because some things need closure.

we are thermometers. not thermostats. we can change ourselves, but effect very little outside of that. even if we reject that of our culture-it does not change our need to continue and function within it. but if we never set to define ourselves outside of of our exterior, our physical characteristics, how could we change anything? nothing happens merely result of falling into a predestined identity.

perhaps every thought that goes through my mind was thought before a thousand times by a thousand different people. i cannot change that, but what will set me apart will be what i do with my thoughts and ideas. i have within me the power to do, not just sit idly and watch my world be formed around me.

are we afraid of being original? authentic? heaven forbid we take on the chore of being our own person, thinking for ourselves, or expressing an individual poignant thought. but then again maybe you don't need to, maybe you can just put on your lip gloss, sit silently and forget that you have a voice.


farewell blogger.com. my adventures of foundation computer have come to an end and i have no need for you any longer.

A play off of Manet's Luncheon on the Grass.

Acknowledging art's use of objectified women is irritating. Why would I find amusement in male artists defining the female image? Goddess, mother, muse, sex-object- I am none, so where would my identity be found? Cannot it not exist outside of the maternal and the erotic?

I wish they had not been compared to hollister-esque clothing designs. But I am glad they turned out well.

I'm trapped in the grocery store by pregnant ex-classmates. It was possibly the most uncomfortable ten minutes of my life thus far. Pregnant women seem as though they are violating my personal space, and I am too close to the floating undeveloped human being inside of them. The immense awkwardness of that particular happening is not because we were old classmates, but more the slap in the face reminder of the suffocating mentality of a place like that. The one that sees collage as a means for smart girls to find a smart husband, and nothing more. To them, I'm just in finishing school.

I can render in real life, to do so on the computer seems like a step backwards. Photoshop is chinsy and very paint  program-esque. I hate talking, and am going to start bringing a mini white board and marker to class. 

A thought started with lunch, and lead to a sandwich, my first memory of a sandwich, the lady who made that sandwich, a customer she made meals for, that customer's inability to hold steady a cup of coffee, a waitress's jewelry clinking off of everything, and my dad taking off his wedding band when playing the guitar because it got in the way.

Through a chain of different memories, it lead to a realization of how capable our hands are. The question was how we got here, and I think I addressed that. To me and I believe to most artists, our hands are not just small limbs there to prepare food, hold a coffee mug, tap to a musical rhythm, or weigh down with adornments, but valuable tools. I don't want my hands to be wasted on mundane tasks of everyday. I don't want my life to be wasted on mundane regularity and repeated tasks and chores.

It was a hard thing to incorporate the weakness of athrisis that comes with age. It was hard to reference one of my parents when they are so different from the folksy, care-free jesus freaks they were when I was a child to now, with bifocals and regular haircuts. I am scared of the weakness of unsteady hands and I am scared to degenerate into a middle-aged parent.

I'm not sure if these are valid reasons for my being here, but they are what they are.

I did not want to incorporate the portraits of my classmates and I think it shows.

 

If I were born a middle-eastern female, my life would be drastically different. My father would have been disappointed at my birth.  I would have no identity. Would I really even be a person?

I am aware of the white space, honestly couldn't find what was doing it. Anyway, the thing itself didn't change, just some crap omitted.  

end.