Mike, this one's for you...

I went to see a Brazilian garage band perform in the District this weekend- it was basically the perfect concert. Small venue, great sound mixing, a perfect amount of crazy-looking costumes(my favorite was the girl's haircut: chin length curly bleached hair, with a single two-inch wide section that extended below her shoulder). They played really HAPPY rock music, reminding me of the Ocean's Eleven soundtrack... see music video below. I was tapping my toe and smiling the whole time. And the whole thing was in Portugese!!! Proving in an unusual way the old traveller's adage that you don't have to speak the same language to enjoy someone's company or understand their heart. (Well, ok, it helped after the concert that they all spoke English. I met the drummer afterwards, who is NINETEEN!!!! And sooo talented! and he sold me a CD).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CFSZWESSUH8

Time ticks on...

I missed someone this week. Not a particular someone, but just a vague, “My gosh! Where IS _____ when you need them??” feeling. Very annoying. I rotated various friends and family members’ faces through my mind, trying to figure out who it was I was missing, and I discovered that I am sadly missing not so much a person as an awful lot of my “signature adventures,” which are only plausible and fun when and IF they include certain beloved people. Ah the drawbacks of moving across the country to explore new things. Gotta forge new "signatures."

STILL, never one to be sensible and focused on the here-and-now (especially not at 4:45 pm on Thursday, still stuck at work and more than 24 hours away from the weekend), I present a random list of Lindsey and _____’s most excellent adventures from back-in-the-day. Guys…. I want you back.

“My gosh! Where is Marcus when you need him??” I would like to magically un-missionary Marcus for a little bit so we can hang out in his poster-covered room. I can make fun of his sword collection until he threatens to impale me, after which we will discuss what archetypes J. K. Rowling used in Harry Potter (Dumbledore=Gandalf=Merlin). Then we’ll march downstairs and sneak fruit snacks right out from under mom’s nose. We think we’re so sly.

“My gosh! Where is Spencer when you need him??” I would like to see Besso in Provo right now, so that I may charitably allow him to borrow my truck, so that he may charitably take out a girl tonight. And then, in preparation for wooing said girl, I will help Spenc color-coordinate his clothes (White shoes do not match brown sweater!!!! You know this!)

“My gosh! Where are my cousins when you need them??” I want to import some extended family, so that we may feast on magical Mormony foods and pass around a plethora of cute babies! And then we can all listen in rapt attention to Breann’s latest boy story. Or sing Broadway. Yeeeaaa… Graduation BBQ at Aunt Betty’s, in T minus one month! I can’t wait!

There are many more faces and signature adventures I could write about, but that would take a day and night and a day, so I’ll stop there. Riding the Chinatown bus home from NY last Sunday, I sat next to the coolest girl, Meredith, who told me about her newest paradigm shift. She’s just turned 27, and realized there are no more excuses. “You can only sit in a bar with your best friends and get hammered so many weekends,” she explained, “before you realize that you need to choose a different path for yourself alone. You can go out on limbs. You can make new mistakes and find new love and live an unexpected life.”

