Some rather shocking news.
Apparently (I hope you are sitting down), students in high school get bored in their classes.
I know. I had to take a few deep breaths myself. But once I'd calmed my traumatized nerves, I felt only gladness and gratitude, that someone spent the time and money to bring to the public's attention this earth-shattering revelation.
If I were less charitable than I am, of course, I probably would have wondered sarcastically if the surveyors had ever attended high school; if they had, they wouldn't have had to do a survey to find out what everyone already knows. But I really am awfully charitable, at least in my current mood, so I will not make such a cynical observation.
I'll just offer my expressed hope that soon they do a survey for workers in the workplace. Can't wait to hear the results of that research...
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
This Is Not A Blog
Yesterday I went with my friend A to LACMA, the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. to see exhibit: "Magritte and Contemporary Art: The Treachery of Images."
I am not very familiar with Magritte's work, aside from "Le Modele Rouge (The Red Model)", which shows a pair of boots turning into feet, and then that famous painting of a man in a bowler hat with a green apple floating in front of his face. Oh yes, and of course the famous "This Is Not A Pipe" painting of a pipe. So I had no particular expectations... just lots of curiosity.
The first thing I noticed as I passed through the gallery rooms housing the exhibit was how crowded they were. The museum was packed, which I hate. I absolutely cannot stand bumping into people and being bumped as I try to muse and ponder in front of an artistic work. Or, for that matter, if I'm walking around in a mall. Either way, lots of people get on my nerves. But that's LA for you, I guess.
Yet another reason I doubt I'll live here forever. But that's a whole 'nother topic...
Anyway, in spite of the crowds, there were moments of levity. A and I paused in front of one painting called "The Pebble", which shows a half-naked woman apparently on a beach, licking her own right shoulder as her left hand plays with one of her breasts.
("What does that have to do with a pebble?" you are probably wondering. Good! That's just the reaction Magritte probably wanted.)
A and I had a little discussion about the fact that there was no sky in the background, only a green-and-white grid pattern making squares out of empty white space. I didn't like the grid; I thought it was ugly, but A said it saved the painting from being just another sensuous-woman-on-a-beach scene. Slightly more intellectual than my own response, I admit. I said she might be right.
As we left the room, a young boy came in and looked at the picture. "That's disgusting!" he said. "In a few years you won't think that," said an older boy, perhaps his brother. This made A laugh; I had not actually heard the dialogue, but when she told me about it, I laughed too.
I liked that the gallery rooms had been carpeted in blue, with a puffy cloud pattern, while the ceilings were covered with a repeating photo of a freeway tangle in a birds-eye view, so really it was like we were walking in a world turned upside down. Clever, since Magritte's work manages to convey a similar effect. He said the world defies common sense. I think he might have been right.
I stood on the threshold of the last room, looking in. The room was full of people, of course. Still no escape... From where I stood, I could see "Les Jours Gigantesques (The Titanic Days)", which shows a woman fighting off a clothed man's form, but his form is entirely contained in the outlines of her own naked body.
A disturbing picture, I thought to myself.
Then I stepped away from the wall and saw the picture I had been standing right next to: "Attempting the Impossible." Here, a clothed man is busily painting a naked woman into existence; she stares blankly into space while he begins to add her left arm.
A man told A and I that Magritte always painted his wife. I don't actually know if that's true, but the man seemed to know a lot about Magritte, so I'm willing to believe it. The man started the conversation this way: "Men don't know how to communicate to women." Since A and I had just been staring at and commenting on the two versions of "Le Viol (The Rape)" hanging on the wall, I laughed and said, "Well, what makes you say that?" I don't remember his answer, only his earnest brown eyes, graying beard, and sparse hair. He looked like a professor. Perhaps he was. He was wearing a tie with the man in the bowler hat all over it, in different sizes, on a blue background.
He knew where most of the paintings were normally housed. "That one lives in Houston," he said. "And that one is from Tokyo." After he finished talking, he apologized for interrupting us, but A and I hadn't minded at all. I wanted to ask his name, but didn't. I also wanted to ask more questions, but I had that odd taste in my mouth that warned me I might need a mint or piece of gum, so I just smiled and nodded a lot. Eventually he moved on to another painting, and we went our way.
One of my favorite paintings in the room was "The Human Condition." This title belonged to several different works, but the one I liked best showed an easel set up against the entrance to a cave (naturally that's the one version I can't find a picture of online). Inside the cave, a fire burned. Outside the cave, the side of a large mountain could be seen. Outside was very light. the easel had part of the mountain painted on it, and was set in such a way that that particular section of the mountain could only be seen in the painting. It was hard to tell what was real and what was contained within the easel's frame.
