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Last weekend in New York was top notch, as usual. I haven't been there during a November for two years, so it was special to get to walk around at that awkward in between phase when people unearth their medium weight jackets and start hunching their shoulders more. There are a few nice things to report. I paid a quick visit to the American Folk Art Museum, where I was introduced to the terrific work of Vestie Davis, a new inspiration.
And I gave myself 30 minutes to breathlessly run through the Bauhaus exhibit at MoMA. A really inadequate time frame, I'm afraid. Of particular interest were all the awesome toys designed by Bauhaus artists, the furniture, and the amazing color studies. Luckily, the show is going on until late January, so I'll have abundant opportunity to visit again (and again). It was fun taking the dog for a walk, and eating Brussels sprouts at Westville, cupcakes at Sweet Revenge, pizza at Motorino, and squash at home. I also presented at a great conference. You can read my riveting impressions of it here if you're interested. Since being back, I'm still trying to shake my quasi-tubercular hacking cough, and starting to think about the realities of packing and moving in the coming weeks. And on an unrelated note, I happened upon these beautiful [but expensive] bird calls, available here.
While I was home in the northern panhandle, I picked a huge bowl full of apples from the tree in the yard. My mother told me to watch out for stepping in deer poop, but the ground is so saturated by their droppings (and the droppings of some bigger creature--elk? bear? *gulp) that it wasn't possible, and I embraced the grossness on the soles of my shoes. For years we thought the apples were no good and left them to the deer. Only now are we realizing how sweet and delicious they are. We've got a lot of apple consuming to do to make up for lost time. The ground where the tree grows is incredibly uneven. Placing a ladder on the ground even remotely close to the tree would be suicide. I took a rake and gently rattled the branches until the apples dangerously rained down on me.
I wanted to make juice with the apples. Mostly apples--a few carrots, one orange. My parents gave their "good" juicer to my brother and his family, but they still had another juicer, which had belonged to my grandmother. Roughly half of the objects in my parents' house once belonged to one grandmother or the other. Case in point: the night table in the room where I sleep has four lamps on it. Two are nondescript store-bought lamps from the past 15 years or so. The other two appear to be antiques of some sort. That's how it goes. Really, you only need one lamp, but four are also fine. So the juicer. My mother remarked how old it was. She said she remembered it from her childhood, though I'm not sure whether the comment was meant to be literal or just kind of a general hyperbolic note about the juicer's age. I'd say it was maybe from the 1960s? the 1970s? The brand was Coronation. The ancient thing still worked like a charm and the juice was delicious (though it didn't prevent me from catching a cold some days later). The tragedy: after pulping up the old juicer, none of us could figure out how to take it apart for cleaning. My father and my sister both had vague memories of it being a difficult endeavor, but couldn't retrace their steps of how they'd cleaned it many years ago. I was sad. My mother shrugged and said that they hadn't used it for years and years anyway. I'd have liked to use it again, though.
My mother took me to see an exhibit of quilts at the [new] public library. Some of them were really extraordinary. It was nice to spend time with her in a civic space and admire the craftsmanship. Above are the two new fabrics and threads that I bought at a local store. I paid a little more than I'd like to have, but I really liked the way they looked. I particularly like the shape of the alligator on the animal print. I also enjoy the look of the old Belgian rug in the background--it reminds me of childhood, which is a fun feeling, one of the many pleasant sentiments I have when going home.
This is a quilt that I just finished for my nephew who's two (almost three).
He's a really smart and funny and awesome kid. He loves the words "maybe," "because," and "medium," and refers to his friends as his "clever friends," though my suspicion is that he's the cleverest in his peer group. As I sewed the quilt, I thought a lot about how I justify (for myself) the use of so much time and effort to work on something that's ultimately unnecessary, or could be acquired for much less time and effort. Why sew a quilt for a kid who already has enough blankets or for whom I could easily purchase a much better made blanket? I mean, my sewing skills have improved significantly, but the whole thing is riddled with imperfections. Ultimately, I think there are two main answers that help me rationalize or understand my new hobby. First off, when I took up sewing this year, I realized that the simple math skills it required (mostly adding and very rudimentary geometry) were very complimentary to the other kinds of thinking I do all day (thinking that requires reading and writing). So in that respect, sewing helped balance out my brain a little bit.
Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, is the idea that making something handmade (albeit imperfect) is a good way to establish and maintain a connection with my little nephew. My sister and her family are real globetrotters, so my nephews periodically have to make adjustments about where they live and the environments they inhabit. Their mobility also means that I don't always see them as frequently as I'd like to. So in that respect, I like the idea that the kid will snuggle up to the blanket when he's far away and maybe remember that I made it for him, and he'll know that I'm thinking about him even if we don't hang out all the time. That seems pretty important.
