"152 insights into my SOUL!" What movie??

If eyes are the window to the soul (though frankly, I don't always accept that statement, cuz I've definitely seen some eyes that just tell me, "this soul is hazel and didn't get enough sleep last night"), then I think a person's bookshelf is a window into their passions.

Now, I am actually a horrible example of this myself; my scanty bookshelf will only tell you I like history (The Other Eminent Men of Wilford Woodruff), love (Jane Eyre), and Christianity, particularly Mormonism (The Screwtape Letters, Franny & Zooey, and The Book of Mormon... a better window into my passions would be my overdue book account at the Harold B. Lee Library).

Nevertheless! I present this idea to you because it's occurred to me that, as I have, ahem... borrowed my roommates' books all summer to read during my commute, I am sort of spying on them. Or rather, I'm really getting a feel for their passions and interests. One is interested in health science and human endeavors, and chooses to unwind with great Russian 19th century fiction writers. The other roommate has a wide range of interests stemming mostly from her business and leadership training, but also canvasing historical fiction and loads of religious essays. I've recently been absorbed by her Leading Quietly, which is "An Unorthodox Guide to Doing the Right Thing" from the masterminds at the Harvard Business School Press. Fairly entertaining despite its stodgy, uptight publishing origins, the following passage from said book gave me some great food for thought this week (I know it's a long quote, but hold out 'til the end, you'll see why):

"[Great leaders] didn't end up leading countries, vast organizations, political movements, and social crusades by accident. Hence, it is no surprise that ego, passions, and drives that were somewhat less than angelic often motivated them. To some, this perspective seems pessimistic, cynical, and disheartening, but this view actually reflects an astonishing convergence of classical wisdom and contemporary science. The Old Testament and ancient Greek tragedy portray men and women as fractured, complicated creatures, pulled in different directions by a multitude of hopes and fears, wants and needs. Compare this picture to the one emerging from the new discipline of cognitive neuroscience. It describes the human mind as a set of semi-independent modules, each of which handles different tasks. Some help us walk upright, others sense danger, others remember, plan, and love. The modules often operate simultaneously and clash with each other. As a result, the human mind is 'a noisy parliament of competing factions.' Our inner lives resemble the disjointed images of modern paintings rather than the harmony of classical sculpture."

!!!!!!!!! It's like they knew I was coming! Hee hee.

"Which modern painting would best represent the fractured mental modules he's talking about?" I wondered.

Franz Kline?

Lehigh V Span. 1959-1960. SF MoMA.

No. Too black and white and understandable-at-a-glance, although very attractive in the galleries (his canvases are HUGE-- as in, dining room window huge-- and almost seem to be spelling something out to you in a language you recognize but can't read).

No... de Kooning?

Woman/Verso: Untitled. 1948. Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden (woot!).

Naaaah. Too interested in toying with female stereotypes, although I'm sure there are some people who feel that his is a pretty accurate portrayal of the overall look and value of the interiors of women.

And then... it hit me. One of my favorite artists, whom I met (and by met I mean saw a work by and fell in love with) at the Pompidou, summer '07 when I was studying abroad: Nicolas de Stael.

Fugue. 1951.
Here's a side view of the same little painting, which sits over in the Phillips Collection in DC (thanks, unknown Flickr benefactor!):

Get a sense of things fighting to be in harmony in this work? Of "semi-independent modules," like it said in Leading Quietly?

L'Orchestra. 1953. Centre Pompidou.

