Art nerds, unite!!

So I survived my first official College Art Association Conference. I didn't meet any famous people, but I did get to hear quite a few of em speak. YAY! I heard Mary Garrard and Norma Broude give talks at one session, Anna Chave at another. I heard about the Afterlife of Jackson Pollock (summary- he rocked and the last word has DEFINITELY not been written about him yet, the paintings that were found of his are probably authentic, and his choice of media is staggeringly normal). I heard about Minimalism (only part that really sticks out is the pilgrimmage-like nature of its exhibitions and it's ephasis on ethereal language). I heard about Cezanne and about bringing the feminism to non-women-centered topics.

I saw a very old art nerd guy almost lose it when his slides jammed.I saw a lot of TERRIBLE quality slides. now, I may be an image quality snob because of my job, but seriously. Very Prominent Scholars should not ever show crooked ass slides! And there should definitely be a course called Powerpoint for Artnerds. Because Jesus Christ, people, show me the image, not a stupid ass template that is all sorts of cheesy and have the actual image be thiiiiis big on the screen. Also, don't lie to me and tell me the color is off because there are so many projectors being used on miles of extension cords. Bull shit, Louise!

And by the way, do you know what I do? I am the Digital Media Intern. Sounds fancy pants, doesn't it? I help to create the digital slide collection at my fair school, but I mostly just fart around in filemaker pro and surf lotsa internet. I can also shoot if the spirit moves me, and tomorrow I won't be doing jack but studying for my LAST! MIDTERM! EVAH!!

I'm almost to the end of the internet, by the way. send me pages, I get bored easily!

And I've come to a conclusion about how to differentiate between the artists and the nerds in a crowd like that at CAA. Shoes. Apparently, art nerds only wear ugly shoes. This is not to say that artists don't, but it's all about the intention. I think the artists are purposely being different, but the nerds, well, they just kind of don't get it.

But don't expect me to give in to that, no sireee!! Cute shoes, they must be mine! But I like to toe the line between artist and art nerd. Artist in the summer, nerd in the winter. Ad cute shoes wearer, the whole year long, baby!

And then, evidently, not for another week or so...

yeah, I have no excuse for my absense. I am sorry though. I could lie and say that I was hesitant to sign off on my 70th entry, erasing the sophomorically funny 69 on my hit count. That might not be the truth though...

I must say in my defense that I've mentally written a few entries. One details the strange phenomenon by which a person thinks that I am weird and in response, I start to act. really. weird. This person is in school with me, and I'm not so sure why she thinks I'm wierd. She's never even read my thesis, or this blog!! And dude, she's from Kansas, she don't know from weird!!

Another was an update on my cousin. I forget which pseudonym I used for him, damn! Anyway, he's still, erm, free. Nothing came of my aunt lying to his shrink and saying that she heard him threatening someone. I so agree with Teacher lady, who suggested that the wrong person would be institutionalized in that situation. *check out her blog, especially the hilarious account of grandparents at midterms! LOVE!!!*

Anyhow, I am sorry that I have not updated. Not to you, really, my four or five faithful. But sorry to myself, maybe, for being lazy and crappy. Will do better!

But starting Wednesday, I am going to Boston for the college art association annual conference. A great big enclave of art nerds! I'll be in heaven! Also, I may die if I actually meet anyone famous. Which was another tale that is all composed...up here. When I met the painter on whom I am writing my thesis and TOTALLY FUCKING CHOKED. Now she has a reason to think that I am weird.

Because everyone updates on Mondays!

I know, I'm still not great at the whole updating regularly thing. Sorry. But things are Busy! and Crazy! With an emphasis on the crazy.

Okay, here's the part where Lauren admits to being from a totally fucked up extended family and further confirms the white-trash roots that the whole art nerdery are just a ruse, a RUUUUSE intended to hide the roots, the ROOOOOTS.

Anyway. My cousin, for the purposes of this story let's call him Charles, he is crazy. Like agitated, diagnosed by amatuer psychiatrist/art nerd me as bipolar. He dreams very big. for example, he has two inventions in the works right now. But he's just annoying nuts, not the rip the heads off small animals, eating children kind of nuts. Anyway, my aunt, who is nuts as well, has decided to have him committed.

The problem? That he's not THAT KIND OF CRAZY. He is annoying, for sure. He gets very agitated and talks and talks and talks. He stutters and yells and screams, he runs his mouth like no one else. But really, he isn't the sort of crazy that he needs to be committed. Now, I've looked into it, and he doesn't meet any of the criteria. He hasn't threatened himself or anyone else, as I said, not that kind of crazy. Also, my aunt? I am 100% convinced that she killed my mom-mom. (That is a story for another day, but it involves one sick mom-mom in hospice care for lung cancer and more than one shot of morphine and sleeping pills.) It should also be noted that the story is at least a third-hand account of my aunt's side of the story.

My mom tells me this, and in turn, I tell Kev. Both of our reactions contained a lot of false-start sentences, But? wha? how? huh? And my mom is upset because, without getting into it too much, Charles used to be a cop and was fired and has some sort of civil suit against them or something, and my mom thinks that the cops have it in for him. I think all that was a long time ago, and the cops who would theoretically take him to a hospital if he magically fit any sort of criteria for an involutary committment, which of course, he doesn't, but if he did, well then the cops would be extra rough with him and hurt him or something.

But this is all beside the point, because you can't commit someone for being annoying!! And can I just say that this aunt has tried this before, when my other cousin, her daughter dated a black guy?! Yes, she thought that the fact that her daughter was dating someone not of her race was grounds for her committment! THE HELL?

Yes, people, welcome to my life. I have precious little culture in my life, and it was all learned in school. I feel like I should point out that my own family, my nuclear family, my mom, dad and sister, are quite normal. Kev and his side, even moreso. And this says nothing of the cousin who is 40 and has to hide the fact that he lives with his girlfriend, the one who doesn't work, boyfriend doesn't work, and somehow still owns a house, or the one who is shockingly normal just with kinda bratty kids.

Oh that's right, people. The floodgates have opened, you will now hear about the trashiness that is my extended family. Sit back on the sofa on your porch and grab a beer from the outdoor refrigerator. This'll be better than NASCAR!!

Kanye H Christ!

So I love love love Kanye West. His songs are pretty good. But what I really like about him is his ability to piss people off.

This is my new favorite website, found through the blog of Teacher Lady (see sidebar). She's awesome, but Jesus of the Week is just... brilliant!! sidenote- Jesus of the moment, click to resurrect?! Oh hell yeah!

Anyway, back to Kanye. I don't get why people are so offended by him. Is it that he seems to honestly think he has more in common with the big JC than most people? Cause I find the messianic posturing of the jerk off from Creed to be much more distasteful. (have to give credit where credit is due, except that I forget who said this first). Anyway, Creed guy = supreme douchebag. Kanye, of course, has an ego the size of a continent, but, dude, hello? so does Bono.

I have a feeling people think that the cover of Rolling Stone is derogatory in some way. Maybe it is. But why is that forbidden? I know, I know, I'm not naive, but why can't people try to not immediately get their backs up when a religious image is used.

Andres Serrano's Piss Christ is a pretty image till you know it's all submerged in piss and whatnot. (But that got all messy because the general God-fearing public didn't want their tax dollars being spent on sacriledge) And Chris Ofili's Holy Virgin Mary, famously called the Dung Painting involved public funds, too (the awfully Fascist sounding attempt by Rudy Giuliani to withdraw said funds from the Brooklyn museum, to be specific). But the dung is the least offensive part of the painting. I wonder why no one mentioned all the floating naughty bits or the fact that the Virgin is wearing a Lil Kim inspired outfit. The hell? Oh, those little round things that the painting is resting on? Thar's the poo! And a little bit on the painting. Oh, and the whole show it was part of (Sensation, a show of the collection of British rich dude and patron of the arts Charles Saatchi) was quite provocative.

I know, short digression into my own geeky world, but it's relevant, in some way, I promise. All I'm saying is, why are religious images special? Why can't Kanye identify himself with Christ, he ain't hurting anyone! Why all the annoyance? I think God has a sense of humor. I also think that Kanye has a humongous ego, but hell, I wish I had that kind of confidence in myself. He's an interesting guy, and because he pointed out, uh, the TRUTH on the Hurricane Katrina TV thingy, he's criticized as being a jerk. I say let him play Jesus on the cover of Rolling Stone. Whatever! Why all the judging?

Been a long time

Jesus, a whole week without a post! How will my reader in the singular go on?

I have no excuse. School is busy, but that's nothing new. Although my one class keeps switching between Thursday and Tuesday. I am so confused. I'm doing the readings tonight, and I think the class is tomorrow. I think.

The class is in Contemporary Realism. Woo hoo, that just might be my "boutique area" for my prelims. See, in the exams, which are one part written and one part oral, yes, ORAL, for fuck's sake, there is your broad area, and then you pick a more specialized area and that's your boutique area. My broad area is from 1945 to the present, and my boutique area is going to be either contemporary realism or women artists. I dunno. And those few sentences are about all I know about these exams. Which are the SCARIEST. FUCKING. THING. EVAH!

Yes, I tend to freak out a little like that, when I think about 'em. So anyway, Contemporary Realism, in which I am able to make a presentation and write another paper about Lisa Yuskavage. Oh hell yes. And this is a class with Advisor part 2, and I have her attention next week, when her deadline has passed. Comforting to know that profs write up till the last minute, too.