I certainly appreciated the reminder. There are no more excuses. Before I leave DC, I need to:
-Eat at Ben’s Chili Bowl
-Inspect Mt. Vernon for additional National-Treasure-like secret tunnels. Preferably find and kiss Nicolas Cage while I’m at it.
-Run some kind of race- like a 5 or 10k for some idiot cause I’ve never heard of. Ooh I just googled DC runs and I think I found the winner: the Dismal Swamp Stomp Half-Marathon! Now where are my Nike's?
-Go on a glamorous date with a boy to the symphony or something, and make him stammer cuz I look pretty (haha.... pretty different) all dressed up (memo to the judgemental: that’s not being vain, that’s something every girl dreams of. See Ever After, She’s All That, A Walk to Remember, Enchanted, Back to the Future, and every prom picture ever taken as proof)
-Get my hair back to its much nicer summer-blondeness (it’s time to bust out the lemon juice and sit in the sun… come on, spring! Hurry up! Seriously, this East Coast intellectual stimulation is barely worth the miserable morning freezefest)
-Get in a fight or in trouble (preferably have to be rescued)
-Eat a Georgetown cupcake, which is apparently God's gift to sweet-tooths... sweet-teeth?
-Watch a foreign film, or any film, long-distance with Jessica and Sarah (cross-country comrades!)
- Take a walk around the national monuments at twilight, holding someone’s hand
- Climb as high as I can get in the National Cathedral
- Picnic with new friends
- Got to a concert at the 9:30 Club- preferably a rap concert. I love being white. Can I say that if I immediately add that I adore black people? My security guard friends tell me yes… just don’t say it too loudly on the street.
- Pick up weaving or pottery or some really exclusive extinct craft, so that every time I meet people and they ask, “So, do you DO art yourself?” I can put on a serious face and say, “Yes. I am very into potting.” Hahaha. I want to be like Wee.
- Continue to be a nice genuine person, even if being mean or aloof supposedly gets you places.
- Make MONEY!!!
- Eat an entire double batch of oatmeal cookie dough… oh, wait, check! Done!
- Get lost on the subway- check! Double done!
- Go to grad school
-Meet the love of my life

Fin

Recently we had the Israeli filmmaker Ori Gersht come give a lecture with the Embassy of Israel at the Hirshhorn. He's famous for his "Big Bang" films- we have two on view right now. For a minute or two you are watching this "still life" film on a flat screen, of pomegranates, lettuce, or flowers, arranged against a dark background, with a weird rumbling sound going on (the first time I watched it I thought it was just the sound of the escalators behind me). Then, in each film, out of no where, the still life explodes! In slow motion! (though it still makes me jump every time I watch it cuz the rumbling noise turns into a deafening crash). Though you hadn't realized it, the flowers had been rigged with explosives (or in the case of the pomegranate, a bullet is fired off screen and cuts through the fruit, splashing it open). You are left watching the detritus scraps of life float through the air and finally settle on the ground with yawning, rustling bass-level thumps. It's genius.

Vanitas is an old genre of painting dating back to the Northern Renaissance. Artists would paint still life's of perishable items in various states of decay, as a reminder that not all things beautiful are lasting ("beware vanity!" in other words). Ori Gersht recycles that idea, and adds in the unexpected element of unexplained destruction. By doing so, he asks us to contemplate the senseless violence that occurs in our modern society. Today's tragedy is not that things die and decay. Today's tragedy is that people die, morals decay, and beauty and innocence are obliterated before their time, as the result of cruelty, greed, and irrational violence. I've been meaning to show you this one for a while, I think it's such an interesting modern twist on a timeless idea (and you all should know by now how much I like modern twists). Notice in the still how the smoke from the explosion is just creeping up behind the flowers. And you would not believe how cool it is to watch the destruction advance; you see some flowers immediately incinerated while others retain their shapes for a few seconds, before also succumbing. It was delightful to hear the artist speak (he was very reserved and soft-spoken, with an accent) and it was so interesting to watch his behind the scene videos. The production of a Big Bang film takes so much time, and the actual event is so lightning fast in reality. Yet the final version transforms a split-second sadness into something so beautiful, slow, and deliberate. It's one of the most arresting works in the galleries.

NY Adventure Pictures

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2249096&id=17806759&l=698f145871

I went and had mucho adventures in New York this weekend. Here are some pictures of said escapades for you to enjoy. Have a great week! Congrats Lieren and Kent, you're parents!!!!!

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.

How many debts of gratitude do you have?

Arch of Hysteria, Louise Bourgeois, 1993. Bronze

"Art is dancing lessons for the eyes."

-That one actually sprang from my own little mind earlier this week during one of my interpretive guide shifts in the Louise Bourgeois galleries. I've now spent 25+ hours strolling around and around Louise's 65 years worth of works since the exhibition opening. I spend the whole time contemplating the works and then approaching complete strangers, asking for their thoughts and opinions about the show. The visitors have come from every walk of life and have voiced every type of ridiculous or ingenious opinion (my favorite: "Lindsey! That's not a spider, that's the alien Louise must've been talkin to when she made all this junk!"). I've been very grateful for my initial experience of abhorrence for her work; it gives me a point of reference when people just shake their heads and mumble how crazy she is or how disturbed her work feels to them. I can say, "You know, I initially felt that way, too; I hated her works. But as I studied them more, I came to admire at least how she was able to convincingly relay her raw inner emotions. It takes some sort of courage, and a lot of skill, to do that so deftly."