This is the Nicolas de Stael piece that originally won him my heart, the one hanging in Paris. Believe me when I tell you, this baby is HUGE. I do love the modern artists who chose to make their creations human-sized. I felt as if I really was having a conversation with this work of art when I stood in front of and a little beneath it. I don't have much gossip for you about Nicolas de Stael the artist, besides the curious habit I've noticed he has of naming his works after musical terms: the Orchestra, Fugue, Composition, etc. His big blocks of colors, often including grey, are personally attractive to me. The paint blocks are never just slopped on like a Pollock, but very thought out and built up from the surface of the canvas. Almost like he was constructing a city, block by block, with the swipes of his trowel. When I took some friends to tour the Phillips about a month ago, I admired the Fugue before I even noticed who it was by, and then we all marveled together at the audacity of the museum for leaving its works so unguarded; you see, the paint patches are so built up that in some areas you could actually reach out and break off a piece of the paint if you so desired. (NOO! Resist!) I guess I'll have to do a little bit more searching to find out what was on his bookshelf. I'll be back with the details later. Needless to say, his compositions are much like Franz Kline's for me; familiar, sexy, and energetic, but not in a frenzied sort of way. More like the energy and power you feel when you stand by a river. Hence, me likey.

Ps. TWO MORE WEEKS OF LIFEGUARDING! Then I get my life back, er I mean I get to start school again, and apply to jobs again, and hopefully remember my college-level vocabulary again... oooh it's getting close! And no, I will NOT recant my assertion that summer is better than fall. It is. I only look forward to the close of the pool, not the close of the season.

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.

Secrets (Maggie my fellow fan, this one's for you)

The blog Post Secret asks readers to send anonymous postcards containing their secrets to its founder, who then publishes them on the web. Sometimes funny, sometimes sweet, sometimes horrifying, and sometimes galling, it is always so fascinating to read what everyday people have an itch to reveal to the world at large. The creator of this website also published a book of these secrets (and I guess he has another one in the works... so excited to read that one soon!). I spent part of my Friday thumbing through Post Secret Book the First at a store, and spent another part of my Friday composing a list of my own secrets.

One of my favorite postcards in the book reads something like, "Instead of writing down my secrets I share them with those dearest to me... and my life is better for it." Betting that this is very true, here are two of the seven secrets I wrote down. Have a great week, my friends:

6. My regrets from college can be reduced to: kissing Spencer Thomas after we broke up, not going the extra mile for that A- in French 201, putting up that picture of Jenny kissing her future husband's roommate on the end-of-the-year ward slide show, and not telling that boy how distracted I got when I looked at his beautiful face in the library.

7. Every day I wake up to a future that most modern girls' dreams are made of, even though it's not the life I always wanted and planned for. But it's ok. I don't have control over God's timing and I'm doing the best with what I've been given... and I experience real, true, simple happiness almost everyday because of this truth (although each day's happiness comes in the guise of simple adventures such as walking to a friend's house in the rain, talking to a girl at the pool about her friend's suicide watch, or riding the bus home after a long day at work and cherishing the thought that I might belong to the bottom rung of society now, but I'm a free and independent girl in the heart of a great city... and have much to hope for.)

Pable Picasso (Spanish). The Butterfly from the illustrated book Eaux Fortes originales pour textes du Buffon (Histoire Naturelle). Print executed 1936, published 1942.

Iran do Espirito Santo (Brasilian). Butterfly Prussian Blue. 1998. Gouache on paper.

Mark Grotjahn (American). Untitled (Coloful Butterfly White Background Three Wings A#2 504). 2004. Colored pencil on paper.

All courtesy of the online collection at MoMA (Art world's newest version of "The Man.")

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.

SOS- I don't have sufficient energy to blog. And I'm back to hating that word.

It's a crying shame, too, cuz I just wrapped up the first full 60-hour workweek of my life, and through it all I had TONS of thoughts streaming through my brain that could be blog-worthy. But now they're all gone; siphoned away while I caught up on my sleep this glorious Sunday afternoon. It's probably for the best. No one should know the random things that scroll across my consciousness while I deal with the relentless sun, the interlaced layers of sunscreen, sweat, and chlorine that pile up on my skin each 10 hour day, and the 200+ little rascals who think I don't notice when they keep running even after I issue my patented mean-lifeguard-bellow, "WALK PLEASE!" ... yep. It's probably for the best I don't blog this week.

... and yet...