What else is on my plate for this semester? Well, I have Images in the Age of Augustus, which will focus on the possibilities of visual propaganda in Augustan images. Totally perfect for me in my ever-expanding dorkitude for all things HBO-series related. And I am also taking a class called Depicting Race. It's taught by a new prof who is only here for a year. Too bad, because she has pretty much done more for me in terms of professional networking stuff and also dissertation advice in one email that Advisormus prime has done in, oh, four years. I'll be writing about Kara Walker, who is totally interesting and got to play the good witch in Annie Liebowitz's Wizard of Oz spread for Vogue. (Check out the rest of the images, too!) PS, my birthday is coming up, and the December 2005 edition of american Vogue is not too expensive!

So that's what I'll be doing this semester. Also, I'll be finishing up my thesis, and writing a paper about Ana Mendieta in the eighties. That? is from last semester. Ouch, thank goodness for spring break.

jerk-off cats, part deux

A visual tour of our cat-infested house.

This is Blanche. She hates us all. She will not be petted, but she will crap on a chair when we're about to have company. But, if you talk to her, she purrs and shows her belly. Her ample, substantial belly.









Hariette. The original gansta. Our number one cat. She thinks she's a dog. She goes outside for a few minutes at the time, and is likely the reason we have fleas all the damn time. She licks my feet when I get out of the shower. Don't know why, but she starts knocking on the bathroom door as soon as the water turns off.



Rufus. He's our gentle cutie boy. He treats Hariette like she's his mother, kneading on her belly like he's nursing. It's sweet and a little sick. He isn't fat at all, but is very heavy on his feet. The floor shakes when he walks past.










Sammy. He is originally Kev's cat, but has taken an on-again, off-again interest in me now. Mostly he only likes me when he's mad at Kev. He's a big guy, strong and muscular. Has a very weak meow/cry, and sounds a lot like Beaker from the Muppets. He's grown into his ears, thankfully.







And Sophia Stinkerbell. This image in black and white, but it's the best example of the half-face I referenced yesterday. She is a pain in the ass! But she's also sweet and lovey sometimes too. Has a strange habit of running into a room and announcing herself with a very demanding MEOW!! Especially not cute at 3 am.




The first three cats are my parents' cats. But since we live with them, hello, we have five cats. Jesus, that's a lot. I am destined to be an old lady with lots of cats. But given how cute they all are, I think I'm okay with that.

Stray cat blues

Not to copy off of Andrew's post about his squicked-out cats, but mine are driving me crazy too. Not the least of my complaints is the way they seem to be perpetually contracting fleas, even in the dead of winter. How this keeps happening is beyond me. We put Frontline on them, we wait the prescribed 24 hours, and then we vaccuum. But inevitably, about a month later, we see them scratching. Then I pick one, whichever is closest and least likely to swing at me, and roll over his/her back with a lint roller. Black flecks = fleas. Black commas = flea "dirt". ICK!

So I drive to the vet or to petsmart, depending if I caught the little jerks before 7pm (when the vet closes). And I buy about a jillion dollars worth of Frontline Plus. And I vow every time that I'm just going to order it ahead of time from drsfostersmith.com and have it for them. It's less expensive from them too, gah! get with it, Lauren. But I'm sure that they won't get fleas in the wintertime. oh, silly, trusting girl.

As I was typing that last paragraph out, I felt a push on my laptop. Sophia was headbutting the screen, with her crazy half-face. Will come back with pictures, swear.

Know how lazy I am?

Sometimes, when I am commenting on someone's blog that has word verification...

I keep hitting enter until I get a letter combination that isn't too hard.

That's bad, I know.

Oh, and there is word verification on my blog, I know that too.

In honor of HBO...

The movie channel seems to be running Alexander and Troy on a constant loop. Now, there's nothing like a really cheesy studio movie about mythology/history. But do they have to make them so preposterously easy to make fun of?

I think it's hilarious that in Troy everyone has a vaguely Irish accent to match Colin Farrell. I mean, I guess it's as arbitrary as the generally-accepted British accent used in most movies about the ancient world. But there are few things more laughable than Angelina Jolie's, um, accent? in Troy. Almost as bad as Aaliyah's Transylvanian mockery in Queen of the Damned.

Oh, wait, there is Brad Pitt's awful attempt at a British accent. Victory is yoooooooowah's. Takyyyke it! Sigh.

The boy

Went shopping with my mom and Liam today. Yes, we had him again. I am not really sure why, but we'll go with it.

Anyway, we were sitting on a bench while my mom checked out. It was a long wait, because two gentlemen in front of us found the self-check extremely challenging. What I don't get is why people with no discernable computer skills attempt this. There are professionals who can help you, old people!

Anyway, it's funny how free people feel to come up to you and talk to you when you have a baby with you. I don't usually correct people when they assume he's mine, because really, what's the difference? But what really amazes me is how people say how big he is. Yes, he's fat, but he's a baby, and he's 3 inches off the charts in height. So he looks older than 7 months. Also, it's usually older people, who, I'm sorry, don't have the frame of reference anymore. Whatever grandma. Yes, he's well fed. He sleeps through the night, since the first day he came home from the hospital, too. And he's really bright. I don't care if he does wear size 18 months clothes!

Which he does, cause damn that kid is fahhhht! See, I'm allowed to say that. You, old lady in the supermarket, are not.

Bed's too big without you...

In honor of Miss Doxie's incoherent though hysterical entry about sleep and the lack thereof, I thought I might recount for my legions of readers the very strange things I do in my sleep. And I shall pepper this entry with embarrassing things about my loved ones. Because it'll make me feel better that you all know I am not alone in the craziness.

I talk in my sleep. A lot. Mostly, I either agree or disagree with myself right before I fall completely asleep. My sister brought this to my attention, and Kev confirms it. I seem to just mumble when I talk in my sleep. This is not so with Kev. He has full-fledged conversations when he's asleep. I heard him once, from the living room, telling Rob to turn his amp down, and all of them to get their shit together. Yeah, he was dreaming about practice.

It gets interesting, having another talker in bed with you. We never know who started the conversation, but a lot of times we wake up already talking to each other.

I also cry in my sleep. This happens a lot, too. Especially when I am all stressed out. It's usually in response to the people in my dreams being mean to me. Either that, or a loved one dies in my dream. Waking up sobbing is a strange thing, to be honest. Because I usually have no idea why I'm crying. It's just happening and there I am. Weird.

My sister, on the other hand, walks in her sleep. I've never done this. She also eats in her sleep. Once, when she came home from college, she sleep-walked to the kitchen and took damn near everything out of the fridge. She put broccoli in the microwave and left milk and many other things out on the counter. My mom insisted she was either drunk or high. Our mom only ever accused us of being high when we weren't.

Sooooo, anyone want to share a hotel room with me?? Anyone?

Baby Zoo

I have a nephew. His name is Liam, and he is 7 months old. He's super cute, even when he's teething. He has three teeth already. How do I know this, you may ask? Well, yesterday, when I was watching him, he bit me. Well, okay, it was my fault. I was feeding him bananas on my finger. What, I'm not that much of an idiot that I'd feed him a whole banana! So I got some mush on my finger and gave that to him. Monkey-man, he ate it up! But he also bit me, and pinched me. I screamed a little. Okay, I screamed a lot. And he cried. That I don't get, he knows he bit me. And here I am comforting him!!

I can't wait till he's a little older, so we can go to the zoo. I don't particularly like the zoo, I mean, I get a little sad for the animals. Though maybe there are some animals who are better off in West Philadelphia than in the wild. Still though.

The zoo is a weird place. No straws? Uh, that's just strange. Kev and I bring our own straws. Don't worry, we don't then give them to the monkeys or the naked mole rats. I have a naked mole rat, a stuffed animal one, on the sofa. I could have been Kim Possible this year for Halloween, if I had planned ahead. I digress.

Back to the zoo. Once, while Kev and I and some friends visited the zoo, we toured the small mammals house. I was paused at the doorway, reading a sign, when SMACK! a little bird flew right into the glass. Boom, dead. Well, we told a maintenance man. Kev later reflected that he half-thought they'd come out with a little tiny stretcher and take the poor birdy to the hospital. Nothing of the sort happened. The maintenance guy unceremoniously swept the bird up with his dustpan and broom! No birdy ER, I guess that's only for the exotic birds. Gah!

That same day, we saw two varieties of primates mating, which, ew! And some boy ducks gang-banging a girl duck. Nasty! No means no!

Come to think of it, maybe I shouldn't take Liam to the zoo. I think I'm still too traumatized from the last time!

Thirty seven minutes, five seconds

That's how long the phone call from Advisor lasted. Jesus! And I had a print out of my paper, and he had his with his (I'm sure) extensive notes. And we read together, page by page. And my paper? is fifty pages long, of text. More like ninety to a hundred with illustrations, bibliography, etc. Anyway.

Yeah, most of the criticism is word switching. I understand the need, but really, are all the changes necessary? It makes you feel like you can't write when someone is poring over every stinking word.

Only two big philosophical changes to make, and I can hand it into Deuce. Yessss! And I graduate in May and I will have a large party, and you all will be invited. Because my God, it has taken long enough to warrant some vicarious debauchery and maybe even some presents.