It is interesting to me that Magritte often painted more than one version of a subject; in the case of "The Human Condition" it's especially apropos. This is the human condition, I thought as I looked at the painting. We try over and over again to get a handle on our world, to contain it in a framework, to use art as a means of understanding it... but in spite of our efforts the world keeps existing beyond the boundaries of the largest possible canvas or page we can find. We paint in the dark, aided only by the flickering flame of our limited knowledge, while outside the world simply is. In the same way that Magritte saw a disconnect between words and images, there is the inevitable disconnect between images and reality. A painting of a mountain can never be the mountain, after all. But neither can a mountain be a painting of a mountain. The thing will always transcend the idea of itself.
Or something like that.
I am not very familiar with Magritte's work, aside from "Le Modele Rouge (The Red Model)", which shows a pair of boots turning into feet, and then that famous painting of a man in a bowler hat with a green apple floating in front of his face. Oh yes, and of course the famous "This Is Not A Pipe" painting of a pipe. So I had no particular expectations... just lots of curiosity.
The first thing I noticed as I passed through the gallery rooms housing the exhibit was how crowded they were. The museum was packed, which I hate. I absolutely cannot stand bumping into people and being bumped as I try to muse and ponder in front of an artistic work. Or, for that matter, if I'm walking around in a mall. Either way, lots of people get on my nerves. But that's LA for you, I guess.
Yet another reason I doubt I'll live here forever. But that's a whole 'nother topic...
Anyway, in spite of the crowds, there were moments of levity. A and I paused in front of one painting called "The Pebble", which shows a half-naked woman apparently on a beach, licking her own right shoulder as her left hand plays with one of her breasts.
("What does that have to do with a pebble?" you are probably wondering. Good! That's just the reaction Magritte probably wanted.)
A and I had a little discussion about the fact that there was no sky in the background, only a green-and-white grid pattern making squares out of empty white space. I didn't like the grid; I thought it was ugly, but A said it saved the painting from being just another sensuous-woman-on-a-beach scene. Slightly more intellectual than my own response, I admit. I said she might be right.
As we left the room, a young boy came in and looked at the picture. "That's disgusting!" he said. "In a few years you won't think that," said an older boy, perhaps his brother. This made A laugh; I had not actually heard the dialogue, but when she told me about it, I laughed too.
I liked that the gallery rooms had been carpeted in blue, with a puffy cloud pattern, while the ceilings were covered with a repeating photo of a freeway tangle in a birds-eye view, so really it was like we were walking in a world turned upside down. Clever, since Magritte's work manages to convey a similar effect. He said the world defies common sense. I think he might have been right.
I stood on the threshold of the last room, looking in. The room was full of people, of course. Still no escape... From where I stood, I could see "Les Jours Gigantesques (The Titanic Days)", which shows a woman fighting off a clothed man's form, but his form is entirely contained in the outlines of her own naked body.
A disturbing picture, I thought to myself.
Then I stepped away from the wall and saw the picture I had been standing right next to: "Attempting the Impossible." Here, a clothed man is busily painting a naked woman into existence; she stares blankly into space while he begins to add her left arm.
A man told A and I that Magritte always painted his wife. I don't actually know if that's true, but the man seemed to know a lot about Magritte, so I'm willing to believe it. The man started the conversation this way: "Men don't know how to communicate to women." Since A and I had just been staring at and commenting on the two versions of "Le Viol (The Rape)" hanging on the wall, I laughed and said, "Well, what makes you say that?" I don't remember his answer, only his earnest brown eyes, graying beard, and sparse hair. He looked like a professor. Perhaps he was. He was wearing a tie with the man in the bowler hat all over it, in different sizes, on a blue background.
He knew where most of the paintings were normally housed. "That one lives in Houston," he said. "And that one is from Tokyo." After he finished talking, he apologized for interrupting us, but A and I hadn't minded at all. I wanted to ask his name, but didn't. I also wanted to ask more questions, but I had that odd taste in my mouth that warned me I might need a mint or piece of gum, so I just smiled and nodded a lot. Eventually he moved on to another painting, and we went our way.