My days start and end with an hour of bus travel. This week I completed The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn whilst riding the 10B bus, and it was possibly the most enjoyable read I've had in years. People, WHY does everything written after 1945 have to be intellectual, bleak, and didactic? Why can't I find more stories that are content to make me laugh and see a resemblance between my busmates and Jim and Huck and the two river "rapscallions," the Duke and the King? Why does it seem like my contemporary reading choices are either the vapid Twilight or the labor-intensive Tolstoy? I just need to know. And I need some brilliant writer to make it all go away, and take me floating down the Mississippi again. That's all.

I've had four saves since I began lifeguarding. You needn't be impressed by this. They have consisted of jumping off the stand in order to set upright four babies that tipped over in the 1' deep play pool (THE most stressful pool, in my opinion). Parents get busy talking to each other or dolling out more sunscreen on their other kids, baby tips over and flounders, trying to figure out how to get face up again, and Lindsey springs into action. These mini-saves gives me a heart attack every time, something akin to the sensation of going down that first big drop on a roller coaster.

I really like hanging with the other guards, who range in age from 16 to 21 (my superior is a ripe old 20). I've caught up on my high-school phraseology, the most frequent of which is "FML," and if you don't know what that means, I'm not telling you, and you probably shouldn't look it up. Your poor little eyes are too pure for such things. Although I really do enjoy these guards' easy-going jokes and laughter, I definitely have to bite my tongue when they talk about prom, required Albert Camus, college applications, and which older friend/sibling gets them their alcohol every weekend. Holy crap I feel old with my opinions on such matters. A little old, and a lot Mormon. You may find it odd and discomfiting, but I don't miss hanging with YSA's so much during the week anymore. Truly, I've heard enough dissection of how to get married and why the opposite sex sucks to make me want to shoot myself... NEVERTHELESS! I love my church. And I really miss Institute. And I'm thankful it's Sunday and I could go and listen to speakers.

Ooh, there is one thing I actually CAN remember thinking about this week that I guess I'll blog about. I'm hoisting my intellect out of its slumber in order to discuss the following with you, vague Internet audience (consisting by now of probably just my mom, my aunts, and my darling friend Jayci):

What is the most important thing in the world to you?



One of the guards thinks he's hot stuff, and I can see him shining up to me, and I take none of it. In fantasy Lindseyland, if he ever actually asked to know what it was that makes me completely ignore his existence, I would be brave enough to ask him that question, and watch him struggle to articulate anything beyond an emotion you'd find in a Dashboard Confessional song.

Cuz he's nineteen, and the world has taught him to think about one thing only. I'm fairly confident this dude would never guess what is the most important thing in the world to me, and that is:

Truth.

Ok, ok, I only just figured that out myself while I was sitting on the stand. Somewhere over the last two weeks I asked myself this question, and was frustrated when "religion," "family," and "learning" all came to mind at once. "You can only have one answer to this question There has to be some link between the three of those that is really what you care about most in this world," I thought. I finally hit on it several shifts later. I'm in a constant search for glorious, magnificent, soul-strengthening truth.

I would classify religion, family, and learning as things I love dearest in the world, and I love them precisely because they present me with truths. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints connects me to the personality of God, who is loving, and has a plan for me. It introduced me long ago to Jesus Christ, who, as my dear mother and father and the scriptures explain, is my biggest cheerleader and kindest friend. I could go on and on about the other truths it teaches me, including faith, priesthood, the need for a Restoration, and how great and marvelous is the plan of salvation, but I'll stop there for now (you all should know these things, and if you don't, I know some good people who'd love to teach you about them... :)

Family, including those friends I would give my life for, present me with the knowledge of what it is like to have true charity bloom within you. When I think of my fam, or call them on the phone, or attend their weddings (YAY CLAYTONS!), I better understand what it is to yearn for someone else's happiness and salvation before my own concerns. Truth: "The greatest of these is charity," which "suffereth long, and is kind, and envieth not, and is not puffed up, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil, and rejoiceth not in iniquity but rejoiceth in the truth, beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things." (Moroni 7:45)

I can still remember my reaction to that scripture when I really first contemplated it in seminary. I thought, "That's totally a road map to how we should be living! Am I suffering long? Kind? Not puffed up? Seeking not my own? THINKING NO EVIL? Bearing all things? etc. It really is a good personal checklist, then as now.

