A few weeks ago I wrote about submitting my work, in portfolio form, for an opportunity to be a part of a really great group of photographers at the Fine Art Photoblog. Today the newest additions to that group were announced. I was not chosen, but I’m not disappointed. The three people they chose are outstanding. In fact, I think they are far better than I am. I’m not just saying that because I’m a gracious loser (that little green monster rears its head in my world far too often for comfort), but because I really think it’s true.
Each of these photographers have found a niche. They have a specific subject matter or style that they photograph in and they do it well, really well. I don’t know if I have that. I’ve had people tell me that they can look at a page and pick out my photographs in an instant, because they know my style, but I’m not sure if that is true.
I was also looking at Kate Hutchinson’s photographs today. She has three distinct series here that are incredible. She focuses on one subject matter and shares that in a series. I think I sometimes do that. In my archives my images are separated by place, because that’s how I associate them. But maybe I should be putting all of my bridges together, all of the canyons in one category, all of the ruins in another. Would that make it more powerful?
I’ve been thinking about a few series that I want to do. I want to photograph the roadside accident markers. I was especially amazed by the ones in Mexico. They were so incredibly ornate and intricate. I’m also interested in a series of photographs of the artifacts of grad school: books, people, paper, computers, buildings, late nights, early mornings, teaching, students, etc. And, of course, travel. There is something about trying to claim a piece of the earth in each image, to hold close, to look at time and again, that really gets to me.
Would this make me a better photographer or have I reached the pinnacle of my skills in this area? Should I just enjoy it for what it is, something I love to do, rather than try to attain something that may not be attainable for me? I mean, I do have this really serious project coming up that will last for the next 4 or 5 years and I will be concentrating on that. But I will need a release. If I’m focused on attaining some sort of status within photography, will it diminish the enjoyment I get out of it?
I don’t know the answer to that. I do know that I began this because I loved taking pictures. I think I have improved since my first photoblog posting, but not much else has changed. I have a small, faithful audience, I respect. I still am relatively unknown in the photoblogging circles, despite my activity in them. Is that enough? Should it be? Can it be?
It’s just stuff, right? Furniture, dishes, pieces of paper. It gets sold, donated, or thrown away because it’s just stuff.
But here’s what I don’t get. Why is it making me so sad?
It’s because I remember Dakota curled up on the sofa, his head popping up as I came through the front door.
Or Willow, when she was barely six months old (wow, that long ago), laying on my chest, while we were on the couch, as I sang Tracy Chapman’s The Promise to her, because it calmed her down and made her sleep. And really, there is little better than a sweet baby falling asleep on your own body.
Or Justice running around the furniture, chasing poor Dakota, saying, “come here…come here…” in his cute voice.
Or the sippy cups that I bought for all four kids so they could drink at my house without worrying about spilling (ok, ok…I worried about the spills, they were just kids). :-)
Or Kooper and Lillynn growling at me as we crawled around the furniture playing Monster.
Or the entire family coming over for Christmas, for Solstmas, for Easter and the Easter egg hunt, for a graduation party, for a house warming.
This furniture has been with me since Dakota came to me. From the beginnings of Willow’s, Kooper’s, Justice’s, and Lillynn’s lives. There are memories wrapped up in it.
And now it belongs to someone else, and they will make memories on it.
I’m inept when it comes to pop culture. Oh, sure, I can tell you all of the cool tech things happening. I can also name a few popular television shows and *maybe* a few popular musical groups. But I started watching Battlestar Galactica when season three was ending. I didn’t get into Star Trek the Next Generation or Deep Space Nine until well into the shows, and even then, I didn’t actually see all of the episodes until I was living in Britain ten years after the start of the former program. I *just* started watching Farscape, Doctor Who, and Torchwood.
It may come as no surprise that while I may know quite a few songs on the radio, I don’t actually know who sings them. I kept hearing about this thing called “The Hills,” and about these big stars like Kim Kardashian, but I had no idea who any of them were until Joel McHale and The Soup told me (and now I wish I had remained blissfully ignorant). There are people on the covers of magazines in supermarket checkout stands that are not familiar to me at all. I have no idea who these people are. And really I don’t care.