One of my favorite paintings in the room was "The Human Condition." This title belonged to several different works, but the one I liked best showed an easel set up against the entrance to a cave (naturally that's the one version I can't find a picture of online). Inside the cave, a fire burned. Outside the cave, the side of a large mountain could be seen. Outside was very light. the easel had part of the mountain painted on it, and was set in such a way that that particular section of the mountain could only be seen in the painting. It was hard to tell what was real and what was contained within the easel's frame.
It is interesting to me that Magritte often painted more than one version of a subject; in the case of "The Human Condition" it's especially apropos. This is the human condition, I thought as I looked at the painting. We try over and over again to get a handle on our world, to contain it in a framework, to use art as a means of understanding it... but in spite of our efforts the world keeps existing beyond the boundaries of the largest possible canvas or page we can find. We paint in the dark, aided only by the flickering flame of our limited knowledge, while outside the world simply is. In the same way that Magritte saw a disconnect between words and images, there is the inevitable disconnect between images and reality. A painting of a mountain can never be the mountain, after all. But neither can a mountain be a painting of a mountain. The thing will always transcend the idea of itself.
Or something like that.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Put the FUN in ConFUSion
Er, I'm not really sure where it would fit, exactly. Maybe we should just call it "FUNfusion"? That's kind of catchy.
Then again, I did not get much sleep last night.
In other news--no wait, I mean in the SAME news, I mean it's the whole point I started writing this post today--I found another grammatically challenged link on cnn.com today. See if you can find it here (hint: it's the second one):
At first I thought that a dead woman who had once been a preacher's wife was alleging an illegal search. Not that I'd rule out such a thing as impossible, especially in a country (the U.S.) where a man can be paid $130,000 a year even though he'd been dead for 30 years. But it did seem a trifle strange.
Then again, I did not get much sleep last night.
Wait, I said that already. I'm confused. Or is that FUNfused?
I think I need to take a nap. (Thankfully, it's now OK to do that at work, as I've mentioned before.)
Then again, I did not get much sleep last night.
In other news--no wait, I mean in the SAME news, I mean it's the whole point I started writing this post today--I found another grammatically challenged link on cnn.com today. See if you can find it here (hint: it's the second one):
At first I thought that a dead woman who had once been a preacher's wife was alleging an illegal search. Not that I'd rule out such a thing as impossible, especially in a country (the U.S.) where a man can be paid $130,000 a year even though he'd been dead for 30 years. But it did seem a trifle strange.
Then again, I did not get much sleep last night.
Wait, I said that already. I'm confused. Or is that FUNfused?
I think I need to take a nap. (Thankfully, it's now OK to do that at work, as I've mentioned before.)
Insomnia Attack
It's been awhile since I've had one of these, but tonight I am undoubtedly in the throes of a really bad insomnia attack. Nearly 2:22 am and I can't sleep at all.
Tried reading some Borges, but that didn't help, mostly because I found the ideas in his stories too interesting.
I think part of the problem is I'm cold. Even though I'm bundled up in sweats, and have flannel sheets on the bed, and cranked up my standing heater to just about as high as it will go, I am still freezing.
I wonder if counting sheep would actually work? Speaking of which, why did that ever become a method for drifting off to sleep? Who was it who first thought, "I'm having trouble catching my zzz's, so I'll just start counting an imaginary herd of sheep"? Why not count something else? Like octopi?
Eeew. Never mind. I just suddenly had a vision of who knows how many writhing tentacles... there is definitely a reason we don't try to count octopi before falling asleep.
It's 2:27 am now. I am still awake. Dang.
Maybe writing limmericks would help:
There once was a girl named grackyfrogg
Who wanted to sleep like a log
But try as she might
She stayed awake the whole night
Because she couldn't think of another rhyme for "ogg"
Oh, that was terrible.
OK, so forget the limmericks. Maybe if I drank some warm milk. Ah, but that would entail leaving my (relatively) warm bed, walking downstairs, getting a mug out of the cupboard, getting the milk out of the (cold!) fridge, pouring the milk into the mug, putting the mug into the microwave, heating the milk... no thanks.
It's 2:34 am now. I'm hungry.
This is going to be a long, long night. Sigh...
Tried reading some Borges, but that didn't help, mostly because I found the ideas in his stories too interesting.
I think part of the problem is I'm cold. Even though I'm bundled up in sweats, and have flannel sheets on the bed, and cranked up my standing heater to just about as high as it will go, I am still freezing.
I wonder if counting sheep would actually work? Speaking of which, why did that ever become a method for drifting off to sleep? Who was it who first thought, "I'm having trouble catching my zzz's, so I'll just start counting an imaginary herd of sheep"? Why not count something else? Like octopi?
