REALLY not tell from the way I was writhing around?? QUIT POKING ME!), who then gave me the extremely irritating, completely useless, and entirely patronizing advice: "You should have come in when this first happened." Well, duh. Now get on with it, lady. I am currently waiting to hear back whether or not the retarded stumble I performed a couple of weeks ago is actually a fracture (please no please no please no...). Thus, I find myself a little on edge, and a lot out of things to write about. (*Update: NOT broken, THANK HEAVENS! Got a new doctor later in the afternoon, a nice doctor, who looked at it, said, "You've been walking on THAT for TWO weeks? And you're an art history major?? What, do you play rubgy on the side?" She set me up with a nice bulky brace to sport around for the next two weeks, just in time for Bre's wedding!)

So, I have been squirreling away a very special vocabulary for just such a wordless day. Back in February I published a list of words I ran across in my Hirshhorn readings that irritated the crap out of me, because they were so obviously included in their various essay-homes solely for the purpose of communicating to readers juuuuuust how brilliant their writers were. After that particular post, the words didn't stop coming, and I didn't stop noting them down, with vexation and occasional wonder at their odd spellings and contorted, completely unimaginable definitions.

Today I present Part II of my Abject Through Zeitgeist Journey to the Center of Multisyllabic Semantics. There's only 36 this time, and 11 of them are highlighted as spelling errors in wordcheck... but I left the definitions of all of them in this round, because no one should ever have to encounter these fastidious words unaided. Summer Lewis, you word-lover you (is there a "-phile" name for that?), go to town. :) Please note the upswing in percentage of Latin and philosophy words (Theodicy.... yeesh. I like that one, though. Cool meaning). I just can't get away from these maniacal writers, be it at the Smithsonian or in the middle of a graduate reading sesh. Apperception it is.


Adduce: Bring forward; cite as conclusive or pertinent
Alterity: A state of being other
Apodictic: Incontestable because it has been proved demonstrable
Apogee: highest or furthest point, or climax
Apperception: Conscious perception, the process of understanding by which newly observed qualities of an object are related to past experience.
Cathexis: the investment of emotional significance in an activity, object, or idea (cezanne’s wife may have been his erotic cathexis, but he didn’t show it on canvas)
Demur: Make an objection
Demure: characterized by shyness or modesty; reticent; coyly decorous
Dialectic: of the nature of logical discussion
Embolism: the insertion of days, months, or years, in an account of time, to produce regularity; The occlusion of a blood vessel by an embolus. Embolism in the brain often produces sudden unconsciousness and paralysis.
Ersatz: serving as a substitute; synthetic; artificial
Exergue: A space on the reverse of a coin or medal, usually below the central design and often giving the date and place of engraving.
Fecundity- quality of being very fertile
Hermeneutic: pertaining to hermeneutics; interpretative; explanatory.
Idiom: an expression whose meaning is not predictable from the usual meanings of its constituent elements (kick the bucket); the peculiar character or genius of a language (Derrida's version); a distinct style or character in music or art (the idiom of Klee)
Incommensurable: having no common basis, measure, or standard of comparison.
Inimitable: matchless, incapable of being copied
Invagination: a taking within (eeeww... dirty old D. N. Rodowick writing about aesthetics and speech)
Jingoism: Bellicose chauvinism
Oedipal: of or characterized by the Oedipal complex, e.g. a love for one’s opposite-sex parent
Ontological: Studying the nature of existence. Ex: having the existence of the concept of God entail His veritable existence
Parergon: An accessory work performed in addition to one's principle work (e.g. painting frames, sculptural drapery)
Pellucid: allowing the maximum amount of light or clarity; clear in meaning, expression, or style
Picaresque: pertaining to, characteristic of, or characterized by a form of prose fiction, originally developed in Spain, in which the adventures of an engagingly roguish hero are described in a series of usually humorous or satiric episodes that often depict, in realistic detail, the everyday life of the common people
Populism: any of various, often anti-establishment or anti-intellectual political movements or philosophies that offer unorthodox solutions or policies and appeal to the common person rather than according with traditional party or partisan ideologies.
Refractory: hard or impossible to manage; stubbornly disobedient
Reification: to convert into or regard as a concrete thing.
Repugnant: distasteful, offensive, contrary or opposed in nature
Scion: a descendant; a shoot, twig, or cutting
Subsume: to consider something as part of a more comprehensive whole
Tautological: needless repetition of an idea ("widow woman")
Teleological: pertaining to the doctrine that forces move towards self-realization; the evidence of design.
Telos: the end term of a goal-directed process; esp., the Aristotelian final cause.
Tendentious: having or showing a definite tendency, bias, or purpose
Theodicy: A vindication of God's goodness in the face of the existence of evil
Topos: a convention or motif, esp. in a literary work; a rhetorical convention.