Learning-- precious, fun, and exciting adventures of learning-- brings me into contact with the stories and opinions of man and God, and I like that it is up to me to use my intellect and spirit and faith to divine which among the opinions I encounter each day are truth. An interesting quote was passed out in Relief Society today....... Confession: I was so tired, this being my only day off, that I didn't really hear much of what was said (BAD Lindsey!), but I most definitely was able to focus on and be intrigued by this sentence. Go ahead and make the connection between this quote and my love of learning and all-wonderful TRUTH on your own.... I can feel my powers of rational thought and writing ability slipping away fast (time for a nap.) ps the SAAM artwork from last week was indeed the red one at the end. I really liked all those images, though, didn't you?

RS Quote: "Could we read and comprehend all that has been written from the days of Adam, on the relation of man to God and angels in a future state, we should know very little about it. Reading the experience of others, or the revelation given to them, can never give us a comprehensive view of our condition and true relation to God. Knowledge of these things can only be obtained by experience through the ordinances of God set forth for that purpose. Could you gaze into heaven five minutes, you would know more than you would by reading all that ever was written on the subject... I assure the Saints that truth can and may be known through the revelations of God in the way of His ordinances, and in answer to prayer." -Joseph Smith

And on the fifth day, she rested...

Yesterday: 10 hours lifeguarding. at a public pool. on the fourth of july.

Today: Let freedom ring!




Fact: One of these images was pulled from the Smithsonian American Art Museum's Online Collection. The other four were pulled from the first page of Google image search results for the keyword "Freedom." Can you guess which one is which??

Quick Thoughts

I turned 24 yesterday!! June 28th, 1985 is when I started this life. The world's most perfect birthday. Here is the DCist "Photo of the Day" from yesterday, June 28th 2009-

Some kind of party train going on somewhere in the District? It looks like the Artomatic show, but I can't tell. At any rate, yes, people, my birthday IS a good day to don a mustache costume (see the half-naked person on the left) and dance around. Glad you could celebrate with me. Sad I spent a lot of my time in the Minneapolis Airport, coming home from my Utah trip to marry off my best friend, Jessica Brothers, to Adam Clayton.

BUT I'm so happy I got to be a part of their wedding!!! Worth every second and every penny! Thanks to my family for coming up to see me and Jess as well! In the aftermath of great life moments like this weekend, I feel like I can be up for almost any challenge, knowing I have such great people in my life who love me so much and who I can love back, with equal joy.

Auntie Chey- I LOVE MY PRESENT!!!!!!!!!!! THANK YOU!!! And I definitely saved the wrapping paper as legal proof that you have bequeathed me your beautiful Ferdinand the Bull drawing when you die. I feel the honor of such a present :) My family rules.

Job search continues, although I'm starting an hourly, seasonal stint as Wendy Peffercorn, aka a lifeguard at the Upton Hill Park Pool in Arlington. HOORAY FOR PAYCHECKS AND FREE TANS!

My siblings rule. My best friends are the best. My airplane landed safely, and my new bright yellow rain coat was the perfect gift (thanks mom!). I got to go be daring at the Mona pond rope swing Saturday morning with some of my favorite guy friends, the only other thing I wanted to do this weekend besides see my best friend emerge from those temple doors with her hand in Adam's and a blissful smile on her face. Thus today, June 29th, finds me one very happy camper.

The OTHER Pop

My dad calls people whose name he can't remember "Lucky" or "Chief" depending on their gender. He cannot convincingly lie, ever, and as my mom has observed with wicked laughter, his nostrils flare tellingly when he tries!! My dad has hated fish my whole life long, but loves those little scalding-hot pepper flakes on all his other meals (weirdo). Whenever he tries to dance he... well, we'll just say it tickles our funny bone to watch. My dad has been a faithful home teacher his whole life, a feat accomplished by very, very few. His voice gets really small when he has to convey something important, which can either be terrifying because you know you're really in trouble, or awesome because you can feel how close his heart is to his favorite subjects. My dad is the 5th of 6 kids, and maintains a strong love of family; the C________s are a wild and crazy bunch of teddy bears and I love how often we see each other year in and year out.

