Elegant Stress

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Annoy a Liberal: Work Hard and Be Happy!

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

Hee hee. Bah Humbug.

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

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

Life is Good.

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

Underdogs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Woot woot.

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

Happy Easter!

Bizzarely, I don't ever remember an Easter before this one where I actually wished and was wished a "Happy Easter," in the same way you wish people a Merry Christmas. I was so appreciative of the many wonderful friends and family (and facebookers :) who offered me this little greeting throughout the week! And I was very grateful to enjoy once more the fantastical feelings of family love as I played with Mom, Dad, Marie, and Katie, who came to visit me starting on General Conference Sunday. I was so happy to watch them explore my East Coast world (although sometimes I felt like a monkey in a zoo-- only my adorable family would find it exciting to accompany me on my morning bus and metro ride to work at 8:30 am. Hee hee!) All throughout the week I showed them what East Coast adventures look like, and I'm thinking we had a rocking time. I felt unusually home-sicky and little girly when they left. Thankfully, today, wonderful today, had a sweet Easter Sabbath church service and dinner with friends that brought me back up to snuff and got me ready for another crazy week in the heart of the nation. The new director of the Hirshhorn starts work tomorrow; I look forward to watching the entire staff buzz around in an uproar. But this is besides the ultimate point I wanted to address in my post this evening.

I just wanted to let you know that I believe in Jesus Christ. I adore him, and am so thankful for his example and ultimately, his sacrifice. I am always amazed at the immediate calmness that floods my tempestuous little soul whenever I turn to the New Testament or Doctrine and Covenants or Book of Mormon to read about his amazingly simple, brave, and compassionate works, and to read his righteous words, spanning from 2,000 years ago in an unenlightened Israel until today. I believe that he asks me to follow him, keep his commandments, and to make and honor covenants with him. And I believe that when we do this, and give our all to him (which will not be a perfect offering, thank heavens he knows that), he will make up the difference, and someday bring us back to our Heavenly Father, the most glorious gift imaginable!! I believe that he rose from the tomb after lying there for three days, and thereby facilitated the eventual resurrection of all mankind. That fact still blows my mind. I look forward to the day when he will bring peace, equity, and truth to our world for the final and most wonderful time.

I often feel like I don't know him enough. I wonder what he would say to me if we sat down to talk, or if he called me like any of my beloved friends do on occasion (haha- tiny sidenote- my roommate Breanna has a friend Jesus, "Hey-zoos," in her phone, and she says she always jumps a little when his name pops up on her caller id. Funny). I once asked my former Stake President in Provo how he thought we could best get to know this Savior who we profess to be the center of our religion. His suggestion was to look for him in the symbolic ordinances of the temple, and to do the kind of works he would be doing in our place. Serve, in other words. Be kind. Be clean. Be smart. Be true. Be humble. Be prayerful. And you will understand who he is all the more. I am grateful for his counsel. I think he's right.

I just wanted to bear my testimony of that particularly wonderful Son of God for a moment. And now, share a work of art with you all:

Gethsemane, James C. Christensen (1942- ), Acrylic on canvas.

"And there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him." Luke 22:43

In an effort to understand the atonement, the artist was taken with the above scripture which states that an angel appeared to Jesus in the garden to strengthen him. Here, Christensen has placed the angel just behind the Christ figure as if he is about to place his hands on the Savior’s head and pronounce a priesthood blessing. The extreme darkness of this painting emphasizes the anguish of the garden experience.
James Christensen, a retired professor of art at Brigham Young University, began his career as an illustrator. Today he is considered one of the premier fantasy artists in the nation.

I mined Google for one of my favorite images of Christ by the artist Ron Richmond, but couldn't find it, and instead found this one and decided it'll do for now. The explanatory text beneath it came from http://www.meridianmagazine.com/arts/010417living2.html There are quite a few other intriguing contemporary images of Christ on that site worth contemplating if you have the time (including the one at the top of this post by my second-coming-BFF Minerva Teichert... even though we were born a century apart, I came to know her last year while I organized her personal papers in the BYU Special Collections Library. She's one of my heros).

BUT. Back to the point. I love this picture of Gethsemane because it isn't pretty. It isn't sweet. For a moment you don't feel there is any light coming out of it. The Savior took upon him the pain, anguish, and punishment of every person in the history "so that he may know how to succor his people." It was not a fun ride for him. In fact, it was the worst ride in history. Someone in conference stated that Christ could have chosen to understand the feelings of all others merely through revelation, if he so desired, but he wanted instead to gain empathy for his children by experiencing all their miseries himself. That is love.

Happy Easter my friends.

I Got Mail

Which means... I get to stay in DC!!! George Washington University, Graduate Class of 2011... ish. I'll work out the details of my future work and school balancing act later. But for now, PARTY!!!! And thankfulness. I feel very much looked after this week.

Here's a couple other pictures of my life in the District and NOVA (which I've only recently figured out means the District of Columbia and NOrthern VirginiA):

At the base of a Rodin sculpture in the Hirshhorn Sculpture Garden

This poster taunts me everyday, plastered to the top of the escalators at my subway stop: that's totally me at the bottom of the heel. Intern. Practically a dirty word. One of these days... I'll move up!

Annual Kite Festival on the Nationa Mall... kind of a dreary day, but still a sight to be seen!

Me and the tiny man-boy drummer from Garotas Suecas (last weekend's Brasilian band)

Me and me roommate Breanna. We're pretty excited. Our FHE activity (I hate saying that word when I'm 23...) was going to see the cherry blossoms at the Jefferson Memorial, and our FHE treats were cupcakes with tiny cherries on them!!! We have a very great, very clever mommy.

Normal face.

Paying homage to T. Jeff and his magnificent Declaration of Independence

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.