Fin.

Official Apology to Indie Kids/Hipsters

After taking 24 hours to cool off, and realizing with a sheepish inner grin than I myself own pairs of skinny jeans and Chuck Taylors... and also remembering that I occasionally admire my friends' trendy, otherworldly (and overpriced) Polaroid art projects, I'm hereby issuing an apology to those who find themselves drawn to this particular style known as Indie and/or Hispter. Guys, it's not really you I was hating on last post, I swear. It's the America-wide plague of materialism, which you in particular fall prey to (forgive me). And... not to sound like a crazy conspiracy theorist record, but this society-ruining materialism is, in my opinion, brought about by a swarm of suave marketing professionals, aka the bane of my existence. Example: Urban Outfitter's online fall collection slogan is: "Then Again: New Urban Renewal." What the *&%$ does that even MEAN??? I feel dumber for having read it! And I hate knowing that whoever buys things from that collection will have added to the second Beamer fund of whatever marketing guru wrote it. Gah. Ok, step away from the soapbox, Lindsey.

I hereby promise that (500) Days of Summer is not an awful movie-- quite quaint actually, and it realistically depicts the type of relationships my generation likes to have (sadly enough). But I have to wonder, would the two characters have fallen in love if they DIDN'T have a huge load of materialistic props to worship or scorn together? Seriously. They fell in love over an iTunes song issuing forth out of oversized headphones like the kind you see in every Target/AE/AX photo spread. Summer and whatever-his-name-was really hit it off as they go on a date simply walking around mocking the domestic interiors of Ikea for a whole 5 screen minutes. They later discover that they have relationship problems (gasp!) thanks to their differing reactions to a Ringo Starr vinyl record. Finally, they each realized their individual destinies thanks to some shockingly coffee-table-esque books on architecture?? Really??

Sigh. I'm going to go back to reading this week's book, Little Women.

PS this has nothing to do with the rest of the post, but I wrote down the following quote from last week's book, The Robe (AWESOME!), and I really wanted to share it. Marcellus, a Roman Tribune learning slowly about Jesus after taking part in his crucifixion, says the following while contemplating the new underground Christian movement:

"'This faith,' he declared deliberately, 'is not like a deed to a house in which one may live with full right of possession. It is more like a kit of tools with which a man may build a house. The tools will be worth just what he does with them. When he lays them down, they will have no value until he has taken them up again.'"

Beautiful, no?

Why I Hate Marketing

Fate is a funny thing. I started three other blog posts during the course of this week, but hadn't the heart or the resolve to post them. And now, due to the delightful, all-knowing march of fate (which I've really got to learn to trust in), I know this will be the one that makes it to the press, er, blog. I've got the writer's fire, and I need to blow off some steam!

It's Tuesday, which means it's my day off/day I schedule interviews/day I say I'm going to recoup sleep but never do/day I celebrate being young, independent, and free in the middle of a beautiful city. This particular Tuesday I had a great interview (fingers crossed!) that reminded me why I am really truly going to blow a fortune on a ridiculous Art History Master's degree- I love beauty, and I want to do what it takes to bring it to the rest of the world's attention (just like my mommy and papi did for me!)

The interview portion of my Tuesday being thus finished around 10 this morning, I set off to accomplish the celebration/young/independent part. I wasn't particularly creative this afternoon, I merely adventured into two of my favorite new foodie finds (delicious falafel at Moby Dick's Kabob and a saintly cupcake at Baked and Wired. MMM overpriced Georgetown calories. The very best.) It was a nice break from the lifeguarding staples of granola and ice cream, and yes, indeed, I do feel more independent and young now.

Then I went to go see (500) Days of Summer (See trailer Here), the only movie that really appealed to me at the moment- I'm a girl, I love summer, and I love Love. Case closed.

It was the first time I have ever gone to see a movie in a movie theater all by myself. Well, not really by myself, if you count the one bearded indie boy sitting behind me, and the two hipster college freshman girls a few rows ahead. Nevertheless, congrats, me. Such bravery.