This week, however, it became painfully apparent to me that I’m out of the pop culture loop. First, George Carlin died. Sure, I know who he is. He’s the 7-dirty-words guy. But I never watched his routines on television. Nor did I click on the YouTube links for his routines when they were passed around blogs, twitter, and friendfeed. I didn’t really *get* him (but that might be due to the fact that I didn’t really give him much time).
There was an outpouring of sadness on the ‘net that day. I mean, everywhere I turned, people were talking about him. I didn’t have anything to add. I didn’t know enough about him to be able to add anything. Nor was I moved to do learn more. He was off my cultural radar.
Then today I receive an email from a co-worker asking me if I had been following this Matt Harding guy over the years. What? Who the hell is Matt Harding, I ask myself. So I google him. Funny…a promoter of a very specific niche of viral videos. I’d never heard of him, but millions have followed his story.
Where was I during all of this? Have I been hiding under a rock for the past 40 years? Wait…if you ask me to give you detailed synopses of Pride and Prejudice or The Temple of My Familiar, I can. If you want a treatise on the causes of the Civil War, I could probably do that, too, without much effort. If you need research done on the socio-linguistic tendencies of fifteen-year-old girls in the San Fernando Valley, I can probably give you a good idea of how they establish many of the language patterns for the entire United States.
But George Carlin, Kim Kardashian, Matt Harding, and The Hills? Nope. I haven’t a clue.
I may not agree with all of the things he says about paint graffiti and his somewhat elitist attitudes, but I love this different type of art.
What if we took different art forms and turned them upside down, inside out. Negatives from film are interesting. In fact, I’ve seen some beautiful negatives on display. What is poetry or literature reversed? Do we get alternate forms like the sestina or the short, short story? Does it become more interesting, less interesting.
What happens when the art is temporary, when dirt, or rain, can erase the hard work? Does it lose its importance? If a poem was lost when a piece of paper was burned or thrown away, we wouldn’t have record of it. Would we lose something because of it?
What kind of reverse art could you make, right now? I think I could paint my walls, still white, but if I painted in patterns, they would come out because the older paint has faded slightly. Or I could definitely do negative film prints (I have some film in my fridge right now, waiting for the big trip). What about you?
I found this weather report via Jeff, a PhD candidate at the University of Minnesota, at this Public Address. It cracked me up, so I had to subscribe to their feed. It’s just so dang funny.
I can’t wait to see how they report the weather, and any other city ongoings, as time goes on.
And, on another note, I can’t wait to get up there where the weather is 80, instead of 88. Whew, it’s been hot here.
Today is my parents’ anniversary. Fourty-two years together, and still going strong. Before I delve in further, let me say that there aren’t any images with this blog post because my parents don’t like to be photographed much and don’t want to have their images plastered all over the Internet. Out of respect for them, I am not going to post photographs of them, much as I’d love to share them with you.
I’m still reading Three Weeks with My Brother by Nicholas and Micah Sparks. It is slow going because so much of what they write really resonates with my own thoughts about my family, our interactions, and how we deal with issues. I have to put the book down because I’ll be in tears or I need to digest what was written and process it in regards to what I’m thinking about my own family.
They write about the death of their mother, and how that impacted their family. They talk about their father, who estranged himself from his family, refusing to talk to his siblings or parents, who was angry with his children. This breaks my heart because I see the same thing with my parents.
My mom used to be a vibrant, amazing woman who was the life of the party. Everyone knew her. Everyone liked her. She even ran for mayor and did fairly well for being so new to local politics and running against a man who was firmly planted in Flagstaff politics and had lots of money to back him up. And while my mom and I have never really gotten along (I can’t remember ever getting along with her, not even when I was a young child), my friends would love to go to our house after school because she was there and she was the cool mom. She got along with my siblings very well for many many years. These days, she doesn’t talk to very many people at all, least of all most of her children.
I don’t really know my dad. I lived with him for eighteen years, but I don’t really know him. He has seemed angry most of my life. I’m not sure why. I don’t know what he thinks about, what is important to him, what he dreams of. I know he likes to ride motorcycles and that he’s an amazing artist when he acts on that impulse. I know that he has had a strong relationship with his mom and that his siblings like him.