My dad loves to think outside the box, and his way of conceiving new ideas and pushing the boundaries of thought has left an indelible mark on the minds of his children. He is a completely devoted husband and member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, and the best part of his personality shows forth when you talk to him about these two subjects. He was the first person to show me how to swim the butterfly. He was the maniacal boat driver that left me wary of going tubing forever! (Yet I still love to wakeboard... haha! Can't wreck that out of me! Although... he tried. Once he just left me all by my lonesome in the middle of Lake Mead after a run, afloat in my gear. At twilight. I just had to lay back and talk to God in the sunset for half an hour while he and the kids packed up camp back at the beach. Good times). My dad never lets a good subject for debate rest, particularly if it involves architecture or Mitt Romney.

When I went to Europe in summer '07, it was as if he was always there; everywhere I went I observed cool buildings and artworks that I wished I could show him, because he's so good at pointing out to me what's so ingenious or copycat-errific about them. By the end of that study abroad all my classmates practically missed him, too-- I was unafraid to share with them the lens through which I view the world, which my dad in particular gave me (my co-traveller Ashley just confirmed that to me this weekend- we went to the National Gallery together and she said she wished I had gone with her on her latest trip to Belgium, cuz she missed all the times I would remark, "My dad loves glass walls that do this..." or, "My dad thinks architecture can be inspiring without gargoyles stuck all over it!" etc.) I love him especially for the way he and my mother both raised me with a special eye for things that just shine. For ideas, people, buildings, flavors, sunsets, stories and adventures that make life so dang worthwhile. It is the never-ending search for the new and exciting that I hope to be able to pass on to students, friends, and loved ones throughout my life.

My dad is a great man who works harder and with more honesty and commitment to building the kingdom than anyone I know. I love him. I'm really grateful that he has continually lead our family on a great and glorious path. I know I just showed you this photo, but it really is my favorite, so you get to see it again. I love it because it symbolizes my favorite part of my relationship with my dad- the way he puts me on an equal level with him, allowing me to see the beauties and mysteries of the world as he does, while encouraging me to form good ideas, make good observations, and ask great questions, too.

All My Thoughts on Pop

(Stay away from the whine, Lindsey. Stay away!!) I had to do a couple of things I didn't want to do this week (so I did them with misgivings). Oh well. Living your dreams won't ever come easy, and I think my beginner's luck has just simply, officially, run its course. Notwithstanding, I've just realized I haven't put up a serious post about art in a long while. I've been headed creepily towards the self-absorbed blogs deliciously satirized in seriouslysoblessed! Heaven forbid! So I am putting off my daily resume dispersion for a moment of fun for me, and (hopefully) enjoyment for you as well.

Mom asked me why she recognized that picture of a woman crying in the last post. "Is that famous?" she asked. "Yes, but not as a cartoon," I answered, "It's pop art. By Roy Lichtenstein. He and Andy Warhol and the other Pop artists were so sick of seeing museums buy artwork essentially of nothing, cuz they were entering the art market right after minimalism's heyday, where all the famous art was basically painted boxes and monochrome canvases with one spot or one stupid vertical line on them. So the pop artists decided to paint or sculpt what seemed to them like the last unheralded realm of imagery: popular things.(Hence the name of the art movement). They began to figure out little tongue-in-cheek ways to play with items you see every day, like Campbell's soup labels, Marilyn Monroe's face, or in Roy Lichtenstein's case, comic book illustrations." (Yes, that was pretty much a word-for word summary of my reply to my mother's question.)

Breaking down 20th-century modern art history into its most elemental pieces (which a good art historian should never do but does anyways... small trade secret for ya), avant-garde art went like this after WWI: Cubism (think Picasso, who was one of the first to say, "I've painted beautiful women's faces long enough! Let's mess up her eyes and ears and colors and see what happens!").

