Faith and pain

I wrote a comment to a blogger who has decided to set out on a life path that no longer includes membership in my church, but I can't bring myself to send it to her. It seemed a little selfish. So I decided it belongs on MY blog, where everything is already presumed to be about me, me, me, and my experiences. A little primer: it's about a spiritual low point I once went through.

I'm so sorry. I've been there, not for as long as you have though. I felt like a canyon had opened up in my heart, I walked like a zombie through church, hearing the same words I had heard before but just letting them all drop into the giant crevice.  

I am happy to report, though, that, through counselling and a good bishop and sheer force of mind, that rift healed over. It did not disappear. I keep the scar hidden, but I know I will have to show it to others some day who also struggled. I accepted the idea of having a shelf to put my questions on. I found answers or at least balm, little by little, which was most certainly extended to me in answer to sweet prayers uttered on my behalf by loving family members, and maybe a little in response to my own strangled prayers. Most importantly, I stomped down on feelings of guilt about certain choices I had made and refused to ever let them spring up again. I go to church and, the much more effective spiritual act for me, I go to the temple. That is my point of rest.

I wish you the best. I don't have anything to say like "Keep trying" or "Have you tried this or read that?" It sounds like you are thoughtful through it all. I hope you feel the love of your Heavenly parents. I have to believe they listen and watch intently. Again, best of luck, and life, and thought. And peace.

One of the most miraculous proofs of the atonement, to me, is the complete erasure of the memory of the pain I felt at that low point. I know I was miserable, I never want to go there again, and Heavenly Father has given me the gift of being UNABLE to go there again. I literally can't remember that pain anymore. Once, I heard a Relief Society president relate almost exactly the same experience, only she was referring to the pain of being single (she was giving her last lesson before getting married. She was 29). Maybe we all reach these low points. Hopefully we all get delete keys pressed for us by a higher power.

I'm so thankful for the sweet gift of deletion. I plan to show that thanks by looking people in the eyes and helping them in their points of pain, if they will let me.

In celebration of Mom

I got to go home and surprise my parents for Thanksgiving and hang with my hilarious cousins. The surprise was a complete success (see videos on Facebook... mom cried for a LONG time, she's so cute!!).

And we shot skeet, learned the Virginia Reel, feasted, hiked, attended the cinema, feasted some more, played an intense game of two-hand touch on the arc of a baseball field (weird), and goofed to our heart's content on the Strip. And through it all, I observed something:

My sweet mom worked tirelessly, without question, without complaint, with joy on her face. For us. For me! What an amazing example of service. She was everywhere in the kitchen on Thanksgiving, simultaneously carving turkeys, mashing potatoes, whipping up gravy, and setting the tables. She somehow LIKED cooking the chili dogs and arranging snacks the next day while we peppered the Dry Lake bed with shotgun shells.  This afternoon, upon popping through Grandma's front door after hiking Lone Mountain, we discovered a large assortment of turkey sandwiches spread along the counter waiting for us, because she knew we'd be hungry. I can't say I'm at her level of automatic serviceable-ness yet. I still want to run around and have fun.

BUT.

 I really want to learn to be like her someday. She makes everything so beautiful.

That is all.

In case you, like me, need the occasional reminder that your problems are small

All images from the NASA Goes Pink Flickr Set. Enjoy!

our ultraviolet sun

Ok this one's not from NASA- I got into a fight with my roommate because I said this is the person I want to meet first in heaven when I die:

I'm sorry I'm not spiritual enough to meet Jesus first. I just think I'll need a primer for His level of majesty, and I happen to think Gene Kelly is the most majestic MORTAL who ever lived and would fill that role marvelously. I stand by my statement!

I had a long lunch/I needed a creative outlet

Found this on an educational tumblr today:

Because I was REALLY bored 

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

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

To Marissa, My Fellow Flying Squirrel

This is Marissa, one of my favorite people on earth:

These are the types of fun things we like to do:

Shake it on the beach.

Jam with Brad Paisley.

Meditate at Foamhenge.

Build "Phonehenge" at Foamhenge.

Etc.

In five days we are running the Richmond Half Marathon together. It's her second, my first, half marathon. Marissa, are you ready? I'm so not. But I'm excited to survive with you :)

This part is just for you, lady. May I present:

LC and MP's Electronic Half-Marathon Survival Kit

Important tips and reminders for this week before our race:

http://www.dailyruns.com/half-marathon-training/

Motivation to cross the finish line:



We will watch it. With ice packs on our legs.

Even funner motivation to cross the finish line:

Have you HEARD of Tebowing? I feel like it should be the pose we strike at our victorious end. Check it: Tebwoing.com 

Motivation of the food variety:

What was the name of that shake place right across from that tattoo-filled burger place we ate at with he-who-shall-not-be-named? Yea. I'm thinking it's time to hit up that shake place.