And then I draw their attention to my favorite aspect of Louis Bourgeois' oeuvre; her fluid, constant change between mediums. She started with those roughly carved wooden Personage totems, then skates on over to soft forms made out of plaster and latex in the 60's and then, inexplicably, starts toying with marble. She bounces to installation work after the 70's, when her husband dies, and then glides into soft, sewn, and stuffed works as well as works on paper (drawing, painting) in her late years as she loses dexterity. I like to draw people's attention to how personable she is as together we observe her constant change of focus. Her works have this strange psychic mirror effect; you can identify your own anxieties and shifting life focus in them, as you move amidst the strange shapes. Or at least, I can (yes, I'm a crazy art-obsessed freak. I've turned over to the dark side). I grabbed a couple of jpeg's of some of my favorite works from the show (at the bottomw of the post) so maybe you can flirt with my world too, if you dare. Fee free to tell me anything you think about them. Plus Jayci- inquiring minds want to know your theory why van Gogh painted white roses!!)

I like to think I am teaching people's eyes to dance. Art begs for active, moving viewership; the lines, curves, and angles get you moving, and sometimes their color, or texture, or emotion causes you to pause and marvel. Day after day now, I see people turn their back on the show and get ready to head back out into normal life, and they leave the LB exhibition with their eyes full of wonder, or at least full of thought. I can almost picture the works left behind in the galleries taking a silent bow.

I love my job.

I have been a stressball all week because of worrying about what comes next, though (it's dawned on me that I'm half way through my internship) and also because of the usual lack of sleep and sustenance, which are really starting to worm their way up to the top of my list of "Surprise Features of Adult Life." But today is Saturday, which means I got to sleep in, for the first time in about 4 weeks. YAAAAAY!

I've had so many good adventures lately, I hardly know where to begin.

Random sampling of Lindsey's Wild Life: Lebanese food and funk concert (Alice Russell... youtube her. Great voice!), an accidental encounter with theater-in-the-round (me and a friend were just trying to get to a photography exhibit, but ended up thrust into this little theater, watching half of a play... until it got ridiculously raunchy and we had to leave to get the Spirit back. Phew), driving my roommate's car at 5 am without the headlights (don't ask.), again with the cookie dough for dinner (I didn't have time to grocery shop for over a week! And all I had were baking supplies! I love being a Mormon girl.). Oh and there was a Naval Academy Ball (gotta love those men in uniform... mm.), and the time I helped out with "Artist at Work With Youth" at the Hirshhorn, where local kids come to the museum and a professional artist (Mary Coble) took them through the galleries and then taught them to make their own art; that was fun. I think I'm allergic to kids though (or that it's almost spring time) cuz I was so sneezy and stuffy the whole time.

I'm still continuously stepping out of my comfort zone in the big, scary LDS singles world (I miss my BFF's so much... but I'm so grateful for cell phones, and for all the friends I keep on having hour-long conversations with), and finally, I am still enjoying my continuous, progressive enchantment with the professional world. I really love studying museum culture; I am always asking pesky questions to all of the senior staff at work. I can't help it- I want to know what makes collection storage tick, or how the endowment-soliciting development people maneuver amongst the rich and famous. I really appreciate how the education specialists in my Programs department choose to present the glories of modern and contemporary art to the public, who sometimes embrace, sometimes debase, their work. (Sometimes when I meet people in the galleries who just what to know, "What does this mean?" and I tell them that's half the fun of modern art- whatever they say goes. Artists over the last century have revolutionized the construction and aesthetics of art because they considered the imaginitive process that goes on in the viewers' minds the real artwork.)