I'll offer an additional couple of notes about the particular qualities of this blanket I made. Many of the fabrics were ones that my sister brought me from China and Japan, so that's kind of neat. Then there's the many, many imperfections. The stitching is far from perfect. I hand quilted it without any real measurements. The thread lines meander all around, and you can tell which parts I started with and which parts I did last (the last parts look much more practiced). Rather than obsessing over these flaws, I embraced them (probably a productive attitude, since I'm not really accomplished enough to fix a lot of them). They give the blanket character and really show off the fact that it was made by hand by an untrained nonprofessional. Maybe some day my nephew will look back and know that I made it for him while I was busy at school and that this was a labor of love that I worked on during nights after I'd studied all day.
Regarding the size: I'd initially envisioned it a little bit bigger, but as it turned out, I had a piece of batting this big, so that's how big I made it. In retrospect, it's pretty good. I think it's a pretty nice size for a toddler throw blanket, so he can drag it around himself. Secondly, even though he'll outgrow it in a few years, it's chock full of airplanes and robots and dinosaurs, and juvenile print fabrics are sort of meant to be outgrown, too. My sister is very good at saving things and organizing them and taking care of them. I like the idea that in a few years, my nephew will eventually outgrow the blanket, but it'll still be in good enough shape for her to put it aside and save it for memories (or future generations) down the road.
More pictures on flickr.
A few weekends ago my dear Aunt Sheryl came to town to visit some friends of hers. They had me down to dinner one evening, which was a lot of fun. We sat at a picnic table at the beach and watch the sun set very, very slowly, poised to catch a glimpse of the green flash, which I don't think happened, or if it did, I missed it. Still, I haven't concentrated that hard on the setting sun in a long time, so it was a real treat. As it grew dark, we discussed our morbid fears of the ocean. My aunt brought a very peculiar bag of Cheetos with her. They were pretty big--much bigger than the average size of a Cheetos ball (the kind that were sold in a can). And these had an added bonus. Somehow--miraculously--when you ate them, they turned your tongue blue! What an amazing addition.
The next day, Tim came through on his annual water polo trip. He brought his friend Alexis, a pleasant man from Cyprus who spent the better part of the afternoon asleep on my living room floor while Tim and I watched Planet B-Boy, a rad documentary about an international breakdancing competition. We ate at the Chicken Ranch, which I don't think is an especially special place or any reason, but we go there every fall anyway. They brought me some Russian cocoa and a nice jar of orange honey with the honeycomb still intact.
On the day of my exams, Joe gave me this ring, which was sold at AM/PM when The Phantom was coming out. Although it's got a skull on it, I knew it was a good omen for the outcome of the exams. This week a woman on the bus gave me two avocados. Skeleton rings and delicious foods. That's California hospitality for you.
I rigged up a little clothesline to hang the postcards and other treasures that I acquire. It's just two thumbtacks and a little bit of yarn, but it seems to be holding up okay. I found the little clothespins in a toy store/stationery story in Italy (see below). The items are (from L to R): a postcard I picked up from DIA: Beacon during my visit last March, A postcard of a kid and an alligator Alex sent me from D.C. (?), a print from Rifle that Jordan bought last year, and my surprise pizza birthday card that Jordan made me in June.
The aforementioned Chicken Ranch has a huge gumball machine that's filled not just with gumballs, but with clear plastic balls filled with money! I really wanted one, and tried four times (each time only receiving a gross gumball) before giving up. I hope this doesn't constitute a gambling addiction.
It's been such a long time since a Daily Collision update that the possibility of accounting for what's transpired in the past few weeks seems a little daunting. There's so much to say that it's a little paralyzing. I had a great visit with my sister and her family. I took my written comp exams. I attended Le Giornate del Cinema Muto in Pordenone, Italy. And finally, just yesterday, took my oral exam.Two moments strike me as particularly memorable, and their contrast is maybe illustrative of where I find myself in the world today. On the one hand, I feel remarkably capable. I worked so hard for years, focused my time and efforts on my studies, and feel like I've made a big accomplishment. On the other hand, I've still got so much to learn, and I'm maybe not quite equipped for the real world. At least the world of international bathroom protocols. Oh yes, I should also preface this by mentioning/warning that it's a story about me going to the bathroom. Turn away now if you feel that that's not the kind of story for you.
On the whole, the silent film festival in Italy was a dream come true. I was part of a group of young people selected to attend the festival, to encourage, foster, and cultivate our love of the silent cinema so that we can carry on the preservation and scholarly investigations of the generation before us. Awesome. Although it was extremely fun, and I met a lot of wonderful people and saw some great films, the festival's schedule was taxing. 14-16 hours of film screenings a day plus mandatory workshops and lectures about elements of preservation and restoration. Interesting, enriching, and exhausting. One day, frantically dashing from one meeting to another, I stopped to use the bathroom. Someone was in the ladies' room, so my roommate suggested that I use the single-occupancy handicapped facility. No biggie.