I emerged from the theater, still alone, and less than enthusiastic about what I'd just seen. In fact, I came out with the determination to sit down at this very computer and transcribe a fiery explanation of Why I Hate Marketing. That's right, folks. Although I hate to break the hearts of my beloved indie friends, after seeing this movie I must solemnly declare:

The whole indie/hipster identity that's blatantly advertised in this movie is completely made up by well-dressed marketing MBA's, who are pulling their shiny BMW's into their suburban mansion garages and laughing their heads off at you right this very hour!

"How did they do it, and say what now?" you ask. By successfully hawking the following trendy, pseudo-vintage items at you in multiple sleek marketing methods such as online advertising, the elusive word-of-mouth, and most prominently of all, product placement. Off the top of my head, here are eleven hipster products that were marketed prominently in (500) Days of Summer, as the Beamer-owners cunningly try to convince the young and the restless trendsetters that they need to purchase for their "uniqueness:"

-chalkboard paint
-big headphones blaring little known bands
-long retro cardigans (and this product placement really is just ludicrous- the movie is set in LA, people! NO ONE with a metabolism keeps cardigans on in LA in the summer for more than a minute!)
-girls with bangs
-vinyl records
-Ikea
-Wii
-karaoke
-Vodka/Whiskey (my compatriots are now convinced that they are too good for beer now- leave that to lesser, poorer mortals, like the kind that like Nascar... ew.)
-shoulder bags
-Green Architecture (does anyone besides my Dad even know truly what that means??)
-damask wallpaper, a la the store Anthropologie 2 years ago

I'm just thankful i didn't see an iPod... oh wait, you get a full 15-second shot of Joseph Gordon-Leavitt's computer screen with iTunes opened on it. Scratch that. BOOOOO marketing! You're responsible for turning the American populace into ambivalent androids!

The movie review I had trusted told me this about the movie: "It's about a boy who falls in love with a girl named Summer, and is then enchanted with the very idea of summer itself." Being a huge summer (the season) fan, I went to this movie hoping/listening intently for an eloquent, postmodern soliloquy on why this time of year-- this glorious season that allows you to run around as naked as possible and down ice cream to your hearts content-- is the best. I didn't hear any such speech. Ever. The boy was in love with a female Summer, and later turned to autumn, the downer season after that comes after summer, for comfort. LAME!

Oh, and one last item to be subjected to my current rash bout of scorn: Irony. Not the subtle irony of the two stars' quick back and forth banter. The irony that I watched a movie whose the plot revolves around a greeting card company employee, a former architect, and the inevitable indie plot twist- Gasp! that the people who don't believe in love find it, and the people who do get shafted but end up smiling to themselves as they start afresh.

Those who know me well will know why I find those three things ironic.

Now, onto art, since I know I've been very selfishly autobiographical of late. The film's setting in LA reminded me of this sculpture in the Hirshhorn:

Larry Bell. Untitled. Glass, bismuth, chromium, gold, and rhodium on gold-plated brass. 1964.

Larry Bell was one of the first artists to help transplant the contemporary art scene from New York to LA (where it is still finishing migrating today, although it has received numerous renewed threats from such international counterparts as Berlin and London). Long rejected last century as a city of culture because, well, let's face it, LA is home to such un-museum-worthy items as Jack Nicholson, the Lakers, and 1970's bungalows, nevertheless, around 1970 the good old California city made the art world turn traitor to its own elitist mentality by producing very sleek, very surface-y, and veeeery seductive works of art such as the above Larry Bell piece. "You think you can do modernism, New York?" LA taunted. "Is this all you got??" (See the Richard Serra below) And it was true. Why would anyone hang around New York to discuss works like this:

Richard Serra. 2-2-1: To Dickie And Tina, 1969. Steel. 1986.

when they could go to the beach, get a tan, and see something that--dare I say it-- managed to come off as wonderfully elitist still, but also managed to pull off a slight return to beauty!? Notice Untitled's lovely colored surface, which at once reflects the viewer and reveals a veiled look at its inside. Oh, beauty! We missed you! Only in LA, where the beautiful people get beautifuller (thanks to plastic surgeons) and the normal people get trendier, thanks to Hollister and Max Factor, would we see you return to the art world. How ironic.