I've also been completely absorbed by this book The $12 Million Dollar Stuffed Shark, which explains the inner workings of contemporary art prices, something that mystifies normal economists. I'm fascinated by the genius (and the nerve) of some of these artists. I look forward to trying my mettle in their ranks. Haha- and my last adventure to report: I participated in my ward girl's basketball game this morning. I think it's the second time I've played basketball in my whole life (I found out I don't speak basketball. They kept telling me to box someone in and I had to have someone explain what that means.) For the first time I thought, "Oh my gosh. I really have transitioned into one of those artsy nerd girls on the sidelines!" But I got a foul, that made me proud. And I can still hold my own in swim, volleyball (ish) and football. So there.


There is a Louis Bourgeois drawing entitled, "How Many Debts of Gratitude Do You Have?" and it looks like a Venn diagram, with all of these little bubbles listing people or circumstances for which she is grateful. Mine would be so huge, and behind each of them is God. He gave them to me. My double-sided coins of trials and blessings. Whenever things get too heavy out here (which is often... this place is so crazy!) I just keep on going back to that fact. I'm learning a lot out here and I think God is happy with that. I hope I can continue to find good friends to share my musings with (besides all you wonderful far-away family members and friends). What an adventure. Oh, PS, I gave a talk last week in my 9am sacrament meeting.......... and it was Daylight Savings Time. Guess who's phone didn't change automatically like I thought it would?????? OH YEA BABY! I gave a talk in my uber-professional, suave ward of 27 year old high-and-mighties... in hair that hadn't been washed in two and a half DAYS!!!! (although reports from friends who witnessed my talk assured me it wasn't really apparent). Haha... only me.

from top to bottom and left to right:

Spider, 1997 (that's the one someone thought was an alien)... it's about 12 ft. tall!

Femme Maison (House Woman), 1945-47

How Many Debts of Gratitude Do You Have?, No Date

Lair, 1962 (made of plaster) 14 inches tall (mom wanted to know)

Cell (Twelve Oval Mirrors), 1998

10am is when you come to me, 2008 (drawings on sheets of music paper)

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.

Fury and Joy

Man, what a week, for apparently a lot of us! I have talked to let's see...one, two, three, four, five, SIX friends who, for whatever reasons, are currently enraged about life as they know it. And I have to say that I belonged in that boat for a few scattered hours in the course of this week, too. It's an interesting and rare experience, this fury at the lack or excess of knowledge, money, love, opportunity, decisions, or patience. I told one of them I felt a little cheated by Primary teachers for not warning us how hard adult life is. Stupid dreams. But I wised up in my conversation with another. "Focusing on what you don't have never makes you happy, so you have to choose to look for adventure and beauty in the life God gives you. You'll be ok wherever you go."

Often whenever I read about people who accomplished amazing things against impossible odds it makes me get down on myself; have you ever had that experience? Joseph Hirshhorn, the original and most extensive patron after whom my museum is named, was the twelfth of thirteen children born to dirt-poor Latvian immigrants in the United States. He started work on Wall Street at age thirteen, delivering newspapers, and by the time he was 28 he had formed his own investment group, furthering his wealth into astronomical amounts with a well-timed and ingenious investment in uranium mines in Canada (this being in the middle of the cold war). 28 is 4 and a half years away for me. I have a BA and half an internship to show for myself, hmm :)

It makes me feel better, however, when I look back to the example of the Savior instead of any other. Jesus Christ made his every choice perfectly, and did so with the hope in the back of his mind that his choices, his words, and ultimately his sacrifice would impel all others, every precious person who he helped create, to follow his spotless, sweet example. He did so without money or schooling, but with the help of friends, disciples, and a very holy family. This week, in the middle of considering-- and at some points, raging about-- the adventures of my year #23, I thought about his counsel where he asks me simply, "Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light."

He's pretty neat.

So this week I'm dedicating my post to my enraged friends. To those that are steadfastly crawling towards the semi-visible future they will not abandon. To those who must feebly conjure up a new vision of life, as their current dreams and plans have lead them to the foot of yet another daunting mountain or maybe even a dead end. To my friends who are pounding the pavement, up a creek, banging their head, pushing a boulder up a hill, or lost at sea. You know what the real trick of it all is? I don't think life ever gets perfect! This is as good as it gets!!! Trials and blessings are really two sides of the same coin, which God lent us in the hopes that we will spend it wisely. And with the promise that our Savior will make up the difference when and if we default (oh if only the American banking industry had such a competent benefactor...)