You can't see me right now, but I'm wiggling my eyebrows mischievously.

Breaking News

This just in to laurentheartnerd: Advisor has finally read my thesis. Will call me today to discuss some minor changes to be made before handing it over to Second Advisor.

I presume that this means he's done with it. YAY! And then I'll punch it up a little more, send it to Second Advisor, and hound her for it. I'm taking a class with her this semester, it's not like she'll forget me or anything. Though I fear she doesn't like me too much. Gah, that sucks. She's pretty well connected. I should send her something. Something alcoholic. Maybe a whole basket of cheer. She's a wild woman. She looks like a Sisters of St. Francis nun. But she drinks like a priest.

Seriously, no one thought ACOUSTIKITTY was funny but me? It's a cat. With a microphone in it. And they thought it would work! Cats as spies, honestly!

Acoustikitty

For the love of God, please click on this link.

If you want to, listen to the show first. Skip ahead to minute 28. TRUST ME, it's friggin hilarious.

Evidently our government, in its supreme wisdom and foresight, saw fit to try and train cats to be spies. Am I alone in thinking this is fucking hilarious?! I mean, really, did no one on the committee have a cat? You can't train felines to do much more than crap in a box. How could they be CIA operatives?

I sat there as I listened to the report, and tried to imagine Sam or Sophia with a microphone embedded in their backs. Cat spies, come on! My cats have the attention span of a crouton, and they are about as sharp. They lick their asses, people! With their TONGUES.

I don't think that bitch on Alias does that. Or maybe she does. All I know about her is that she seemingly has the gestational period of an elephant.

In order to approach not-sucking-ness...

I give you another entry. I know, I know, I just wrote yesterday. That's right, people, new leaf, is turned over!

Today Kev and I went out for a day on the town. This consisted of returning things, again, to Sam Ash. I hate that store, even more so now because they took advantage of me not knowing much about guitar gear and selling me some "necessary accessories" for the tuner that I bought for Kev. THAT HE BIG. FAT. DID. NOT. NEED!! Usually I just hate it for the suckitude that is standing there trying not to look scared while Kev deliberates over strings, listening to five 13 year old boys with no intention of buying anything fumble over the progression of "Come As You Are". So... iritating. One reason I quit my bass lessons, other than the searing-hot pain in my wrist, is the annoyance I got with the sounds of my own practicing. But one of the first songs I learned? was "Come As You Are".

We also mailed Kev's brother his birthday present. It will get to him, someday, and hopefully he'll like his Johnny Cash in-action figure and his Daily Bugle Press tshirt.

Then we dined at a fantastic little bistro, aka Subway. Now, I know my friend Andrew would probably disapprove of the whole chain-fast-food shitshack aspect of it, but I was hurting for a Veggie hoagie on Italian bread with lettuce, tomato, pickles, cucumbers, xtra carrots and sweet peppers with oil and vinegar. And American cheese, though next time I may try provolone. Gah, the sammy, it was so so good. And Kev got some 12 inch monstrosity with toasted cheesy italian herb rolly and italian meats, which I had to sample. Good stuff as well.

I also guzzled a big Coke, which lead to some problems when Kev and I split up to do boy and girl shopping, respectively. I went to Ross, Kev hit the comic store. A funny aside, we called Kev's friend Jerry to see where this store was, but as Jer was explaining where, we looked out Subway's window to see the sign, prominently displayed RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET!

Anyway, so I'm shopping in Ross, have a cool new big-girl school bag (to replace the one-shoulder backpack that I've been using for a little while now) and a book on Spanish architect Gaudi. tried to make the accent mark, but it didn't work, sorry senor! The the whole big ass cup hits my kidneys full force. Had to ask to use the rest room, what am I, 6? But the timing was good, and as I exited the single most tidy and clean public restroom, like, ever, I saw Kev milling around.

It wouldn't have been a shopping trip without an impulse buy by one of us, so Kev has a new nap blankey, a really soft material almost like terry cloth, but not so much that it makes my blood run cold to touch it. And it's got Spiderman on it. I know, you're jealous. My new nap blankey is just a cute red plaid print, but it's like a mini down-esque comforter, yay!

I resisted the urge to buy a very cute (and very coordinating with my new rapper-coat and green hat, gloves and scarf) green purse, because while it was deeply discounted, it was still 50 dollars. I'd like to move out of my parents' basement someday, so something's gotta give, right?

All in all, we had a lovely day. And all with Kev at the helm of his giant boat of a car, the 1979 *the same year I was born!!* Impala. It's so cool and way badass. I should write an entry about it. Or at least post a picture. But enough for now, I think my typing is keeping Kev awake...

This blog.... sucks

Extra points to anyone who can guess my reference. A hint: my parents' orange cat is named after the female lead in this movie.

But it does suck, this blog, and I vow to update more frequently and, most importantly, more interestingly in the content area.

2006 is going to be a big year. Kev and I have been getting serious about budgeting (says she who is typing on a brand new computer whilst copying photos from the computer that she JUST PAID OFF) and our debt will be substantially paid down by September, me thinks.

That is good, because by the end of the year, we want to be on the road to house hunting. My God. Because while it's nice to live with my parents in a completely private apartment, with little rent, it doesn't help with the street cred.

Also, we'll be buying a new car. Someday I might recount the Santa Fe fiasco for you, but not today, for this entry is about reversing the suckage.

Kev's brother is getting married this year. As is his friend Jim. Jim and his lady are, I believe, moving to a house around the corner from the house I grew up in. Which is two blocks away from the house we are in now. That is exciting, because all our friends have moved far away from the Northeast. Not incredibly far away, but enough that we often feel excluded from the so. phil club, and they NEVER WANT TO HANG OUT UP HERE. So it's nice that some are staying, because we probably are too.

This is the year that I'll graduate with my MA, finally. Also, my coursework will be finished in May. So it's time for me to get my CV together and get me some courses to teach. And study for the prelims.

My GOD the prelims. They're not until next Spring, but I will be fretting them starting in June. It's like the bar for art nerds. And there's an oral component, Jesus Christ! Nothing scarier or more stutter-inducing to me than this prospect!

This blog did suck, but it will be better, I promise. I will write more about things other than school and art. I will regale my 2 readers with tales of yore, my stoner days, when I took the SATS high and got a nearly perfect verbal score, when I met my husband, when we were in Italy and my sister threw up in the Boboli gardens.

All these things come to those who read this here blog. But right now, I have more pictures to move. My Dell is limping along on the task. Poor old girl.

Dear Cats

Dear Sam:

I love you so much. But just because I accidentally left the roll of paper towels out after cleaning last night, doesn't mean I have a need for absorbent shreds of paper all over my nice chair. Thanks for taking care of this.

And Sophia:

Dude, there's no reason to meow, loudly, from underneath the bed when my alarm goes off. I heard it, thanks. And the percussive noises you make with the boxspring? Not so cute at 7 am. Just so you know.

Love, that lady who feeds you nasty canned food and brushes your hair from the chairs every day.

Speaking of parties

So I'm wondering what to bring for Andrew's party. BTW, I would totally link to his blog, it's sheepshank.blogspot.com, but on the new computer, this function is not present. Anyway, so what to bring?

I made mozzarella balls last time and they all went. Maybe I'll do those again. Can't remember if this is a dinner thang or more snacky picky type foods. I'll have to ask.

I love these parties. It's like we're grown ups or something. Living as I do in my parents' basement apartment, that's sometimes hard to come by. But this is our year, 2006, when Kev and Lauren get a house. I'll be able to work more starting in the summer, and I hope to have some classes lined up soon. That would rock, I just can't wait to get my own classes. It's so scary/exciting/happy/daunting!

It's beginning to look a bit like Christmas

Only a bit though, at least in our basement dwelling. I'm finished my work for the semester, and I've returned a shite load of books to the library. See, honey, we do have a floor! And I've gone through my bookshelves and edited my collection a bit more. I'm sure I'll get some sort of books for presents this year, and I need room for em. Also, it's not very feng shui to have no space for more information. So declutter your bookcases!

Tonight I believe I will put up the tree. Also, I will vaccuum so I can wrap presents, because no one wants cat hair on the tape of their packages. I love to give presents. So much fun! It's better for me than getting them. I mean, I won't turn down a gift, no way, but I like giving them even better. I still have a bit of a list to shop for, including Kev's parents, his sister, my mom and my aunt. I have plans for all but Kev's mom and sister, but they're pretty easy to please. Not worried about it too much.

I do, however, hate to wrap presents. People say, but you are an artist (which, uh, I haven't produced anything in months, am I really?) or you went to art school, but people? they do not teach you how to wrap presents there, oh no. Too busy with the perspective and the craft and all that. And let's not forget the extensice education in pretentious art speak, either.

This week will be a whirlwind of activity, capped off with Andrew's annual Christmas Eve Eve party. I hope to have their wedding present done for them by then. Because they only got married in October. I hope they don't mind, but I doubt they will.

Thanks a lot, readers...

Sheesh, I had to write that paper myself! Dude! But now it's handed in, and my prof will have to just deal with the incoherence. I have not a clue what I said, but in a nutshell, I just wrote some things about Michelangelo that I get that no one else does. hehehehehe, or something. Now it's just one more paper left to punch up, and I am freeeee!

So, anyone know about Caravaggio's working practice? anyone? Beuller? (that looks funny, is that how it's spelled?)