Eeew. Never mind. I just suddenly had a vision of who knows how many writhing tentacles... there is definitely a reason we don't try to count octopi before falling asleep.
It's 2:27 am now. I am still awake. Dang.
Maybe writing limmericks would help:
There once was a girl named grackyfrogg
Who wanted to sleep like a log
But try as she might
She stayed awake the whole night
Because she couldn't think of another rhyme for "ogg"
Oh, that was terrible.
OK, so forget the limmericks. Maybe if I drank some warm milk. Ah, but that would entail leaving my (relatively) warm bed, walking downstairs, getting a mug out of the cupboard, getting the milk out of the (cold!) fridge, pouring the milk into the mug, putting the mug into the microwave, heating the milk... no thanks.
It's 2:34 am now. I'm hungry.
This is going to be a long, long night. Sigh...
Thursday, February 22, 2007
A Rainy Afternoon
It's raining and the traffic, as I can see from my window, is bad. The dark clouds are hiding my view of the mountains to the north. I can hear the swish of cars driving by on slick streets below.
I wish I were already home. I like the rain, when I am curled up in bed.
I guess it's a little early to go to bed, though.
In other news, I'm excited for the weekend, when I'll be going with a friend to see the Magritte exhibit at Los Angeles County Museum of Art. This is the last weekend left before it closes. I was worried I'd miss it; too often don't manage to get around to doing a lot of the things I want very much to do, but I think this time I'll make it.
Now if only I could get around to doing my taxes...
I wish I were already home. I like the rain, when I am curled up in bed.
I guess it's a little early to go to bed, though.
In other news, I'm excited for the weekend, when I'll be going with a friend to see the Magritte exhibit at Los Angeles County Museum of Art. This is the last weekend left before it closes. I was worried I'd miss it; too often don't manage to get around to doing a lot of the things I want very much to do, but I think this time I'll make it.
Now if only I could get around to doing my taxes...
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Begging the Question
The other day I was driving in to work when I saw a car with the bumper sticker, "War is not the answer."
I always find it interesting when I see bumper stickers like that. Because then of course I start wondering what the question is to which war (or peace, or Jesus, or whatever) is not the answer. There are some questions where war might actually BE the answer, after all. For example, if I asked, "What would you call the civil strife that nearly tore America apart in the period 1860-1865?" I hope you would not say, "War is not the answer," because it IS, and you would get an F on your American History exam.
Personally, I believe the condensation of complex ideas into bumper sticker platitudes doesn't do anyone any good. On the other hand, it would be really funny if I could fit that last sentence on a bumper sticker.
I always find it interesting when I see bumper stickers like that. Because then of course I start wondering what the question is to which war (or peace, or Jesus, or whatever) is not the answer. There are some questions where war might actually BE the answer, after all. For example, if I asked, "What would you call the civil strife that nearly tore America apart in the period 1860-1865?" I hope you would not say, "War is not the answer," because it IS, and you would get an F on your American History exam.
Personally, I believe the condensation of complex ideas into bumper sticker platitudes doesn't do anyone any good. On the other hand, it would be really funny if I could fit that last sentence on a bumper sticker.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
If Wishes Were...
Feeling pensive and tired tonight. So much reading and writing to do, and I don't feel like doing any of it.
But you want to know what I do feel like doing? I'd love to lie in front of a fireplace (with a fire in it, of course) in the dark, snuggled under a blanket, and think about nothing except how beautiful the fire looks when it dances. I'd like to fall asleep listening to the whispered roar of the flames, and the crackle of the burning wood.
It's not really cold enough for a fire. And I have too much work waiting to indulge the luxury of aimless thoughts for long, not to mention falling asleep at such an early hour. But, oh, it sounds so nice, doesn't it.
PS If the above seems to contradict my last post, which rhapsodized about the warm weather, I don't care.
But you want to know what I do feel like doing? I'd love to lie in front of a fireplace (with a fire in it, of course) in the dark, snuggled under a blanket, and think about nothing except how beautiful the fire looks when it dances. I'd like to fall asleep listening to the whispered roar of the flames, and the crackle of the burning wood.
It's not really cold enough for a fire. And I have too much work waiting to indulge the luxury of aimless thoughts for long, not to mention falling asleep at such an early hour. But, oh, it sounds so nice, doesn't it.
PS If the above seems to contradict my last post, which rhapsodized about the warm weather, I don't care.
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