To every boy ever made:

Know this: the whole sagging-your-swim-trunks below the top of your butt crack is NOT attractive. Has NEVER been attractive. Does not endear us women to you in any way and in fact makes us want to barf and/or yank your pants up to your belly button in a very un-sexy mom-type fashion! I don't CARE if you want a better tan line. I don't CARE that your mom once told you you have a cute butt. I promise you, we will still appreciate your asset when it is displayed under a layer of stylish hyperprene boardshort material. the end.

from,

a person who knows. who is sick of the lower cleavage. (especially the nasty old chunky man kind).

^ Only person in the history of the world who has gotten away with it. And it's only cuz a malicious dog it attacking her!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

^On behalf of women everywhere, thank you, Paul Walker, for being so.... modest. :) We likey.

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 :)

A break from precedence... Lindsey goes Cutesy.

For the sake of being well-rounded (because a certain original blogfriend of mine thinks I need to include some nice Mormon-girlish blog topics BESIDES art... sigh. :) I present a recipe I found for exceptional from-scratch whole-wheat bread. Yes, I made bread all by myself, yeast and everything. Now that I am without a tv, a personal computer, an iPod, AND Facebook (the first three not by choice), I spend a lot of time reading, experimenting with cooking, and maybe even a lil dating. Oh, and travelling. I'm going to spend this Memorial Day weekend with friends exploring The South! We're staying with my wonderful family in North Carolina! Oh yes, East Coast, that's right: I think outside the Duck.

Ahem.

Honey Whole Wheat Bread
3 cups warm water (110 degrees F)
2 (.25 ounce) packages active dry yeast
1/3 cup honey
5 cups whole wheat flour
3 tablespoons butter, melted
1/3 cup honey
1 tablespoon salt
3 1/2 cups white flour
2 tablespoons MORE butter, melted

1. In a large bowl, mix warm water, yeast, and 1/3 cup honey. Add 5 cups wheat bread flour, and stir to combine. Let set for 30 minutes, or until big and bubbly.
2. Mix in 3 tablespoons melted butter, 1/3 cup honey, and salt. Stir in 3 cups white flour. Flour a flat surface and knead until not sticky - just pulling away from the counter, but still sticky to touch. (I rolled in a ton of flour during this process... don't ask me if that's normal or not. I'm not a cook. I just know it was sticking to my counter like no other, and that my roommate said kneading was important to get it to rise, and I definitely wanted fluffy bread!) Place in a greased bowl, turning once to coat the surface of the dough. Cover with a dishtowel. Let rise in a warm place (like on top of your pre-heated oven!) until doubled.
3. Punch down, and divide into 3 little loaves or two big ones. Place in greased bread pans, and allow to rise until dough has topped the pans by one inch. Once risen, sprinkle with oats for decoration (ok, that's not in the recipe... but I had to do that. More aesthetically pleasing that way.)
4. Bake at 350 degrees for 25 to 30 minutes. Lightly brush the tops of loaves with 2 tablespoons melted butter. Cool completely... or serve hot like me. Fresh bread's the bestest!

.................................................................

My bread has fed me for two weeks now! I'm practically Michelle Obama! (Well, with bread, not home-grown veggies).

Since I am fully divesting myself of my inner girl on this post, I guess I'll show you my current secret music video obsession. I know everyone else probably says this, but she's totally ME in high school! Glasses, disdain for excessive hair straightening, love of studying and hoodies, dancing in her room like an idiot, crushes on dreamy men...... Holy crap, I haven't changed much. DON'T JUDGE ME:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FTaPVlyEQc8

and did anyone else happen to notice this on Google? This isn't QUITE art, so I think I can get away with it:

First person to name this work gets a prize! I just talked about it... Happy birthday, Mary Cassatt! And kudos, Google, for having a little bit of culture! (And for running the world and being the best email provider EVER! love you!) Ok I think that does it for now. Lindsey's inner girly girl, signing out.

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.

Just wondering...

... sometimes, I feel like I know everything. I am pretty confident in my life. At my work, I glory in my research and teaching opportunities. I look for the best in my co-workers, and usually find it, and life feels pretty grand!! I have seriously remarked to myself when leaving the Hirshhorn at night, "I am seeing life through rose-colored glasses!" (The fact that the sun is setting when I leave every evening might be helping :) A lot of the time, I have faith that Heavenly Father is working it all out, and I lreflect back and see how much he has blessed me in the past, and I glean even more confidence in the future. (haha- I just got Maria von Trapp's "I have confidence in sunshine! I have confidence in rain! I have confidence that spring will come again! Besides which, you see- I have confidence in ME!" stuck in my head).