Any takers?

If anyone would like to write me a paper about Michelangelo and Neoplatonic thought, and how his worldview changed from his youth to his old age, I'd be willing to pay. Like a lot of money.

Isn't funny how when the end is in sight, you get kiiiiiinda lazy?

Anyway, please contact me if you want to make some extra holiday cash...

Presentation tomorrow!

Ahhhh, and it's only 11:30 and my script is done. Holy crap! It feels nice. I can read it tomorrow at work and find the places where I forgot important sentence components, like verbs. Happens, I guess.

An aside-- Charlie Brown's Christmas special was on tonight. I went to my sister's to watch it with her and Liam, and my mom and me. SOOOO fun, he seemed to actually watch and enjoy it. The little man has taste, right!

Okay that's it, I can't type any more, my hands = icy. Good night, and think of me between the hours of 3-5. I hope my outfit looks cute! Since that's what it's all about anyway...

Holy freak-out, Batman!

Well, I am still in school. That application for an extension was for a whole year, not a semester. Thank God! And now it's on to writing my papers that are actually due in the next week and a half. I feel so much better, and I've totally been slacking on my Caravaggio pres, which I shouldn't, because it's on Wednesday. But it's only a 10 pager, that's not too harsh.

What's that? You want to know what my pres will be about? Well, it's about the painting technique that Caravaggio used. I'll be dealing with the ground he painted on as well as the way he composed. As a matter of fact, this pres will show how, in a way, he's related to Leonardo (da Vinci, which is not, Dan Brown, his middle name- and any self-respecting art historian would know that, duh- he was a bastard child without a last name, from the town of Vinci. That's it, my new new last name is da philadelphia. I mean, what a jack ass. And this Robert Langdon character speaks neither French nor ITalian? PLEASE! I can read both, and I'm modern/contemporary! But I digress)

Then I have a paper about Michelangelo and Neoplatonism, I think? And then I'll fix up my pres for a paper, and then get cracking on my Directed Research paper. Everything except the DR is due by the 14th, when I will finally get to put up my Christmas tree, yay!

That's the thing about being in school, you see. Finals really cut in to my Christmas revelry. So, I am glad that this is my last Christmas as a student. Woo ha!

Sigh

After what seems like a month of ups and downs, highs and lows, being certain this frickin thesis will be in and then positive I'll never finish, it seems I need some more time. I've done my second draft, well, will be completely finished, read over the whole effin paper to make sure it's still coherent again, today. And I'll give it to advisormus prime today. But he's going away for the weekend, and advisor part deux wants his approval before she'll read it again. Great! So I'll be a few days long of the deadline.

Now, nothing, I repeat, nothing will stand in the way of me having that paper in to the Graduate Office by the New Year. But I live now in mortal fear of Graduate Chair, who normally loves me and likes my writing style a great deal more than my advisors, prime and deux. And of having to go in front of Grad Committee and explaining why it took so freaking long and hey, can I please not take my comps again? I think the problem is that I applied for Graduation last year, before I even had written a word. Why, I dunno. Overly optimistic, I guess.

So, maybe I'll be going back to school next semester. I am really angry with myself right now. But there isn't too much more I can do about it. I'll just have to finish up my work for this semester and see what happens. Stupid, stupid.

so much for no blogging

but it will be a short n'. It's not all that bad, the assvice. I mean, there are a lot of pages without writing on them. A lot more than with primary advisor man. Only two majorly rewritable sections. Provided the advisors can look it over this weekend, and give their okay, I can hopefully hand it in on Wednesday the 7th. And I'm not too too worried about the presentation in my Caravaggio class. It's about technique, about which a lot of my classmates know not a thing. I'll enlighten them, sure!

So you know I'm not dead, for now anyway.

Can't talk, revising

Got a dreaded email from my second advisor. Seems she is even more full of assvice than the first one. You remember him, he knows not of Smoke on the Water. Anyway, lotsa work and 10 days to do it. You will not hear from me. I may be dead. But if not, I will update on December 7, a day that will live in infamy not for the whole Pearl Harbor thing, but for me doing a presentation and handing in my thesis on the very same day. Jesus Christ, I hope I don't die!

Oh, and the Mac? is here and very beauteous.

What to do?

Soooo, there are two conferences that I'm submitting abstracts to, try and get one of them. They are two weeks apart, one in Boston, one in Montreal. The one in Boston is on humor in art; the one in Montreal is on shifting borders. This one's call for papers mentions images of death as a possible topic.

My dilemma- I have a paper that works for both of them! But I think it would be cheesy and possibly even tacky to submit the same paper (done two different ways, of course) to different conferences. I think I'd rather just send the Boston one and hope and pray. Maybe? I dunno. Again, the suggestion box is open, people.

Help!, she whines.

just whatever

I've become addicted to tracking our mac. It's on its way from Shanghai. Can't wait till she gets here!! The internet is crazy. In many ways, it's a very good an useful tool. But things like this drive me a little nutso.

Also, my boss has been looking at info on thyroid cancer, since she's got it. And it's making her a little crazy too. Because really, all you have to read is one off stastic, and you're completely freaked out. She's so scared, and I don't really blame her. But we try to joke about it, and make light of the situation. We figure that when she can put "Cancer Survivor" behind her name, her work will sell like hotcakes. Specially since she's only 29. She's a cool boss, she gives me lots of room to just work on my own and stuff. Very nice, much better than the last assignment I had, jeeee-sus! AWFUL students, scatterbrained profs, and I had to do all the final grades myself. F that!

Nerdiness on the horizon

Tomorrow I'm going to a symposium on the exhibition Alice Neel's Women, at the National Museum for Women in the Arts. nimwah. :) I can't waaaaait! And it's a subject that I have studied before. It'll be fun. Going with Steph (my friend from school, not my sister) and Lori. My school wife. Well, my only wife, really. We're pretty much always together, we study sort of the same thing, etc etc.

In December or January, I want to go with Andrew, aka sheepshank to see Raymond Pettibon's drawings at the whitney. And I want to go to the Met with my mom and sister to see their giant frickin tree and creche. Ginormous and intense.

Bless you, Mac

We just ordered Kev his own computer. Thank God! He got an iMac, and I am way excited about it. I use a Mac at work, and now I'm pretty much converted to the greatness that is Mac, too. But I'll be really happy to have my Dell back and all to myself. Take off his big friggin programs, and his music, and all our pictures. There's a lot of stuff on this baby. And I just finished paying it off, too. I'll be able to take the computer to school with me, ya know, it being portable and all.

And if anyone knows anything about setting up a business, like for tax purposes, let me know? Kev-dog wants to set up No Problem records, officially. And maybe Uncle Sam will cough up some dough for our new, beautiful, 20-inch Imac with 1.5 G of RAM and a whopping 250G hard drive (and that's without any upgrades!) When did I turn into such a geek??

addendum part deux

there are some STUPID STUPID word changes that he erased. There's also an instance where the phone must have rung, because what's there is not even a word, let alone a sentence.

I will not have my students hate me as I do mein Maester. grumble grumble

addendum

If they're within the vicinity of what you're talking about, that's helpful, too.

I've lost my secret decoder ring.

A note to all teachers

Comments are nice. Nicer still if they're legible.

Revising, revising

So today I set to work revising my thesis. I hope to be able to give it right back on Friday, or Monday possibly. And I'll get my other advisor to look it over during the break too. I am getting closer.

I've looked over the notes, and there are a record 6 pages without writing on them. Wow. And a lot of the writing of his is not major, dude, you have to address this, this and this. It's crossing out my words and putting in rather similar ones. Argh. I'll say it again, I will never impress him. Nevah!!

I just have to brush up on my feminist literature, no big. And throw in some other artists, no problem. I can't wait to be done! Cause when I'm done, I'm getting a massage. And maybe a facial too. I'm developing a hump in my neck from craning to read/write/edit/catalog/do all the things art historians do. I've noticed that almost all of use wear glasses or contacts. Could it be because we sit in the dark looking at slides and trying to take comprehensible notes?? Maybe?

Oh, and go Birds!

Who, me, hip??

So this meeting with my advisor on Friday, yeah, it was 45 minutes long. Good

Christ!! And he pretty much just read me his comments. Dude, I can read!! There

was this one passage, I loved it, where I reacted to an

oft-quoted statement on Lisa's work (the artist that I'm

writing about. Since I've spent a year on this project, I 've

decided that I can call her by her first name). The critic

said that he felt like a rock fan "parsing nuances on a guitar

strum." After I looked up what parsing meant (sorta like examining)I took issue with it. Because, well, that is completely dumb to me, there's nothing

subtle about her work, at all. So I likened her technique, in

the conclusion of chapter one, to a riff. And I began a

sentence with the phrase, "Like the opening chords to Smoke on

the Water...yadayada art speak pretensious...." And he didn't

know what I was talking about. HE doesn't know this song!!

He's in his late forties, I think, maybe early fifties. GOD!

Even if you don't know what it's called, you know that riff.

He said that I can't assume my audience is as hip as I am.

Uh, dude, the song, it's about 30 years old!! I give up, I will never impress him. Sigh

Tick tock

I'm sitting here on the computer, like a doofus, waiting on an auction to end. It's for Kev, it's not even for me. Some kind of comic book thingy, I dunno.