Let's try to get this stuck in our heads before the race:



No. Scratch that. This has a quicker beats per minute, will keep us uptempo:



I still have both of these wristbands fyi, and I will be bringing them so we can coordinate our style (although we still need some tutu's...). I think we can safely cross "bring our game face" off the list if we come with these expressions on our faces:

Heights.

I said it on FB and I'll say it again here: HOLY $@#!



In my next life, when I have been blessed with coordination and no fear of heights, I will do this all day long.

I love watching people live out their craziest dreams. :)

Specifically for Milan, but you can enjoy, too.

1. Because her style reminds me of you- girly but sassy (See also: her King of Anything video). Do you own a good leather jacket? I feel like you should
2. Because you're an art historian and I can't remember if you appreciate dance or not but MY little art historian heart loves her dancing
3. Just Because

Happy (ha.) Monday, everyone!

Gmail baby love

Came home late last night to this picture in my inbox:

Nothing like best friends and best friends' beautiful babies to make a good day even better. I can't wait to spoil this baby in person!!!!!!!!!!! December? Yes. So help me...

PS Olivia's cuddled up in a silky bamboo fiber blankie that for some reason makes Jess think of me. I love that. I didn't even buy it for her, although I wish I had! The weather's turned cold now which makes me renew my obsessive love for all things blankie. This might be the winter I finally buy myself a snuggie and turn into one of those crazy people who talk about their awesome snuggies all the time. Guys, I tried one on once, it was AMAZING. Oh my gosh this winter is gonna be so good. Now, the only question is: go classic snuggie or panda variety:

?

Urbanoutfitters.com: giving twenty-somethings a huge variety of retarded crap to blow their student loans on and wear to the Wall Street protest, since 2011.

Sculpture and I are having a moment

Tony Cragg. Outspan. 2008.

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony Cragg. Elbow. 2008.

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

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

Newman's Adam. 1952. Tate.

Still's 1948-C. 1948. Hirshhorn.

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

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

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

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

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

Random Pretty Things 2

These two by the artist Andy Goldsworthy, in his book, TIME

---------------------------------------------------------------






















These two "dirty nerdy" by the graphic artist cargocollective

------------------------------------------------

These two from the Walls Notebook (a picture book of funky walls for you to draw on... neat idea!)

Why Art and I Have Separated

I know some of you are thinking, "Where's the art?? You've sold out to the narcissistic MAN, Lindsey! Once upon a time I came to your blog to drink deeply from the well of art historical knowledge that is your half-a-master's degree, and you have UTTERLY failed me!! I'm making plans to purchase a Thomas Kinkade print right now to go over my couch."

NOOOOOOOOOOO! For many, many, MANY reasons, I hope that is not what you are thinking. Please, let's try to work this out.

The problem on my end is, art history at the Master's level is NOT the same quaint art history that you read about at your coffee table. While I'm still looking at many of the same things you'll see in the pretty books you buy in museum gift shop (amazing, mind-blowing works of art like Seurat's La Grande Jatte or this lovely, lonesome little guy by Degas):

I'm concurrently reading craploads of sentences like THIS about the artworks:

The supra-natural artifice form that Baudelaire declares to act as the appearance of modernity is, to Seurat, instead the displacement of the natural from the body to inorganic accoutrements.

and,

In this light, the countess's obsessive self-representations are less an index of narcissism-although they are that too-than a demonstration of a radical alienation that collapses the distinction between subjecthood and objecthood.

Yea. You should be THANKING me for not filling my blog with that. You want to know the worst part? Those aren't the actual sentences I read for homework. Those are my NOTES about my homework. Those are my attempts at SUMMARIZING what other brilliant art historians have said. 

So. Let's go back to the main problem between us, which is, as far as I can see, really just a failure to communicate. I assure you, my heart is in the right place; I want to learn about art and history and turn around and tell you about it, but I JUST DON'T KNOW how to shrink it down into an actual, interesting discussion topic.

Even worse, I'm getting to the point where I can't look at art without having the above matrix of analytical thoughts pop into my brain. Only the faintest click of, "That's pretty," or "Love it!" registers to me anymore before I start looking for signs of the subjugation of femininity to the classic reticence of the priviledged male bourgeois gaze in the planar regions of the foreground of the painting or, possibly, in the absence of a male presence in the painting, as we would expect to see in Degas's ballet works.

I'm going to be on the hunt this weekend for pedagogical inspiration. Let's all pray I find it. :) And that I never again use the word pedagogical on this blog without a really, REALLY legit excuse. Ok be back soon.

Salute to the greatest part of Summer

Poor guitars. Yay for Youtube!