A year or so ago, I had the idea to email the following picture to my little sister, Wee, sans explanation, during a time when she was raging over something or other (methinks it was a boy, or two, that was irking her):

It's lovely, isn't it? I was just going to end the post there, but the art historian in me has gotten a lot more verbose over the last year, so I can't leave it, or you, just hanging. This was painted in 1911, by Franz Marc, roughly contemporary to but I can't remember if he actually was acquainted with Henri Matisse, whose bright green portrait of his wife I showed you last week, down below. They had a similar idea going on in their brains when they painted: use colors less to show reality, more to show emotion. All I get from his colors in The Yellow Cow is joy. Pure, sweet, effulgent JOY! which is why I sent it to Marie (and I think she got the message).

I first came across this image when I was learning how to analyze artworks formally, meaning through the separate forms within a work: line, color, balance, brushstroke energy, etc. I learned that The Yellow Cow is not only arranged so that its colors emulate happiness, but EVERY formal quality of the work is positioned to do so! The brushstroke energy is not paintstakingly realistic, but vibrant, blocky, and slightly childlike (purposefully done, of course, that's why he's called a modern master). The balance of the canvas is irreverent and patterned, like little zigzags. Your eye doesn't come to rest anywhere on the canvas like it would with, say, a peacefully-balanced still life.

Thanks to The Yellow Cow I first conecptualized how an artist could make me look and feel a certain way through his or her artwork. I feel happy looking at The Yellow Cow first because of its colors, but then-- more importantly-- because of the flowing, jaunty curve of the cow's body from tail tip to nose. It's literally a roller coaster for your eyes. Mmm. Delightful. And that big, striking curve is superimposed over energetic, bounding little shapes and lines: pointed mountains, stoid black tree trunks, and a curious white egg thing fitted snugly beneath the cow's leaping hindquarters, which adds an era of danger and fragility to it. PS did you notice the two or three boring cows behind his back feet? Hee hee I want to know why they're not jumping. I think it's because they know they're boring brown, not yellow and violet. And maybe because they're hungry.

Somehow... love is still about studying.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Lovers in the Snow, Roy Moyer, 1980, American Art Museum. While perusing the other Smithsonian art museum's online collection, I was brought to a standstill by this contemporary painting. Always a sucker for unusal compositions, I was captivated by the yawning yet inviting circle of white. I enjoyed the "hunt" my eye had to go on to find the small, innocuous couple in love blending into trees on the side. Why do you think the artist would place them there, instead of in the middle of the painting? Perhaps as if to say,"Keep passing by!...But if you happen to catch a little bit of our tenderness on your way out, we won't care. We've got each other."

Painter's Honeymoon, Lord Frederic Leighton. ca. 1864. Sigh. It's GORGEOUS!

One of my all-time favorite Victorian paintings! While meandering through the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston last spring, I fell in love at first sight with this scene. Apparently, to THIS artist, love quite literally equated with art. Oh what a life he must have lead. Notice the amazing details of her silks, and how her curving body just leads your eye right into their touching cheeks and back down to their clasped hands. LOVE!

The Green Stripe, Henri Matisse, 1905. Statens Museum for Kunst, Copenhagen, Denmark. You may be wondering why this fierce-looking image earned a place on my blog during the love post, well I'll tell you. This is actually one of my favorite legends in art history (I heard it in my Intro to Humanities class, where I was first enchanted by art history's powerful emotions). The Green Stripe is a picture of the artist's wife. How would you like to be rendered that way by your honey? Well, we don't think she minded. See, Henri Matisse was a Fauvist, meaning a "wild beast" of an artist. He was given that name by a critic because of the crazy way he used his colors. He pioneered the use of colors not as they are found in nature, but rather, as symbols of his own personal feelings. Green, as it turns out, was Matisse's color for love! He painted his wifey with a green line down her face because he wanted to show that he loved her. (Incidentally, the Oriental-looking bun and kimono outfit were just a fad. Japan had just recently opened up to Western traders, and French women were crazy about "Japonisme" fashion at the turn of the century). Green's my favorite color, too, Matisse (well, green and grey). I was actually bent on getting an emerald engagement ring for like a year after hearing this story- emeralds, carat for carat, are actually more valuable than diamonds, did you know that?