Tomorrow I have a meeting with my advisor. He's read my thesis and wants to discuss. Jee-sus. I hope it's not bad. I feel like the last chapter is bad, personally. My dream reaction would be for him to say, hey, that last chapter, cut it. Expand this, this and this, and call it a day. I am so on whatever he says though. I just hope the criticism isn't too biting! Cause crying in front of your advisor is not something you should do. Twice.

Oh, and I'd like to send out a big FUCK YOU to PGW. There is no gas in our house. The stove was broken, so my parents bought a new one. Well, it wasn't the actual stove, we have a gas problem. So the gas co. came out yesterday, turned it off and now... brr! It's cold in here, and there's not hot water. I am going to look so sexy tomorrow without showering! Maybe I'll become a hippy....

Not-so-smooth Criminal

Just apparently stole about 20 dollars worth of merchandice from Target. I didn't even mean to!! I bought a couple of plastic storage bins for our ever expanding collection of crap. And I evidently threw some socks and a STUPID Eagles Christmas hat that Kevin drove me nuts looking for last year. So I get all my stuff home and realize, hey there's stuff in this bin. Not bagged. Well, must have just fallen out. NOOOOO!! The cashier didn't ring me up!!

I feel really guilty. The guard even checked my stuff, and he didn't catch it either! It wasn't intentional, honestly! I feel like I should go back, but I had to wash the socks, I need them for tomorrow. They're gonna think I'm crazy. My mom said to give the money to charity. Don't need a lecture, but what do you think I should do??

If any of my faithful readers can help me...

I need a topic for my Art of the 80's directed research paper. So far, I got NOTHING! Maybe I'll write on Eric Fischl, he's fun and pornish. I'm also going to check out a show that happened in 1990 called High and Low: Modern Art and Popular Culture. See what pops up. But for now, the suggestion box is open and being checked regularly...

Sniff sniff snort

Ugh. I am a really bad wife. Like really bad. What have I done, you ask? Well, see, I kind of made fun of Kev while he was sick. "You're not sick," I say, "you just have a cold." And he complained a bit more, and I made him help me clean the house. Bad, right?

I got mine. I am now sick too. Only me of the retarded sinuses, my cold turned immediately to a sinus infection. Right now, the stabbing facial pains are gone, but I am congested and generally under-water feeling. And my breathing sounds like Darth Vader.

All because I made fun of him. I mean, yeah, guys are usually pussies when it comes to being sick. And I always get a cold around this time of year. But I am not going to make any more fun of my wonderful husband. Well, at least not about being sick. Even though he wasn't sick, he just had the sniffles. I, on the other hand, was sick sick.

It's in!

It's in. I handed my thesis to my advisor yesterday. Wow, did it feel good. I'm not happy happy with the third chapter, but that's what revisions are for. It feels like a weight has been lifted. And I feared a reaction along the lines of, uhhhh, you think 5 weeks is enough to do all this?! But it wasn't bad. Advisor says it's doable. So I will probably graduate in January. THANK GOD!

Sorry this post is neither funny nor intellectual, my faithful readers. No sexy pictures either. But I'm too busy taking it easy this weekend to think. ;)

When I write, it looks like this...

See the duster? When I am stumped, I clean. And the Chicago Manual is never far from me.














Sam looks a little annoyed, doesn't he? He was just attacking my papers before I took this. What a stinker!













Someone has a lil caffeine problem, no?










You may be wondering why I have two copies of the same book. Well, I had one, and it fell behind my desk. Tangled up in the wires as it was, I couldn't find it. Unfortunately, it had since gone out of print. Temple's library doesn't have it (big surprise). And since about half my images came from it, I needed it badly. So I go the gallery where the show was. I ask. I have to flirt just a little. And I get to buy it again. Thaaaaaanks, gallery dude. Thought it'd be free. Anyway, when I moved my desk out of the corner, lo and behold! It fell out of the sky!



I am suprised that I am still married, I must say. I guess I have to thank Kev in my acknowledgements, don't I?

What am I writing about right now?

I am writing about the Penthouse pictures. What fun!! I am detailing their reception, and the polarization of the audience that they entail. I am writing about working practice and sources and all kinds of fun stuff. Want to see Figures 16-20? I know you do, so
here...

One down, two to go!!

Chapters that is. Of my thesis. That's right, I've completed a chapter, my friends. Yaaay-ah! I feel better, a little lighter. I can't wait to hand it in. I think I can do so by Wednesday. Definitely by the weekend, so I can just hang out and be happy happy happy at Andrew's wedding. And I have to buy something to wear. I hope this damn rain lets up, because outdoor hippy wedding + rain = naked, woodstock-style mudsliding. I don't think that's the wedding Nicole is dreaming of, though.

Wish me luck with finishing!

Ahh, Caravaggio

This fine soggy morning, I am going up to NYC to see some Caravaggios. Caravaggio was a painter in the 17th century, and was something of a rock star way before rock was even born. He was your typical romantic artist, homosexual, violent type, or at least that's how they portray them in the media (then and now). Anyway, the Met has three Caravaggios, I think. There are only 7 in the whole US, so that's a pretty strong concentration.

We're going to meet our prof up there around 2 and get a lecture. But I'm up this early because Kev called at 7am. I thought there was something to worry about. He just thought we were leaving mega early. No way. 10am is much better. But I'm up, so I'm cleaning and obviously blogging. Because unlike normal people, who would just charge right through tasks they don't like, I prolong the pain through procrastination. Hello, thesis? But I digress.

There is some kind of terror alert for the subways today. So I'm thinking it's not the best time to try and navigate the system. Springing for a cab sounds like a better idea to me. But if I do that, have the terrorists won? I don't care, I just don't wanna die. And since Kev and I got into an accident in his pops' car, and I managed to be the only one who got hurt, I figure I shouldn't take chances.

Yet another non art post, but...

Man, did I get hurt yesterday. I fell down the steps. It was bad. And it was because I was fighting with my mother. (Remember, I still live with my mom, even though I'm married?) Well, arguing. Well, she was nagging me and I was mocking what she had just said to me and it made no sense. If you know my mom, you know what I mean.

So anyway, I must have missed a step. Or five. I dunno, all I remember was yelling, then flying, then falling. To stop myself, I used my foot. Which is now bruised and swollen and very owy. And I have a bruise on my ass. I narrowly avoided a support column in the basement. Maybe 2 inches separated me from knocking myself unconscious and killing my brain. I wonder if I impaired my brain function if they'd cancel my student loans. I don't think I should have to pay them back if all the schooling leaked out in a freak accident. But I digress.

So I sit here typing this while I should be at a Pearl Jam concert. That kind of sucks. A lot. But I couldn't drive there, park in South Philly at John's house, and then walk to the subway. I couldn't take it! So I'm sorry about that.

There's a lesson to be learned here. I'm probably not going to stop fighting with my mom, not with her frustrating knack of nagging me for not being exactly like her. But at least now I know to keep the arguments stationary. Now I'm going to ice my ankle again. Cause owwwwwwww.

I don't want my blog to be a cheesy internet thing place, but..

Please go here. It's... just... the weirdest!

http://www.badgerbadgerbadger.com/

MUSHROOM MUSHROOM!

Another something fun

Please go here. Ridiculous!

Me and Bobby D.

JPoops brings up a good point in his comment. Now, logically, I know I shouldn't. I kind of don't even want to. But I have to admit it, I HATE BOB DYLAN!

Maybe hate is the wrong word. I don't like him though. I know I should. I like a lot of bands that like him, that are even directly influenced by him. I am the wife of a musician, for God's sake! And a pretentious art nerd besides! And the reason is so superficial. It's...

The VOICE. Good God, to me, it's like nails on a chalkboard. Or a drunk goose barking at me. I can admit that he has great songs, and his writing is impeccable. But sweet merciful crap, I do not want to hear him sing. At all. Ever.

Now, this isn't intended to be mean to Mr. Dylan. I respect him, a lot. But I don't like him. Or love him, which is what, it seems, I am supposed to do. I dunno. Maybe I have horrible taste in music. Judge for yourself in the previous entry. But I can't make myself like him. I know I'm wrong, so don't lecture me in the comments that you big fat won't leave.

Bad Lauren, bad bad Lauren.

Lamenting the bygone record

At the gathering of art nerds party, Kevin and I got into a conversation with a professor of mine. She's super cool, an archaeologist who specializes in Rome. I take lots of classes with her because Rome is my favorite art to look at. Not study as much as to look at it. So cool! But I digress.

She said that on her dig this summer in France, she was saddened by the proliferation of Ipods that the students brought. She couldn't listen to the music they were bobbing their heads to. Of the something-teen diggers, only 3 didn't have ipods.

This lead to the discussion of people buying songs instead of CDs. Kev's new job was the lead-in for that. Which then lead to the discussion of why bands don't make ALBUMS anymore. So I started thinking of albums that I love to listen to, straight through, no skips. I came up with a list, a short one.

Anything by the Beatles after Revolver (which may be my favorite)
David Bowie-- Ziggy Stardust
Nirvana Unplugged-- stripped bare and raw. Not overproduced
Def Leppard-- Hysteria. Totally overproduced. Subject of a gushy blog entry of mine.
Green Day-- might be ruining my street cred here, (as if Def Leppard didn't kill it anyway) but this is a NEW album and it's good.
Police-- Synchronicity-- reminds me of being little and listening to my dad's big ass headphones
Weezer- pinkerton.