But I don’t know my parents. I love them, but I don’t know them. For so long now, they have blocked themselves off from being a part of my life at any depth. I didn’t do the shopping thing with my mom and bond over that. I wasn’t a daddy’s girl who could bat her eyelashes and get what she wanted from daddy. I think I’ve always been a disappointment, someone who changed their lives, who forced them into something they may not have done otherwise: marriage.
So while today is a day of celebration, and I did send them a card, it’s also a day of sadness. These people do not celebrate in the changes that are occurring in my life. They do not understand that so much of what I’m able to do is because of how they raised me. As the Sparks brothers write,
“But you know, in the end, you have to give them both credit for being good parents simply because of the way their kids turned out. We’re happily married, successful, ethical, and we remained close as siblings. If your kids can say the same thing later in life, won’t you think you did a good job as a parent?”
“Without a doubt,” I conceded. (p. 247)
Although I doubt you will read this, I want to put it down. Dad and Mom, you have been good parents. Look how we turned out: a professor, a doctoral student, a fireman, and a telemetry technician, each a very good place to be in life. We’re all happy, ethical, and close to one another. We have accomplished things that we all only dreamed of, and it is because of the foundations you gave us that these were possible. We are not only reaching our dreams and goals, but surpassing them.
Be proud of us. Celebrate in these accomplishments. Bask in the knowledge that if we hadn’t had you as parents, we probably wouldn’t have been able to do these things.
I love this little tool. It’s not only a cool way to look at the things we’re doing, but it’s a great way to talk about clouds, topics, and the ways things are organized.
click image for larger view
I had created a wordle for my flickr tags. It was fun. So I thought it would be fun to take another look at something I’ve been working at as long as my flickr tags (yes, dear reader, I had actually been working on my thesis topic since 2005).
This is only chapter one of my thesis, but it gives a strong overview of the language I use, the concepts I’m dealing with, and the areas of importance within the thesis. I chose that chapter mostly because it doesn’t have the case studies in it, and partly because it’s a great overview of the thesis.
What I like about wordle is that you can also choose the font, colors, and directions of your cloud. And, being the crazy semiotics lover that I am, I think that this says something about what I’m trying to share with you. So I chose tones that are indicative of the tones that are usually associated with my blog, but that are also very natural colors. I chose a font in which everything fits neatly within one another, showing the overlapping concepts, but that is also very easy to read. I chose the 1/2 and 1/2 horizontal/vertical directions because I wanted to show the ways that these concepts fit in neatly with one another.
I burst into tears at Shadow’s house this morning, moments before I was supposed to take Willow to TaeKwonDo. I had been reading the blog of another PhD student, and had been scouring the Minnesota newspapers for places to live, and it was all too much.
“I don’t think I have a strong enough background to be in school with these people.” He says there’s a reason I was accepted into the program, and it’s because I do belong there.
“If I don’t sell my house, I”ll be living out of my car.” “I’m not even sure I can afford to move.” He tells me that things will work out financially (but seriously, if I don’t sell my house, I can’t afford the mortgage AND rent in Minnesota. I will be in serious trouble).
“I’m not sure I’m smart enough.” He tells me that there are few people who think they are smart enough and that we’ve talked about this sense of futility and feeling of being in over our heads and that while part of it may be coming from being from a more disadvantaged background, much of it is just a part of being a doctoral student.
“Maybe I’m too old for this. I’m a decade older than most of the PhD students.” And he reminds me that I’m not too old, that I’m the right age for me to be doing this at this time. That if I had attempted it 15, 10, or even 5 years ago, I wouldn’t have been ready — and that my area of research wouldn’t have meant as much, taken the shape it had, or been as important to me as it is.
He’s right.
But I’m still scared. And I think that’s really what it all boils down to. I’m scared. I’m moving 5000 miles away from my family (this has grown into something akin to a fish story in that the miles from northern Arizona to Minnesota have grown over time so that now Minnesota is really located somewhere around Great Britain).
I started crying in the car today because it was my last time to see Willow in a TaeKwonDo belt test until she goes for her black belt (I told her I will do my absolute best to get home for her black belt test).