Happy Single Awareness Day (Happy SAD Day??)

Untitled, Clyfford Still, 1935, The Hirshhorn Museum. Sad indeed. 'Nuff said. Thought I'd throw it in :) I want to know what that slightly anthropomorphic stick on the right side of the canvas is... a memory? A demon? A hat stand?

Indian Love Call, Hassel Smith, 1961, Hirshhorn Museum. I really have no idea what this one's about but it's grey and about Indian love, so I figured I'd throw it in the SAD category. Once a week I go and eat at the Mitisam Native Foods Cafe at the National Museum of the American Indian (the newest Smithsonian museum) and it is just delightful to see all of these different cooking methods and weird types of food (today I had bean succotash, last week I got delicious pumpkin and butternut squash soup with hazelnuts). Apparently their love calls are just as unique as their foods are.

Girl in Satin Dress with Roses, Gelatin Silver Print (aka a very old, senstive photograph) by Gertrude Kasebier. No Date. Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. I decided she's me this season. Real, all dolled up, and waiting patiently.

As you can see, I sat and amused myself today at work by doing a little impromptu research on how artists have depicted love over the ages, since this Saturday is the day I take the GRE and we all know how much I looooooove studying my brains out even after I've graduated college. JK, Saturday's Valentine's Day. AND GRE day. Which means that after I flog my guts out on a $175 test of DEATH, I get to come home to a big, fat, heart-shaped box of chocolates. Also, there is a distinct possibility of me setting my GRE study book and fatty stack of flash cards on fire that evening. Chocolate by firelight. Ah it makes me all warm and fuzzy inside to think about it. If I were an artist, and had to illustrate what I feel love is to me today, it would be a glowing, golden orb spray painted on a subway train: fleeting, but happy and warm, wherever it is. (Obviously, I am on the right side of the museum business. Much better at critiquing others' work than doing my own) Happy V-day, yalls. If you're reading this, chances are you're someone I love.

Tu me manques (French for "I Miss You")

Ok, I had a moment of calm in my ongoing war with Louise Bourgeois. I found a work of hers whose philosophical/aesthetic meaning I can understand, even empathize with (a true first). It was early in her career (as in, the 1940's). She had married her brilliant, Harvard-bred, up-and-coming art historian husband, Robert Goldwater, a few years previously. He had uprooted her from her native France and her (as we shall discover decades later) traumatic family life therein. They lived in New York with three sons and she was developing sculpture as an outlet from the trials of motherhood and baby-boomer-era feminine oppression, as much as she could, being poor and living in a little apartment. Now, I'm going to tell you a hunch I have about Louise Bourgeois, that most of the people running around my museum would disagree with: I think she's famous because she provides a playground for art history's intellectually-ravenous minds. Truly, the professionals consume ideas about her like normal people down their favorite TV shows. I'm mystified when I read artists (normally the most serious and dedicated characters) turn out writing like this whenever they come before the throne of Bourgeois: "My mouth was saying one set of words but my mind was completely thinking another. I show her pictures of my cat Docket. I love my cat. He's my soul mate. I explain this to Louise but she appears to get a little bit gruff... As I left Louise's I wondered if one day someone would visit her and would see a film of me, laughing. I left Louise Bourgeois knowing there was so much more to know."