Care to add any? NB-- this is not to say that I don't enjoy mix CDs, and I'd take an Ipod if someone else is buying. But it's kind of sad that fewer and fewer bands are making real records any more. It's not a bad medium, ya know?

A gathering of the art nerds

Last night we had our annual party for the department at the Graduate Chair's house. As always, it was fun. Lots of chi chi food, wine as far as the eye can see, and for the first time this year, pretentious beers supplied by the Pattersteins. (that's me and Kev).

It's kind of strange to hang out with people who usually you have a completely different relationship with. We hang out, us students, occasionally, but throw the profs in as well and it can get a little weird. But this year, the profs cleared out early. Probably because it rained and it was crowded in the house. We were all afraid of knocking art off the walls, I'm sure.

It was fun, this year, because we are all a big group and we can talk about things other than classes and art. Kev even found one of the girls' boyfriends and they talked about their bands, which have eerie similarities, and photo. I always feel kind of bad for him, because he doesn't feel all that comfortable with the people from school. I wouldn't feel all that comfortable walking in to a semi-established group, either. I am socially retarded, but at least I know these people already.

We talked until we got kicked out, about 11:30. The drive back to the great Northeast was scary, because I had to drive my handles like a sack of potatoes Taurus on Lincoln then Kelly drive. Think tight curves, small lanes and assholes screaming past at 55 miles per hour in a 25 zone. SCARY! On the way home, we stopped at McDonalds. I am not sophisticated, and these parties always confirm this for me.

At the Christmas party last year, I brought chicken fingers. Of course they went, and faster than the tofu containing pasta junk, and the bitter salads. I felt vindicated when the son of one of our professors remarked, "Oh, thank God, real food!" and scarfed down six fingers himself. Sophisticated, Lauren is not. But pleasing to the masses, and that's something.

Check this out, it's fun

This may be old as the internet itself, but it cracks me up every time. Could be cause the cat looks a little like Sammyboy.

...and I dance dance dance. and I dance dance dance

The infamous thesis and my favorite kind of collectible

So I've given myself a deadline. Two weeks and I have to hand a draft in to my advisor. This can work, I can do this. Really, it's like 3 twenty page papers. I write 20 page papers in a weekend. I even wrote one in a day when the pope died the weekend I was writing a presentation. Thank god it was on Alice Neel, whose work I've already written on. Because, if you know me in real life, you know that I am a popafanatic. I love cheesy Catholic memoribilia, especially Papal kitsch. My good friend Lori at school studied in Rome this semester. She bought me a fan-freakin-tastic keychain. Gold ring, with a disc that spins. On one side, JP deuce. On the other, Benny. How cool is that? I have to remember to Krazy glue JP, his puffy sticker fell off.

Anyway, I think I should get presents when I graduate in December. I also think I deserve a party. A big one. Not huge, like in a hall. That'll be in 2019, when I finally write my dissertation and graduate with a PhD. Kev says then he'll buy me a brooch and a scarf. Standard art historian wear. But I think I deserve something for getting my Masters. I want to go to a spa. Get a massage, a facial and a pedicure.

I got a facial for the first time in May for our anniversary. Spent some money (paper) to get relaxed. Great present, by the way. And if my skin is clear, I won't look so much like a student. And then I will be more respected, dare I say more professional? My jerk ass advisor kind of suggested me wearing suits and stuff when I TA's for him last semester. NO fuckin way! I am an artiste, or at least an artistic soul, and I am not dressing like a lawyer to gain respect. Anyway, so the expense of a facial is justified, and I think I could even use some student loan money to pay for it. Don't you?

Sorry about the security measures

I've enabled word verification, in order that I not get spammed again. BOOO! I love comments, I want everyone to comment on my blog. But not spammers. Spam is the worst type of suck. Suckity suck suck. So the word verification is an extra step and sort of a hassle, but hopefully it will only discourage spammers and not my loyal readers ;)

You people and the washing of the hands!

I'll never understand how people have guests at their house and don't have soap in their bathrooms. Honestly! I mean, fine, you don't wash your hands after peeing or pooping, but give your guests the opportunity to choose! And it's really really gross when you don't. Gross!!

When I am in the house after I realize that they don't wash their hands, I'm all skeeved out. I just get a CSI image of feces streaked sofas and countertops.

This entry is so nasty. But it's my greatest pet peeve in life. eeeeeeeeew! The title is a quote from my cousin Gianna, who is seven. She is from a house that also has no soap in the bathrooms. She seems to think we, as a family, have some kind of problem with washing our hands. I don't know about that...

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!

Wow, just read over the post from last night. Holy crap, I ramble when I'm hurting! What was I doing on the computer anyway?

This weekend is my last one of freedom before school starts. It's the weekend of the christening. Oh boy! Our family and the baby's dad's family in one place, let the white trash wars begin! Of course, there are so many more of them than us, but what we lack in numbers we more than make up for in intensity. Can't wait to update all my rabid readers about this!

School's In! Let the pain begin!

I went to campus today for an introductory breakfast that I helped to organize. We have a student group within the department. It's silly, the acronym is GAHO (graduate art history organization) and we pronounce it gay-ho. I don't think everyone understood when we named it. I said, "G-A-H-O, gay-ho". And they all say, "There it is, our name" to which I reply, "No guys, gay. ho" Do they expect us to be taken seriously with that name? Really?

Anyway, it's funny that later on in the day, I got a migraine. I've been migraine free for about a month now. It's school, it just has to be! Migraines are awful, and I wouldn't wish them on the girl who was supposed to be my best friend in high school who convinced me how much I still really cared for this guy I had been seeing and got me to admit it and tell him and then we went out again and then one night I caught her at my boyfriends house and he was cheating on me with this girl who was totally busted looking and had a big broad back and a hairy upper lip. I mean, I don't think I'm gorgeous or anything, but seriously, I am wayyyy hotter than her. Yeah, so I wouldn't wish the pain of a migraine on her, even.

It makes me sad sometimes that I have to take preventative medicine for my migraines. By the way, don't call them headaches to a person who gets them. I get headaches occasionally too, but migraines are so much worse because they involve nausea, sensitivity to light, sound, smell, and they just hurt like hell on top of it. For me, the pain is always in my eyes, and that is just the worst place for pain. Except maybe your mouth, that sucks too. Anyway, I worry about what I'm doing to my liver. I take a beta-blocker to stop them from coming, Zyrtec for allergies, the sniffling associated with the allergies triggers my migraines, and of course the good ole birth control pill. And then when I get a headache, I take Imitrex. My own little helper. The only bad thing about that drug is that it makes me all flushed. Looking like you've been slapped on both cheeks is not a good look, but anything to take away the searing hot nauseaeous (good lord is that a hard word to say!) pain.

Another side effect is an urge to ramble. I should cut this off before I write another 38 word sentence.

Waiting for the shoe to drop

I sent in a paper to the Rutgers Art Review. It's a grad student publication, and I had thought that I'd have a pretty good chance. That is until I looked up past issues and saw that there are about six papers per year accepted. Oh, now there goes my self-confidence. No way I'll get in now. So I'm waiting for my rejection letter.

The paper is pretty good, though, if I do say so myself. It's about an artist named Hannah Wilke. She was a performance artist and photographer. She did a lot of pieces that involved her being all nakey and stuff. And since she was pretty, she got a lot of craph for it from feminist writers. Ah yes, the f word again. So the gist of the paper is the limitations of working within the feminist rubric when dealing with Wilke's art. Here's the kicker. She died of Lymphoma, a type of cancer, when she was in her early fifties. And she documented the deterioration of her body on film. In brilliant color, not black-and-white, which would give it a more documentary effect. There was also this strong Catholic underpinning in the imagery. And the posthumous show in which this Intra-Venus work was shown served as a memorial/pilgrimmage/relic of her life. Because she showed herself going through these changes and disfiguring of her once-beautiful body, she was lauded for her courage. And her early work was championed in that it served as reminder of her former self. One has to ask oneself-- if she had not gotten sick and died, would her earlier work have been so widely accepted and praised, retrospectively.

Ah, I go on. But that's what the paper is about. I'm pretty proud of it, but I don't think it'll get accepted. Paying dues sucks, and I can't wait to have the PhD after my name to make this all worth my while.

And just so you know, since I never really do this, the second post of the day is so that my blog doesn't have 13 posts in it. Cause I'm crazy superstitious like that. ;)

Strangest request, ever, revisited

Okay, so the funeral for my cousin's wife's mother was on Friday. The typical big Catholic to-do, with viewings and everything all packed in to a couple of fun-filled hours. I wrote the eulogy the night before, as is my usual operating schedule. And it was pretty good, if I do say so myself. Considering I didn't know the lady and all. She used to paint in her spare time. Wouldn't necessarily call her an artist, but that's just me being a snob and not really enjoying her paintings of puppies and stuff. So I did this whole paintings theme. I gave them what they wanted. But my mom, who as you may remember, was reading said eulogy, and she made a few mistakes. First, she got the year of the lady's birth wrong. Not my fault, it was a typo on the notes. And she said the completely wrong month for my cousin's birthday. (Had to do with Corrine being the light of the lady's life, etc etc) But all in all, considering we didn't know this person very well, it went off fine. Although my sister and I did overhear someone saying "Who is that lady" when my mom was at the lecturn reading my speech.