This week, I began turning over work to others. I had to sit with my supervisor and discuss the turning over of my beloved faculty to someone else. These people who I really care about and whose courses really matter to me, I have to give over to someone else. Will anyone else care about them the same way I do? Will they know who to give a lot of latitude to and who needs a lot of hands-on care? Will they know who likes to joke and tease and who is very serious and down to business? Will they be able to give the same attention to these faculty members, and care about their courses as I do? And then I realize that it won’t be possible, but I shouldn’t worry about it. The faculty will be fine. They will be in good hands. My colleagues are good at what they do, even when we do it differently (and we are all very individual in how we approach our work).
Then I had to talk about turning over my web maintenance / editorial functions. I’ve been the department editor for all website / collateral / whatever else we’ve needed since I arrived in this department. The website content is my baby. I’ve nurtured it and raised it. The entire content of the FAQ system wasn’t around before I started creating it and then others jumped in and helped populate it. And while I’ve developed a pretty good style guide, the next person (who is more than capable and might even be a better editor than I am), won’t have the same style I do. And the position is being split into two: one editor, one person to convert it to web-enabled content. Both people are really good at what they do and I trust them to do well with it. But it’s still something I’ve really devoted so much time to and will miss doing.
I’m off to do something I’m passionate about. But saying goodbye to people and things I love is hard.
I’m reading Three Weeks with My Brother by Nicholas Sparks (author of The Notebook and Message in a Bottle, among others) and Micah Sparks, his brother. In this autobiographical narrative, the two brothers take the trip of lifetime: an around-the-world trip. They leave their families, embarking on an adventure with one another, discovering new cultures, and, in the process, rediscovering their brotherhood and the power that goes along with that.
I’m the odd one out usually. I’m the oldest. I’m the female. I’m a type A. I’m introverted. I’m single. I’m different. I’ve had experiences in life that no one in my family can quite understand, try as they might
Threes aren’t usually good numbers (despite it being the magical number of Schoolhouse Rock). It’s harder to divide things up. It’s harder to have phone calls. It’s harder to decide who gets front seats in cars, and who gets the best rooms when deciding sleeping arrangements. It’s harder to decide where to stay when there are two homes to choose from.
todd
As I’m reading the Sparks’ words, I’m overcome with this intense appreciation for my brothers. Even in this dynamic, where I’m included so often, I’m the odd duck. I’m not a brother. I’m not a middle child. That’s where it all ends, though. These two brothers of mine, who could not be more different, have one commonality: they love me.
I know, like the Sparks, that my brothers and I have been rocks for one another. It was only last Friday when Shadow and I stood in my storage unit, getting things ready for a yard sale, and we were talking about our relationship. He said to me (I’m paraphrasing because I don’t recall his exact words, but this was the sentiment), “I know that no matter what, you and Todd will always be there for me. No matter what. I can’t say that of anyone else in the world. Even spouses aren’t bound by the same fidelity that we, as siblings, are.” I agreed. It’s a very special, very deep bond that we share. Who else in the world would understand why we do some of the things we do? No one else has that wealth of understanding besides our siblings.
shadow
Even our sister, whom we love very much, cannot understand. She’s ten years younger than me, missing out on so many of the events that shaped our young lives. She has a different relationship with each of us, based upon those experiences. But Todd, Shadow, and I lived a life that is shared.
In one chapter of the book (a book I borrowed from Todd’s office a few weeks ago and need to return before I move, btw), the brothers Sparks are in Cambodia. They have just visited the Killing Fields and are humbled and saddened by the events that took place there. As this story occurs, interwoven is the story of their youth. At this point, Nicholas Sparks has married, become a father for the first time, and is moving across the country, away from his father (his mother had recently passed), brother, and sister. And I’m struck by this. While our circumstances are different (I’m not married, not a parent, and don’t have a deceased parent), there are many similarities. He writes,
I could feel the tears coming, but tried to hold them back. We’d come to depend heavily on each other in the last three years, but I tried to diminish the significance of what was happening. I told myself that we were simply moving; it wasn’t as if we wouldn’t see each other again. I’d come to visit him and he’d come to see me. We’d talk on the phone.