Abstract Expressionism (i.e. Jackson Pollock, who said, "Forget women's faces! Let's just look at paint, glorious, paint when I throw it around majestically!").

High modernism (With artists like DC's own Morris Louis, who said, "I'm not even going to throw it around! I'm going to let it slide down the canvases on its own, so I can say I've truly got the essence of painting- canvas and color, no artist's hand involved!").

Minimalism (the aforementioned boxes and stupid vertical lines). Artists like Sol LeWitt decided they didn't want art to look like ANYONE made it anymore. Like a machine could make it instead. Incidentally, Sol LeWitt just completed a wall design that the LA Times art critic calls the Sistine Chapel of America. Read here and feel free to disagree, if you feel so inclined. Me and many other art-worlders certainly do.

Then, THEN, like a cheeky ray of ironic sunlight, came Pop art. Roy Lichtenstein, like many others of his generation (the big Pop names include Robert Indiana, Claes Oldenburg, James Rosenquist, Wayne Theibaud, and the illustrious Mr. Andy Warhol) bounced unsatisfied from style to style in the wakes of these quickly-changing art movements, all of which had the unfortunate and probably very annoying habit of setting up their originators as the saviors and primmadonnas of the art world (this process was helped along by the various dramas that unfolded in the artists' high-roller lives: Pollock, as you know, crashed his car into a tree and died at age 44, taking a female passenger along with him, while Carl Andre, a Minimalist, pushed his wife and fellow artist Ana Mendieta off a balcony to her death, though he denies it. Rubbish.)

Poor, talented, unfamous, and probably drunk, the pop artists essentially decided to scream, Howard Beale-like, "I'm mad as H#%! and I'm not gonna take it anymore!" Enough with this hoity-toityness! I'm tired of stupid lines and inflated egos!

When you look at their art, the thing the pop artists most often hoped you would see lies beyond the familiar, cheap subject matter. Most of the time, they want you to realize, with misgivings, that this ordinary part of your world is now suddenly out of the ordinary, and maybe always has been. You, and they, and most of the people around us, are constantly and completely assaulted by images from the news, ads, packaging, billboards, TV, internet, etc., which all mean very little and affect no lasting change. We are all in a state of being either engrossed in, disgusted by, or amused at the commercialism and mass-media-type images that saturate our cultural landscape. So these Pop artists, they used bright colors, and ginormous canvases, and unusual sculpting materials (Claes Oldenburg created giant bath tubs out of stuffed canvases), all in an effort to poke fun at both the prestigious and pretentious world of fine art up to that point, and also the ubiquitous base of low-class design that formed the very foundation of society's visual atmosphere.

Now, the discomfiting fact is that some of these Pop artists stepped beyond the boundaries of good art (A fledgling Modern Art Historian asserted that there is such a thing as good and bad modern art? Yes, yes she did.) and chose to create works that are pornographic and/or despondent. However, they also simultaneously affected real and lasting change in the landscape of the avant-garde by their ironic and methodical musings on the "normal" experience of life. For that reason I study and admire them, albeit with my own occasional misgivings about their choice of subject matter and mood.

Today, while in the midst of sending out resumes like Obama sends out stimulus money, I wanted to relate to you what I consider to be my prickly future task as a Mormon art historian: weeding through demoralizing trash to find and properly admire the art that is truly our marvelous cultural heritage here and now, at the beginning of the 21st-century. FYI, all of the selected images this post are artworks I consider great, if not classic, cultural gifts. I adore Morris Louis' beautiful "Veils," as he called them, and I just smile and want a sandwich every time I see this^ James Rosenquist. When I told a guy in my ward this week that I plan on studying Modern art, he scoffed, "Huh. The worst art of all time!" I vehemently disagree with him, though I don't know all the reasons why just yet (hence, more school). I just know that I'm here at this time in history for a reason, as were these Pop and Modern and Contemporary artists, and that I will share more feelings and experiences with them than I ever will with some dead Greek who painted wings and lightning bolts on a vase. I like knowing that I can see what my chosen artists saw, and feel what they felt, and I can certainly empathize with their frustration and confusion at modern life's overflow of inane images. THIS is why it does not SUCK to study Modern Art. After all, isn't that the best part of all art, and the whole human experience: being able to connect with other human beings??