At this point, I'll pause to explain my anxieties about public bathrooms in general, and public bathrooms in Europe specifically. I've just never liked them. For me, they're disconcerting in virtually every way. My "life goal" in my high school yearbook was to overcome my fear of public restrooms. Whatever progress I'd made until last week was undone in a heartbeat. As for the unnerving qualities of European bathrooms, travelers will have observed the subtle variety of flushing mechanisms on toilets in different places. As a youngster, I was potty trained while my family was on the go vacationing and working around Western Europe. This meant lots of inconsistencies and surprises when it came to restroom facilities. My mother reports that I was unnerved by the array of flushers we encountered along the way. Some were buttons (located in different places, on the wall, on the toilet, wherever). Some were pull chains. Some were automatic. Some (in poor rest area facilities) didn't really flush so much as gurgle. To help me overcome my discomfort, my mother instituted an informal game which we called "collect the flushers," for which we simply made a mental note of the type of flusher we encountered, and where it was (i.e., a pull chain in Liechtenstein! Exciting!) My fear of encountering unfamilar apparatuses was thus transformed into an enthusiastic quest to find as many varieties as possible and categorize them in my mind. Mom, thanks for being so awesome and imaginative when faced with such a weird kid.
So back to last week, to the handicapped restroom in Northern Italy. I dash in, and immediately discover that I'm not quite sure I understand how the lock on the door works. I test it out once, it opens with ease. This is bad news for a single-occupancy facility that opens out onto a public area. But I've got to go, so I just take the risk. After I go, I realize that I don't know how the toilet flushes. There's a button-like panel on the top of the toilet, and a pull chain dangles nearby. I pull the chain, and instead of a flush, a loud, steady buzzing sound is produced. Instead of flushing the toilet, I've triggered an alarm that indicates "a handicapped person is having an emergency in the bathroom." I press on the panel on the toilet in a last-ditch (unsuccessful) effort to expunge my urine from the bowl before a woman bursts into the bathroom (remember--it was unlocked). She exclaims some things in Italian and then is embarrassed when she does not find a handicapped person on the pot, but me standing awkwardly by the sink with a panicked look on my face. I explain that I can't find the flusher, and also, that I don't know how to make the alarm stop. She is confused. Luckily for her (unluckily for me) her three male colleagues promptly arrive. They eventually shut off the alarm. When I explain that I still need to flush the toilet, they just usher me out and tell me in Italian not to do anything. Ever again. So here I am: traveling internationally and engaging in complex conversations. Yet incapable of correctly using the bathroom.
Contrast this with story number two. This one is brief, but I've got to mention it because for me, it's worth remembering. Yesterday, I had my oral exam. My five member committee asked me how my trip to Italy was (I said great, and obviously omitted the tale of the handicapped bathroom). And then they asked me challenging questions for the next two hours. The questions weren't easy, and they were meant to be wrestled with, but even though they were difficult, I never felt a feeling of antagonism. It felt educational in the best sense of the word. A little uncomfortable, but really illuminating. When we were done talking they sent me into the hall, where I sweated it out for five minutes until they called me back and the chair cheerfully informed me that I'd passed. Oh hooray! Now it's onward to my dissertation. Just for today, I feel like I can achieve anything. Quite possibly even my fear of public restrooms.
I just noticed a message from a fellow flickr user (the_cleof). Apparently she turned one of my drawings into a t-shirt.
It's pretty awesome, though when she posted the above picture, the original illustration went uncredited. Then when I went to grab the above right image from her account for this post, it was protected from download on her page, so I had to take a screenshot of it. Lame.
On the one hand, I'm very happy to see another of my drawings in circulation. On the other hand, I'm feeling a little bit tender and protective of my intellectual property. All it takes is a shout out, and I'm happy to send forth my cartoon dinosaurs to the ends of the earth.
I took a short but fantastic trip to New York this weekend. Although it primarily involved just studying at a different desk, the change of scenery and adjusted study rhythms were really great. In addition to some excellent hang outs and some tasty meals, I was reminded of that charming New York institution of leaving trash/treasure on the sidewalk for other people to take home and make their own. When not fretting over my reading lists, one of the things that I've been thinking about is designing a nice work environment for when I move back to the city. I'd been planning to purchase a desk, but then the other day, surprise! A discarded desk was waiting for me down the block. We carted it home and up the stairs without too much commotion, and I think with some paint and maybe new knobs for fun, it'll do just the trick. For now, it looks pretty good:
Next up, late one night on the way home from Olga's heavy metal show, we happened upon a real gem: two shadowboxes! Only one is depicted here, but they're identical. They used to belong to a girl in the neighborhood named Matilda, and feature some classical little kid scribbles. I'm going to paint them a nice color and start a wunderkammer.
Perhaps most enigmatic of all, late one night while walking Sprout, I spied this old child's school desk sitting on its side. The funny thing about this is that the combo desk/chair design seemed much more reminiscent of my days in middle or high school. The attached desk seems to imply some sort of rigor to the work being done. However, this desk is really tiny. Not sure when it's from--the 1960s? But it seems it's from some mythical bygone era when education for littler kids was regimented and scary. Like schools in the literature of Roald Dahl. Sprout is inexplicably terrified of this desk, and had to be coaxed with kibble to pose with it (for scale).
And now for a valid answer to your valid question: What will you do with an undersized school desk? The answer is this: I'll use it for some other purpose for awhile--a shoe/hat/coat rack/umbrella stand, or an end table, or a bedside table. Then, when I've got a child big enough to sit there, it can be their drawing desk. Or I can just put it back out on the street.