.... ok, whatever. When I met Twitch (a famous hip hop dancer from So You Think You Can Dance) the only words that came out of my mouth were "Twitch...I love you!" So I guess I can't judge too harshly. Back to the story. During the 40's and also during pretty much every other decade of her life, Louise Bourgeois happened to rub shoulders with some of the greatest minds and most influential artists of the era. Granted, most of the time she hated these people, and her art was a radical departure from their formal norms and their avant-garde ideas (Surrealism was the haven of misogynists, she thought. And Abstract Expressionism was too removed from reality.) As such, she was never famous alongside them. I think the thing that all these fanatical, pH.D.-holding fans of hers today adore so much is how she makes a fascinating case study of one person-- a marginalized housewife squeezed into the very eye of last century's stylistic storm-- developing her own independant style, her own flavor (kind of like Henry Ossawa Tanner, in his Annunciation). What's even more remarkable about her is the way she seems to have anticipated the next decade's artistic developments. She provides a veritable encyclopedia of references to all of the different movements of last century in her morphing, erratic oeuvre (that means her entire list of works). She was always changing her art, in a manner different than everyone around her, and multiple times her work ended up looking a lot like art that would get popular 20 years later! Everyone always wants to know how she did it, and so they dig into her crazy mounds of diaries and start reading about her emotionally abusive dad and her dealings with anxiety and then everybody gets all excited when they match those stories up with sculptures she made later of, oh, say, a knife cutting through the middle of a woman with the torse of a mattress (read into all of that on your own, I'm avoiding the whole 60's era of her work. Shudder.)

Ah I'm starting to sound like THEM. Ok, back to the story. There she is. New York. She carves these large, crude, "personage" sculptures out of 2x4's (when you're in New York, that's what's available I guess). She made them all different because each one represented someone she missed back in France. These life-sized Personages represent her own personal iconography. She wanted to put her memories out into the exterior world as a reminder of people elsewhere, and so made these simple sculptures as a symbol of each person's characteristics as she remembered them. We do the same thing today. For instance, in my cell phone, many of my favorite people's names are not actually listed. Rather, there's Best Bud, JBro, Sarasian, Davey Cuz, HQ, Zmoosy, Racey, Auntie J, and Wee. I create names that only I will remember and understand, usually because it makes me smile, and makes me remember why I love them when they pop up on my caller id.

I missed my friends a lot this week. I'm not yet to the point where I would carve out their effigies and plunge them into my floor and sit among them like batty Bourgeois did above^, but I missed them nevertheless (Thank heaven for cell phones).

Adventure Recount: I went to duPont Circle this week with my boss Milena. It's this way old cute part of DC, and it's where a lot of embassies are. Countires have bought up all the old beautiful buildings and made them their headquarter.. I'll try and go and get pictures next time. It reminded me of Back Bay in Boston, which reminds me of London. Milena and I got to go into this old skinny row-house gallery and preview a show before it opened. I love being her little stooge. Afterwards she directed me to a cute bookstore and told me to go have fun and see the sights. So I went and mingled with the Indie crowd for a while, pretending to be interested in books about Al Gore, Zen, organic cooking, and poetry. That was my biggest adventure of the week.

Please. Not Louise!

Hmm... What art shall I share with you this week?

Well, Maybe I'll just share with you a particular quandry I'm having that I haven't quite thought my way out of just yet.

What, to you, belongs in an art museum? What does it look like? What if I say "sculpture" in particular? What would you would look at and go, "Yea, I could see that in a museum!" Would you conjure up something like this, perhaps?:

Constantin Brancusi's Sleeping Muse I, 1910.
Or, could you stretch your imagination enough to include this in your mind's museum:

Karin Sander's Ostrich Egg, 2005.
And how about this bizarre little arrangement (the artist is the woman in the background):

Louis Bourgeois in front of a sculpture of hers I can't quite remember, sometime in the 60's...

You guessed it. All three reside (or will soon reside) in my museum. The first two are examples I've used in a little educational packet I'm putting together for teachers about all the "magical media," or fantastic things that art can be made of. Brancusi's austere, abstracted Sleeping Muse is made of marble; she was my example of a traditional medium (as of course, you know, marble sculptures date back to the ancient times, all those crazy naked Greeks...). The 2005 work Ostrich Egg is made of... an ostrich egg! Cooked and polished and probably very well looked after by our conservation staff. It sits right next to the Brancusi Muse in the galleries. I think the curators wanted visitors to have to think about the juxtaposition between the two similarly shaped and colored, but expressively different, works.