I can feel this event coming. I called Todd a few weeks ago and said I’d like to visit him and and his wife one final time before I go. I probably made it sound so final because he said to me that it wasn’t as if I was dying. We’d visit. We’d talk on the phone. But there is something more to it. There is a tearing of these powerful bonds that we’ve worked so hard to create. Distance makes things different. Living one state away isn’t so bad. It still feels like that person is very close (at least that’s how I felt when he lived in California). But I’m moving to an entirely different cultural section of our country.
I’m worried that I’ll be forgotten. I’m worried that no one will visit, that I’ll be lonely, that I will no longer be included in THE FAMILY. That maybe my family will be better off with me gone, and they’ll be glad for it. I worry that I don’t have any anchor…that there will be no reason for them to want me to visit. I worry.
I know it’s not true, but it’s how my emotions are getting the best of me.
The Sparks write
In the house were a thousand memories; in my mind, I could hear mom’s laughter from the kitchen, and see my brother and sister at the table. For the second time in my life, I was leaving my family, but this time was different. The last time I left, I’d been a teenager; now I had a family of my own; I knew I’d never be moving back.
In this town, there are a million memories: proms, graduations, houses, cars, weddings, births. I left and came back. I was drawn back. Now, when people ask me if I’ll be back, I say probably not. I will go where the work takes me. Flagstaff won’t be my home. I will be a visitor, someone who remembers what this town used to be like, when my brothers and I swept in like a storm, playing air guitar, becoming pool sharks, and learning how to love one another.
I hope, maybe after I graduate, that my brothers and I can take a trip like the Sparks brothers. I want us to experience new things, to share and enjoy one another, and learn from one another.
A lifetime with my brothers may not be long enough.
Let me preface by stating that I did not vote for either Clinton or Obama in the primaries, and I think that there are faults with both of them in terms of who should be President of the United States (but their faults, from my perspective, are far less than those of McCain).
This primary season has killed all joy and hope in terms of a great political race for me. I’m exhausted by it (and I can only imagine how the candidates feel). The racial and misogynistic outcries from people in and out of the campaigns have really made this a difficult race to support.
All of this being said, I was dismayed by the responses of so many people last night, including candidates.
As the countdown of the primaries concluded yesterday evening, Obama’s campaign was counting down how many super delegates had pledged their support. I watched the countdown via both Twitter and FriendFeed. I watched people cheer Obama on. I watched as it got closer and closer to the final number of delegates needed (this was really counted down, one by one).
I’m all for cheering your candidate on. I think it’s great that so many people are so passionate about this race, and that so many people are interested in politics. All I have to say to that is that it’s about time. Where have you all been?
Ahem. Anyway…what bothered me were the comments about Clinton during this. These same people could not resist making digs at Clinton. Fine, that might be the fun of politics for them. But some of them were personal and misogynistic and were troubling. Then, I was confused by the vehemence of responses when Clinton didn’t concede the race immediately.
There are a few things that bother me about this. First, just because delegates have pledged their vote, doesn’t mean they *will* vote that way. Second, Obama declared himself the winner when the race has been so close, a bit presumptuous I think. Third, Obama and McCain have pretty much excluded Clinton for a few months, battling one another (smacks of a boy’s club). Fourth, if another candidate had decided that it was prudent to wait a few hours to make a decision, I’m sure that some latitude would be given to that person.
Frankly, that Clinton said that she didn’t want to make any snap decisions, that she wanted to think about this, made me respect her more. It tells me that she’s thoughtful, careful, and considerate about her actions. We know she can make snap decisions because she has. But she has now shown us that she is also a very considerate person in her actions.
And what is that old cliche? Actions speak louder than words. In this case, it really was a good decision.
Whatever she chooses to do, that one statement made me respect her. It would be our loss to not have her as an advocate for the citizens of the US in one capacity or another.
by Nicholas and Micah Sparks. It is slow going because so much of what they write really resonates with my own thoughts about my family, our interactions, and how we deal with issues. I have to put the book down because I’ll be in tears or I need to digest what was written and process it in regards to what I’m thinking about my own family.