But during a few scattered hours this week, I found myself wondering if I really know anything at all. I used to wonder that all the time (it was called adolescence. I'm sure you've all been there). I really disliked experiencing the old familiar sensation of second-guessing myself and living life on the mild side. I'm so thankful for college, for it gave me a foothold and helped me figure out who I am, and it introduced me to the world's greatest people who loved me unconditionally as I slowly figured things out. I found joy in art history and business studies there. I learned how much happiness service will render the servant. And I adventured a lot, which as we know, produces lots of pleasure and fun facebook photo albums :) And now that part of my life is in the past.

I keep meeting people now who used to be like me, and aren't anymore. Do they know something I don't? Will life eventually crush the confidence out of me? Is it even confidence I've got, or something with a little worse connotation... like pride???

I don't have any answers today. BUT true to form, I have an artwork that relates to my crazy musings. Presenting the current world record holder for most expensive artwork from a living artist (sold in 2007 for $100 MILLION dollars, although the identity of the buyer remains hidden and the sale is heavily disputed as genuine amongst the art crowd):

For the Love of God, by Damien Hirst. 2007. It's a platinum cast of a human skull encrusted with 8,601 flawless diamonds, totalling 1,106.18 carats. The human teeth are real. Art legend says that the artist, "Britain's most notorious bad boy," chose the title because it's what his mother exclaimed when he told her about the project. Hirst had been enjoying record-smashing auction results for his brightly painted pills glued to metal cabinets, and dead 15-foot tiger sharks set afloat in vats of formeldahyde (from whence my art economics book, "The $12 Million Dollar Stuffed Shark," got its title). Tabloid writers, who had spent the 90's dishing about his cocaine dealings and outlandish spending records, were all in a flurry when this artwork dropped. Hirst Did It Again.

He seems unstoppable. Virulent jealousy, critial acclaim, multi-million dollar patronage, and continually dropped jaws all surface in his wake. We are all secretly waiting for the day he falls flat on his face, bankrupt (though I'd be willing to bet his ultimate disgrace will come from an OD, Heath Leger style, rather than a decline in value). He's just too good, and For the Love of God practically cackles at us that the artist is fully aware of his brazen status. For the Love of God is a Memento Mori (see my Abject through Zeitgeist post if you don't know what that is) with conceptual references to modern day's deity: money. Pretty brilliant. (And someone thought it was $100 million worth of brilliant). Oh, to put it in perspective, it cost approximately $11 million to make. That's a price increase of 809%!!!! The whole thing is ridiculous.

Am I proceeding through life built on shaky confident foundations like this overinflated pop icon? Or are better things to come for me? Where are the lines to be drawn, between confidence, pride, and foolishness? And wickedness?

I remembered just in time to look at the scriptures before I closed my post. Lo and behold, I was reminded why Nephi was the MAN. Look what he wrote:

"O the wise, and the learned, and the rich, that are puffed up in the pride of their hearts, and all those who preach false doctrines, and all those who commit whoredoms, and pervert the right way of the Lord, wo, wo, wo be unto them, saith the Lord God Almighty, for they shall be thrust down to hell! Wo unto them that turn aside the just for a thing of naught and revile against that which is good, and say that it is of no worth! (Lindsey's side note: OR say the thing of naught IS of worth) For the day shall come that the Lord God will speedily visit the inhabitants of the earth; and in that day that they are fully ripe in iniquity they shall perish."

Hmm.... When I was little I always thought, "Man, I hope bad guys read this book, so they will stop!" I remember my mom or some teacher teaching me that that the Lord uses three "wo's" in a row only a couple (maybe just 3?) times in the Book of Mormon. So you know this verse means business. But who was it written for? Do bad guys even read scriptures? Or is it all for me?

Little Lindsey (and current Lindsey) liked this scripture a lot better, a couple verses away, "I will give unto the children of men line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little; and blessed are those who hearken unto my precepts, and lend an ear unto my counsel, for they shall learn wisdom; for unto him that receiveth I will give more; and from them that shall say, We have enough, from them shall be taken away even that which they have.”

I've only got a couple of lines and precepts under my belt, that's for sure. But at least I'm still asking questions :)

PS Mom I think you're right. It all depends on where your confidence is coming from. Yourself=You burn. God=You learn wisdom.

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.