From the Top:

Pablo Diego Jose Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno Maria de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santisima Trinidad Ruiz y Picasso. :) Le Reve, 1932

Jackson Pollock, Lavender Mist, 1954

Morris Louis, Dalet Kaf, n.d.

Sol LeWitt, Open Modular Cube, 1966

Roy Lichtenstein, Sunrise, 1965

Andy Warhol, Marilyn Monroe, 1967

James Rosenquist, White Bread, 1964

PS Something in me is screaming to make sure this is understood: All of these are white males. Yes, historically, that is who called the artistic shots. Helen Frankenthaler was actually the true mistress (as in, the feminine version of master) of Color-field Painting, what Morris Louis did, better (they were friends, and Morris benefitted greatly by her lead). There. I said my peace, and all my feminist art historian friends can put down their torches now.

T- minus

14 days!

That's when takes me back to this place - so I can do a lot of this - because, you see, the pink shiny half of this, the wild Lindssica- plans on going here- and getting married for time and all eternity to THIS dude in the orange jacket- :] In 14 days I will also be reunited with The Asian, seen above, and maybe even get some face time with this high school BFF- - though if I don't, it's ok, because in T-minus 4 months or so, I'll get back with to watch that one do a little marrying of her own! (though you didn't hear it from me... yet! Good thing she doesn't read my blog.) The point is, I'm marrying off BFF's left and right, and I couldn't be happier with their brave and wonderful choices. Nor could I be more grateful for cheap airline flights that enable me to witness the ends of era's and the beginnings of eternity all summer long. I sure wish I could have hopped on a plane to be a part of this- though. Congrats, my grown-up sissy Wee! I'm so proud of you! Man, what a big, crazy transitional year for our family!

In other news, unemployment continues. That story, as you know, gets old real fast (cold off the press, if you will), so instead of focusing on the tragedy of it all, I work hard, and remember the sage advice of my "Elder" brother in Florida- "it does NO GOOD to be sad. Doesn't do ANYTHING. Brings YOU down, brings everyone around you down, you get lazy, and eventually get fat like me." Hee hee. Wise old Marticus. I am keeping a job-hunting journal that will enable me to look back with pride and a wry smile when I DO finally get my amazing job. I'm actually kind of glad I get this chance to learn how to really network, interview, and work and pray in the pursuit of a grown-up goal (just let it end in time for me to pay July's rent!). I know these skills will always come in handy and I know that as I exercise faith and work as hard as I possibly can, putting out as many "stones" out there for God to touch, he will eventually and at the perfect moment, bless the applications I send out. I don't doubt that he delights to bless his girls that are giving it their all, with Him always in mind. Thanks, everyone who prays and fasts for me. I feel greatly blessed by the people who are cheering me on as I try to forge a good name and a good future for myself.

In other OTHER news, DC has been the site of several Noah-esque floods the last two weeks (BOOOOO what fun is unemployment if you can't hit up your apartment complex's pool once in a while??) But it did create at least one great memory, as me and roommates Breanna and Marin left sensibility in the dust, er, mud, and went for a little run through the parking lot during a downpour. The streets had turned into large rivers with strong currents, and this is us post-frolic- . I'm pouring water out of my shoe, if you can't tell. Also, I now have the time to run around with a couple other girls (we've christened ourselves the "Day Club" because we're free during the day), enjoying all the arts and tourist sights of big beautiful DC. One of the most intriguing adventures was the annual DC-based arts fair, Artomatic, where the art entries ranged from amateur to perverse to really cool, like this print, entitled, "Four- Leaf Clover of Friends,"

I like it because it looks like they're all praying. Another neat one was this large installation sculpture by a local arts class; they made a forest all out of recycled material! It was so visually compelling!

And that's all for now. A bientot!

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 :)