And a big shout out to Andrew M for reminding me of the Newsradio episode in which Dave writes a eulogy for a guy at the office who everyone just barely knew. At least this lady didn't end up having any major skeletons in her closet!

Strangest request, ever

My cousin's wife's mother died this week. (Got that?) She died of some sort of digestive system cancer. Irene was a nice lady. I've met her a few times, at showers for Kelly (the cousin's wife) and their kids' birthday parties. I've been to her house, maybe once or twice. But I didn't know her very well.

Which brings me to my point. Why would they ask me to write her eulogy?! It's not completely my own work, they've "written down their thoughts" for me. I have to string it into a coherent speech. Maybe they liked my work on my mom mom's eulogy? I don't know. But this is my whacked out family, and I'm going to do it. Weird.

Even weirder, they've asked my MOM to read it. With my cousin Corrine, who is 7. My mom didn't know this woman any more than I did. Well, if you know my mom, who is super friendly can talk to anyone, she knew more about her than I did. Still and all, it's gotta be strange. Imagine the cousin's wife's brother being at his own mom's funeral, thinking, "Who's that woman giving Mom's eulogy?" I've never been to a funeral where I didn't know who the eulogist was in relation to the deceased.

I'm warning that there will likely be a follow up to this macabre post. Also, I may detail for all my rabid fans my obsession with funeral homes. Maybe it's related to Six Feet Under's series finale this week, but maybe not. I'll try not to get all creepy up in here. Promise

As the dim reality of September sets in

Ah, late August. It's a great time of year, especially if you enjoy heat and your car's air conditioner has woefully passed from this earth. But it's also the time when I get all big-dorky-excited to be going back to school. It has been said that I am the ultimate consumer. It's all about the school supplies. I haven't bought my pens yet, but I do have my very special teeny-tiny three subject notebook. Buying pens is a big event for me. You have to have the right utensil to really want to take notes. I'm also searching high and low for something that I might have imagined-- mechanical pencils with gel graphite. Maybe I dreamed it, I don't know. But I have yet to find them. Next stop, Office Max.

It's funny, but since I've started my PhD courses, there haven't been many classes that I've been dying to take. And the ones I am excited about turn out sucking majorly. I'm still in the running for the class on drawings at Penn, but it doesn't look good. I really don't want to take greek Vase painting, ew. So I must resign myself to the fact that I have to take another filler class, one that I don't love or even care about, again. BOO!

But I am really excited that this December, come hell or high water, at the expense of royally pissing off the Graduate Chair, I AM GRADUATING!! From my master's, but still. I am still really fucking aroung trying to get this thesis thing written, but hey, I do well under pressure. And if I'm super stressed, maybe I will lose some weight. Cause loath as I am to acknowledge it, some professors really, let's say, prefer that their students look nice. And the ice cream belly I have going on right now is just not going to work. Not to mention that very soon I'll have to buy new clothes to squeeze my ass into. Which reminds me, I bought a workout DVD about 2 weeks ago, where is it?!

You'd think with all the money they have, they'd have come AC

Last night I had to go to St Martin of Tours church to attend pre-Jordan class. I am going to be the godmother of my sister's son, Liam. Not William, or Leon, which are two of the most common mishearings of his name that we've gotten. Hey, kid, I understand, people say "Warren?" to me when I say my name. Uh, yeah, my mom thought I looked manly when I was born. Come on!

Anyway, so here we are, sitting in this SWELTERING hot church. You'd think because of all the marble in the joint, it might be cool. WRONG! So I'm sticking to the pew, right up front, while this nun yammers on and on about the Church. She really dumbed it down, too. She didn't seem to know the PX symbol has a real name, the chi-rho, or that it spells the first two letters of christ. It's an early christian symbol, Constantine, in hoc signo vincit and all that stuff. So anyway, we're getting the whole Catholic lite treatment. One thing she really hammered home was the paschal candle. Sister, remember when we lied and said that we're all good, practicing Catholics? Yeah, we all know what that big ole candle in the front is, m'kay?

Why is it that all nuns smell the same, anyway? They take a vow of poverty, so maybe they all have to use the same products and that's why? It's a mix of old lady smell, undoubtedly the products, and mothballs, and maybe a little old lady perfume. Weird.

Anyway, back to the heat. I had sweat dripping down my back as I sat there and smelled olive oil and chrism. And then she kinda skimmed over what we actually have to do the day of the Christening. So I don't know who holds the baby, and what I have to do, and the godfather doesn't know that he has to light the baptismal candle (I only know because I saw a baptism this week at church. What, I do go, about 50% of the time.) It was just like our wedding rehearsal, except this nun last night didn't yell at us the whole time and make me cry. The wedding Nazi was awful, and which of my friends did she like the most that night? Jim, good old, messy, often looks like he's homeless jim. Jim courts the tortured artist thing sometimes, and his hair is wild and curly. He's often mistaken for being Middle Eastern, but he's just regular old Italian. Sicilian to be exact. The reason the catholic nazi liked him was because he was wearing a tie and kissing her ass to make fun of her. Good ole Jim.

So what I'm trying to say with this whole entry is that I feel a little unprepared to do this whole godmother thing. I hope I do a good job, because I've never done this before. I mean, I'll be able to always be there for little william, and I'll always be a doting godmother to lil leon, but I just hope I don't fall into the font.

Revisiting the Artist in Me

This summer has been all about the art. As any reader to this blog certainly knows by now, I haven't done much writing. But, in an unexpected turn of events, I've been making art again. Whoa! I have a BFA in painting, but I haven't really used it in, let's see, four years. Dude, that's sad. So this summer, I decided to treat myself. Because last semester was the semester from hell, worse for me than the semester when I was helping my mom and cousin to take care of my mommom who was in hospice care (some funny/sad stories there, maybe I'll revisit them sometime here), I decided to take a while off.

I took a class at Fleisher Art Memorial. You may have read about my cats' sabotage of my one drawings before. I was the youngest person in the class by at least 30 years, which was fine. It's been a while since I felt young in the classroom. I made three drawings, two of which I really liked. I had a lot of fun drawing. And, I'm happy to admit, I didn't completely suck! I sometimes feel like a fraud because I have this BFA, and I don't do anything with it. I mean, why bother to get it, right? Overall, it helped me realize that I love art history and want to do this for the rest of my life. But to not make art at all seems lazy to me.

So like I said, I made a few pastel drawing this summer. I also helped Kevin to make tshirts today. We broke out this silkscreen kit that he had bought me a few Christmases ago. I should post a picture of our wares. They're pretty cool. They're for a gig that he has this weekend with Problem Solving. It's a woodstock-like event, so I'm not going. Not really a nature girl, this one. So I'll have plenty of time to write.

Even though my t-word isn't complete yet, I still feel I've had a productive summer. And there's still a few weeks left to eek out that paper.

The Synopsis you have all been waiting for...

So I am writing this synopsis all amped from watching tonight's episode of Six Feet Under. I figure good writing should inspire me, might as well be productive. Kind of like how looking at good art gives me ideas about my own work.

Anyway, so this synopsis will hopefully solidify my thoughts and get my ass in gear. I am all psyched to hand my advisor a copy at the orientation breakfast. And next week is chock full o' running around with my sister, to her baby's doctor's appointment (oh no, shots!) and to get her wisdom teeth pulled. So I want to get chugging along, because it's much easier to keep going than to get started. So about Lisa Yuskavage.

Lisa Yuskavage is a painter. She's in her early forties, born in Philadelphia and raised in scenic Juniata Park. She's a Catholic School girl, like myself. Also, In her extended family she has an aunt who is a nun. This is often mentioned in biographies of hers, because the subject matter she paints is so stunningly not religious (I don't get this, but hey, I write about porn with my background). She also went to Tyler, which is where I go now. Cool stuff.

My thesis will be broken down into three chapters. The first two will speak about the ways in which her paintings are criticized. She often receives acclaim for her paint handling and techiques that she uses in making her painting. Formal qualities of her work are often paralleled with old masters, and her use of plaster maquettes especially is aligned with Tintoretto and Michelanglo. So oftentimes writers gush about color, lush brushwork and other visual qualities of her work.

The second chapter represents the catch to her work. Her paintings are traditional in their subject matter, to a point. She paints the female nude or semi-dressed. So have thousands of other painters for thousands of years. But her babes are not model-thin, or in many cases even realistic. They are painted from memory or imagination, and often their sexuality is pronounced to say the least. She takes cues from Penthouse magazines from the 1970's, from which she remembers learning about sexuality in the first place. This section has the potential to be huge. I can bring in other artists who work in this vein. Vargas girls, Mel Ramos, John Currin, Vanessa Beecroft, etc etc. But what makes Yuskavage's work so interesting is the tenuous relationship they have to feminism. She is a woman, after all. But her work is not a clear criticism of pornography, nor does is necessarily embrace it. Second and third wave feminism, oh my! So as you can see, this section is the biggest, and it's the most rich with possibility. It helps that last semester I got the chance to see Lisa speak at ICA and she addressed her strange relationship to the f-word. She said, when asked if she was a feminist, "Well, what's the opposite? I mean, it's not as easy as saying, well, I'm not a misogynist, so I must be feminist." Yeah, paradox, gotta love it.