Abject through Zeitgeist

Just in case there are any serene, unruffle-able people out there who have no idea what last week's experience of fury/pounding the pavement feels like, here is something I guarantee will at least make your pulse quicken... cuz it sure makes MY blood boil! :) So, I spend lots of hours each week reading scholarly articles: art reviews, biographies, art theory, museum theory, political arguments, but mostly art reviews. Sooooo many smart people delivering their well-crafted, fanciful-sounding opinions. When I'm in a good mood (and when they're my style of writer), I enjoy their words, and credit this fraction of my week to "Improving My Education." Sometimes, though, when I'm in a bad mood or they are just outrageous writers, I get a little angry. And sometimes, I'm pretty sure I am just reading pages and pages whose main purpose in life is to ooze the subliminal statement, "BEHOLD! I AM SMARTER THAN YOU."

A particular way this happens is through vocabulary. Now, I consider myself an intelligent girl, maybe even above average intelligence. But I've already been humbled once this year by the GRE's staggering amount of multisyllabic words and mathematical trickery (for all those that wanted to know, my score was not what I hoped for, but it'll have to do. Man was that a bum way to spend Valentine's Day. But at least it was memorable! ) No, but it's very irritating to have to stop at least three times an article and hit up dictionary.com in order to understand a sentence and keep mental track of the author's intent.

On my work computer is a little secret notepad document of all the words I have to look up. The following is that list... and it's only three weeks old. This is the language of the world I work in- tell me you don't feel slightly belittled and maybe even a tad angry after reading this list. (And for all you wordy people out there that recognize a large percentage of these words, please pat yourself on the back and skip ahead. And any SANE person who knows NONE of these words, tell me about it. I'll send you a prize. You and me both, man.) PS The ones with definitions are the ones I saw more than once and had forgotten the first time. PPS After three weeks of fury, I've decided that the most fun to get out of these words, besides using them later to impress people, is trying to pronounce them. "Jalousied" feels like kissing but without another person... Ahem...

Abject
Ad hoc
Afflatus: an impelling mental force acting from within
Ambiguity
Anxiety of influence- poets having to deal with predecessors
Apotropaic- intended to ward off evil
Belligerent- war-like, bellicose, hostile
Bricolage- construction made of whatever diverse materials are at hand
Chthonian
Concatenation- connection, as through a chain
Consignment- Profit model for mainstream art dealers
Cupidity- greed, avarice, excessive desire
Deadpan- expressing no emotion while delivering humor
Demur- Make an objection
Desublimation
Dextrous
Distill
Egalitarian
Elegiac
Fete (verb)- to entertain at or honor with a party
Fey- fated to die, unnaturally high spirits (as before death), whimsical, otherworldly
Gestalt- a unified whole
Intransigent
Jalousied
Labile- apt or likely to change
Masochist
Memento mori- object kept to remind one of death, i.e. a skull

NOPE KEEP GOING.... That's right. ALL of these I came across in my everyday readings...

Metonymic
Miscegenation
Mooncalf
Mordant- caustic, sarcastic, corrosive, dyeing
Parse
Pejorative
Penumbra- shadowy, marginal area
Plumb (verb)
Pneumatic (adj.)
Populist
Posit
Reticence
Sadist- gratification through causing pain to others- compare to masochist (pain to self)
Self-Purgation
Solipsism- the theory that only the self exists, egoistic self-absorption
Topos
Torsade- an ornamental twist, as of velvet
Trope
In train
Vertiginous
Verve
Visceral
Work over
Zeitgeist

There are 51 of them at this time. 13 of them are highlighted as spelling errors by the spell-checker. My favorite is Chthonian (it means pertaining to the spirits under the earth.) I've decided that I might be able to give the intellectuals a tiny break; after all, their livelihoods-- and probably a few of their identities as human beings-- hinge on their ability to describe art and life better than anyone else in the business. Naturally, they are highly proficient verbal acrobats.

Enough vocab. I have had probably the busiest week and a half of my life these past 10 days, and I STILL haven't gotten a chance to recoup the lost hours of sleep. But I'm at work now and have no time to do my adventures their full justice. You'll have to check back later on in the week, but I promise I'll write them. Otherwise my mom's head might explode :) These adventures include the opening of the Bourgeois exhibit, with one or two major surprises attached, a blast from the BYU past, a little vignette of the American democratic system.... through the eyes of a blind citizen, and plenty of other delightful encounters with this crazy city and its bizarre, unpredictable populace. I'll be back.