The third photo is another marble sculpture by a famous, eccentric artist named Louise Bourgeois, now in her 97th year, and still producing expansive, acclaimed works. If literature's archetypes were suddenly real today, Louise would be the perfect candidate for the crazy old witch position. A massive retrospective of her work is coming to the Hirshhorn later this month, taking up the entire 2nd floor until next winter. I'm being trained currently to become an "interpretive guide," basically an undercover tour guide who walks the galleries and slips pieces of art historical information in among the various conversations going on around her. And my only responsibility is the Louise Bourgeois exhibit.

I hate Louise Bourgeios. I'm going to say that flat out. You will probably hear more of why I hate her later, as she is going to be like the guardian demon watching over my internship: always there, always unpleasant. Truly, that marble up there is about as serene and unoffensive as she gets. So why is she in the museum? I'm constantly asking myself that. Why do so many of the art historians and contemporary art buffs--the people I'm looking towards to guide my career and my intellectual development-- adore this old bat? Take a moment to consider her work (keep in mind that the various anatomical parts that come to mind when you look at that marble are EXACTLY what she wanted you to see) and if you have ideas, fire them at me. I'm still trying to come up with my own answer.

Ok, that's it for the art. Onto my life.

First, I can see why people become attatched to these blog things- look at the kind compliments I've gotten:

"U have a... Mark Twain kinda vibe to ur prose. easy and enjoyable line to line. i never feel like I want to read ahead cuz the current sentence is so nice to be with. and dood... seriously...i don't hand out compliments like that just for sh*%$ and giggles." -Johnny Jam is the man. And also, as if you couldn't tell, a great writer himself.

And then there's a certain aunt who writes me to inquire, "So... does Big Man have a brother??" :)

But of course, the winner is still my little sister Marie, who just had this to say: "You look like a brown popsicle in that picture with your coat, Lindsey." hahaha I laugh because it is TRUE.

Well, I feel like I don't have as much to write this time, mostly because it's been less of a get-out-and-explore-the-territory week. I've adopted an ok-I'm-learning-my-way-around-I-think-I-got-this type of attitude. Walking with my chin up, like Obama as he walked underneath the Capitol on his way to the inaguration platform (the black guys I stood in front of were totally inspired when he did that. They loved it.)

I'm still smiling to myself at least once a day out here, as I pass by the most interesting people in the world in downtown DC. There was the Latino prophet on the street corner, reminding me that "hey-soos" was coming. I smiled and thought to myself, "I know. And I'm doing the best I can to be ready for him!" There was the bum who I've seen come into the Hirshhorn every friday to listen to the "gallery talks" we have, which is where the curator or an educator leads a discussion about a work to the gathered public. The bum is very dirty but very respectful and has very thoughtful questions for the speaker. Always stands in the background, or sits up against the wall. I love him.

Then there are my roommates, who are just as kind a duo as I could ask for. Very good at inviting me to things with them, and so I have finally made a couple new friends, and participated in a lot of courageous forays into the DC singles scene, which is... no, I won't say suffocating. That has a negative connotation. Massive? Well, at any rate, it's a lot to take in, just a little fyi for anyone who wants to know what it's like out here for the average LDS single girl. There are what feels like HUNDREDS of wonderful, talented people who every weekend congregate together at homes and restaurants and finally, the grand-daddy of the "see and be scene," the Colonial ward sacrament meetings. There's always a birthday party or scone party or something to go to, where you may chat and find out where people are from, why they're out here, and smile and laugh. It's a new experience to feel so welcomed and so much a stranger at the same time. The people here are very genial, though. And, I might add, extremely garrulous. Even to the point of being obstreperous.

....Oh yea, news. The perspicacious among you may have already guessed: I signed up to take the GRE in two weeks, on Valentine's Day. (the GRE is basically the SAT test for graduate school... only like 100x as hard, with HUNDREDS of vocab words and tricky math questions). Please, please, pray for me. I'm studying my heart out every night for it. My stack of vocab flash cards is an inch high and I have only been through a fourth of the exercises. I'm hoping my good old test taking skills haven't absconded me yet.

And I have work in the morning so away I go. I'm already tired of this grown-up gig. haha! C'est la vie. E hai una buona settimana!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sanctuary, 1988

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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