The last section will deal with one of her most talked-about bodies of work. The Penthouse pictures are right for this because they have a naughty subject matter, and they are copied from magazines (with just enough artistic tweaking to be acceptable). See Day and Night. So we have dubious subject matter and questionable technique.

I guess what makes this project persuable is that though she has been written about a good deal for such a young painter, I don't feel anyone has quite gotten it. I feel like she is purposely mixing high and low, and that she is deliberately contradictory. It seems to me that there is an attempt from both factions of each aspect of her work that are trying to claim her for their own.

Cleaning and listening to power ballads

Oh my God. I think I may have lost my mind. It's Saturday night. I'm cleaning. I'm cleaning and I'm listening to power ballads. More specifically, Def Leppard power ballads. Bringing on the heartbreak is on now. But my very favorite is Love Bites. There's something about overproduction that I love! I mean, I love layered things, contradictions, complicated things. This is what I deal with in art all the time. It makes sense that I crave it in music too. I know I have shitty taste in music sometimes.

Sometimes I feel like, you know, I'm a grad student, maybe I should be listening to opera or something. But you know what? I do listen to music from the era I study. I could be pretentious and say it's all research. But I'd be lying. I really just like shitty music. I love Def Leppard, I love bruce Springsteen, I love love love Bon Jovi. It's ridiculous. And pretty much all the older people at school have no idea what I'm talking about. They listen to NPR and all the granola crunchy stuff. And there's nothing wrong with that. But I like my WMMR, WYSP kinda tunes.

I like a lot of good stuff too. I love the STones (especially the older stuff) I love the beatles, I love Pink Floyd. Though most of these bands went through their over-produced phases. The long and winding road. The whole Tatoo you album. The division bell.

But let's be serious. Hysteria is a GREAT album. It's a producer's wet dream, as kevin would say. It is layer upon unneccessary layer of sound. I mean, come on. The other guys had to do something while the drummer learned to drum again, right (this is Kev's observation, too). It took 4 years to produce. It's like candy for your ears. It's coated, coated with sounds! It's fantastic, and I challenge anyone who says it isn't to...well... I don't know, cause I'm not in the business of challenging people, really.

Yeah, so about that journey...

I'm having troubles getting started with the thesis. I can't decide if I want to introduce the artist first, or give an idea of how I came up with the project. Really what I should do is just jump in, for god's sake. Why am I such a procrastinator? Why am I so lazy? Why can't I sit down and bust this thing out?

On a positive note, I've emailed my advisor, and I've locked myself in to handing him a completed draft the first week of school. God, I can't wait to go back to school! This semester I'm taking a class on Caravaggio. That will be fun, because it's sort of a historiography class, meaning that we'll study the way Caravaggio was studied from his own time to the present. All kinds of cool things, including queer theories and good sexy stuff like that. I'm also trying to get a class on drawings. It's through UPenn, and it's given at the PMA. So I'll be able to physically handle and look at real drawings in the PMA's collections. How's that for art-nerdiness? And for my final class, I'll be taking a Directed Research, probably with my advisor. I'd like to focus on the eighties and see what comes up.

But I simply cannot show my face at school if I don't get the damn thesis done. It's all up here, why do I have to write it? What I should do is post a synopsis of my arguments. I did write an outline, so maybe tomorrow, for your reading pleasure, I'll give you an abstract. I know you're waiting with bated breath.

Booyah!

I feel pretty good about myself today. I got a lot done. I was able to write an outline for my thesis, woohoo! It's something I've been sitting on all summer. Could it be that I have performance anxiety? Because it's certainly not a lack of intereset in the project-- I'm still totally stoked about that. It must be performance anxiety. Or it's just plain laziness.

I get really crazy when I write. To back it up, I'm not a "writer", per se. I write papers for school, but it's not like I'm sitting here trying to churn out the great american novel. Just my thoughts on artists. Just needs to be coherent and somewhat original.

It might be that I have a hard time impressing my advisor. Other profs like what I do, to greater or lesser extents. But for he who shall remain nameless, I fear getting papers back from him. Always with the red ink swaths and nit-picking of my normally flawless grammar.

But it must be done. Now is the time to buckle down and get this sucker done! And I will. I am well on my way. I'm looking at my brand-spankin'-new outline right now. I have direction. And tomorrow, I begin the journey.

This one will be short...

Tonight we had to take my nephew to the hospital. He had a fever of 103. That's actually not incredibly high for a baby, but he's only 6 weeks old. Poor little guy didn't get his 2 month shots yet, so they had to do all these tests. Including a spinal tap! Oh my! But he's much much better now, and they let him come home. Thank goodness.

This weekend we'll be helping my sister move. She and her boyfriend have a place that is a few blocks away from our house. I'm sad! We've gotten to be much closer since she got pregnant, and this summer with her being on maternity leave. Sometimes I feel a little guilty, since I'm ostensibly supposed to be writing my thesis. This leaves little time for a jobby. But this summer is one of the best of my life. I'm married to Kevin (and he's not bummed out about being unemployed this summer!) and we get to spend lots of time together. And the added bonus of mornings and afternoons with Liam. Far supercedes my need for money. And, not to be a snob, and this is totally going to sound snobby to most, I think I'm just a little bit overqualified for most summer jobs. I'm Liam's au pair. This is a French word, meaning unpaid.

The weekend will be spent helping Steph and Steve (their real names, I shit you not) to move. I was looking forward to my friend's housewarming party, but with the little studly man sick, I don't want their kids to get sick. I hope to get my hair done. I've got a gray streak that is starting to strongly resemble Rogue. And my eyebrows are modelling themselves after my birthday buddy, Abe Vigoda.

Some fun things about having cats in your home

For this story, pictures tell the story so much more effectively. But I will set it up for you first.

I am taking a class at the Fleisher Art Memorial. It is a seven-week class on working with pastel. It's a great class. I'm the youngest one in it, with the age gap being approximately 30 years. The teacher is married to my very favorite instructor from Beaver, Scott Noel. Janice is really cool, she's really laid back, and as is, I'm sure, common when you've been married for many years, she uses a lot of the same phrases as Scott does in class.

Anyway, I had a drawing that, while it wasn't finished, I kind of liked for some reason. I brought it home with me, and left it on the kitchen table. When I woke up I found this mess.

You'll notice that there are two distinct sets of pawprints. One is Sam's, and one is Sophia's. Sophia's role in this is apparent because she is so small, therefore we were able to catch her and pawprint her. Just like CSI. Sam, well, he was hard to distinguish from the other big cats. Or he would have been, had he not had a big blue smudge on his ass.

Please also note that you can see paw prints now on the drawing.

Lucky boy, lucky girl

My husband, Kevin, is a lucky lucky boy. (That still sounds funny to me, even after fourteen months of wedded bliss). Anyway, he's the type of person who seemingly ambles through life and always lands on his feet. Now, I live with him, and I know this is not entirely true, but for the purposes of this post, let's just say he's pretty lucky.

He had been hemming and hawing about going to Ozzfest. He's had a renewed interest in metal since he joined Se7enheads. It's been really good, too. It's completely different from his other band, Problem Solving, and he's been hanging out with his friend since grade school, Jim. They had sort of lost track of each other after college.

So to make a long ramble shorter, Kevin never got the tickets for Ozzfest. Last night he headed out to practice. When he came home, what did he have? Yes, a free ticket for Ozzfest. And not only that. This was no general admission ticket, it was in the seats in the pavilion! Lucky boy! So on a day off where he had nothing planned, he got to go to a concert, for free, in the shade.

Today I dropped Kevin and Jim off at the ferry from Penn's Landing over to Camden. He just got back a little while ago. He had a good time, and is now sleeping so that he can get up at 2am to go to work.

I love how we can each do our own thing without feeling like we have to be together all the time. We have interests outside of each other. It may not always be like this, but right now, it works for us. Maybe that comes from being together for over 10 years. We, or at least I, did the whole, I have to go to every show because he likes the band sort of thing. But now I'm confident enough in myself and our relationship to say, Nah, I don't like whoever, I'll stay home. I love that I could drop Kevin off at the ferry today and not feel the need to go. I had a good day, and so did he. He's a lucky boy, but I think I'm a very lucky girl too.

A brief introduction

This blog is entitled "Ramblings of an Art Nerd". In it, I will probably write about art that I love, shows I have seen and things I have done. More often, I will bitch about school and how much of a lazy procrastinator I am. My name is Lauren, and I go to school for Art History. I'm writing my master's thesis right now, and I'm also almost finished with coursework for my PhD. Because I'm crazy like that. I concentrate my studies on contemporary art, particularly that of female artists who deal with, well, sex. I've inadvertently become the go-to girl in the department for porn. Them's the breaks, I guess. My thesis is on Lisa Yuskavage, a painter who also hails from the Northeast section of Philadelphia. I'll post some paintings of hers when I learn how. It is my hope that by making my struggles with school public knowledge, I'll be able to overcome my overly laid-back tendencies.

In relation to non-art-nerd things, I am married to Kevin. He's great, he's a musician with a band times two and he's an artist. We live in NE phila, with my parents for right now. Shhh, we're poor. We have two cats, Sam and Sophia. I'll add pictures of them. They're crazy, needy cats.

So that's it for now. This is an experiment, and I hope that others find my life interesting enough to read. It's not a glamorous life, but it's mine and I like it. ;)