Compartmentalization, sans my sanity

I've decided to organize my life - or at least my writing. I've recently discovered that this space for free expression might not provide for half of the writing that comes out of my head here at school - for real assignments and projects. I imagine the different types of textual expressions having a Fight Club-esque smackdown. It doesn't look pretty. While I hope to be professional all the time (different definitions of professional), this blog was founded on personal musings way back in 2010, instead of a different gusto that can define the outer arts world I write about and/or my future career. I mean, what future employer wants to read about an indecisive, mushy, selfish 20-something and all her blunders? Not that every word thus far has not been worth it.

This sort of compartmentalization has a lot to do with me. If you didn't know it, I'm a freak about organization. I'm not OCD, but it makes me, um, happy to know where everything is situated. On the other hand, there's a part of me that wants to throw all that same organized shit (excuse me) into a raging bonfire in the alley behind my apartment. So I can be free of it. So I can let go.

I suppose we can keep the raging fire going here in this space, while my professional (I just made fun of that word in my head by saying it with flamboyant quote hands) life can appear well-organized.

Aren't we all torn in two? Maybe not. Maybe it's just me.

So, I've decided to create a new blog - but I don't like to call it that. We'll call it a writing portfolio. If you want to read what I'm writing about culture, art, and all of those fancy things, you can visit my new "writing portfolio" here. Still in it's beginning stages. These things are also important to me, and they deserve a place to breathe. Otherwise, you can stick around at Definitions - for another round of very unprofessional shots and endless pitchers of Blue Moon around the fire, while I continue to attempt to define my life as it goes. I think the shots will help.

It just hit me how jealous Blogger and "Definitions" in particular are going to be when I'm spending my school nights with Wordpress. But, what the eff, it's just a computer, and computers are not and never will be as smart as, nor have the emotional and creative capacity of, human beings.

And, here, I'm also assuming that anyone is reading this. How arrogant of me. But, just in case you are, reader, I'd like to dedicate this new re-organization to you. That's weird, I've never dedicated something like that to anyone. Because I want you to know how important you are to me. And if you are very well reading, thank you for rambling along with me. It's possible a young woman simply needs a space to ramble, reflect, pray, and dream...right?

Here's me, happy to know you. Sans bonfire. I'll keep it together, I promise. Although that straw elephant would light right up.

Cheers!

Follow-up: I cave.

In relation to my last post, I will submit to some truth in my own writing. The only way I can do so is to insert an excerpt from a previous paper I've written. Yes, about the dying art of print journalism. Let me go bury my face in a pillow for a few seconds. Be right back.

December 13, 2011

“When someone demands to know how we are going to replace newspapers, they are really demanding to be told that we are not living through a revolution. They are demanding to be told that old systems won’t break before news systems are in place. They are demanding to be told that ancient social bargains aren’t in peril, that core institutions will be spared, that new methods of spreading information will improve previous practice rather than upending it,” writes media analyst Clay Shirky in his online essay Newspapers and Thinking the Unthinkable. “They are demanding to be lied to. There are fewer and fewer people who can convincingly tell such a lie.”

While aiming to tackle the facts, bring art history to life, and make good art into narrative, the arts journalist now faces the the decline of print journalism and the birth of the blogosphere. Both create greater obstacles for arts advocacy.

The newspaper used to be a direct line of arts communication. Arts writers within were able to heighten awareness of the arts and define its role in a community – critiquing individual exhibits, performances, productions or products, educating readers about current art offerings in a social or historical context, and demystifying the creative process.

Today, newspapers in places like Denver and Seattle have lost their second papers. San Franciso, Miami, and Philadelphia were discussing the dissappearance of their daily printed news as early as 2009. The Detroit Free Press printed three times a week then. Even The New York Times sold Renzo Piano Tower, made steep cost cuts, and threatened to close its susidiary, The Boston Globe.

An online news engine, Miller-McCune, clearly addresses the crisis. “The situation is most dire for the journalist themselves, who find themselves no longer able to make a living pursuing their passion, but it is also of great concern to arts administrators, who are just now coming to grips with the impending cutoff of one of their strongest lines of communication with the community.” writes Tom Jacobs in “Will Critique Work For Food.”

...but here's what I concluded...

Efforts for art advocacy and definition are on the rise. Engine29 defines itself as “a project for constructing an argument for arts journalism.” It was an experiment that gathered 29 arts journalists from across America and around the world for ten days in November. The journalists worked on six projects aimed to define arts journalism. They documented what they found out on their website, engine29.org.

In one project entitled “We Are All Journalists. Now What?” a segment of their findings addresses today’s arts journalists. “We are nosy; curious; passionate; inquisitive. We are all storytellers — grown up daydreamers operating in reality,” speaks Celeste Headlee, a recent Midwest correspondent for NPR.

“The reality is, the numbers do not cease the work of measuring how many of us are disappearing. Yes, we know our pages are shrinking. We have heard our listeners are tuning out and viewers are turning away. Where once we kept them rapt with the expertise of our craft, there are other voices now — many other voices now — that compete for their attention. The world evolves. And so we must, too.”

Bollocks. 

Thoughts on Provisionality

Is first person "blogging" actually journalism? I'm a journalist, but I would never claim my blog as a legitimate form of journalism. Hence my struggle with terms likened to "arts journalism." And, hence my struggle with the realm of arts education with which I am currently acquainted.

 ---

I cannot tell you how frustrating it is NOT holding my subscription to Blackhawks Magazine in my hands. Or the New York Times Magazine. Or a real live book. The computer screen's brightness can kill the appeal of great design - meant for print. Untouchable, unreachable. We can also blog about our person, in the most personal of ways. And maybe that's part of the reason the overnight uproar against SOPA and PIPA snowballed so quickly. Half of Internet users seemed in a panic because they believed their precious emotional invincibility on the World Wide Web was ultimately threatened. In the end, it was a power struggle between the web and Hollywood, not to mention the government and the people.

 ---

Sometimes, it's unsettling when I think about how much time I spend staring at a screen, in one day. I ask myself the same question these same days: Remember the time when Ella Fitzgerald didn't have the Internet and she was (and is still is) the best? But then I proceed to enter her name in Google search, YouTube her videos (man, it's a verb, now), and enter an online library to view electronic books about her music.

Of course, here I am blogging (sort of emotionally) about how much I loathe the fact that Blogger and Youtube, and Twitter are creating a new "Golden Age" of journalism. I might be getting it all wrong, misunderstanding and/or forgetting the good things that the web is doing for great writers - and journalists - all over the world.

But at the end of the day, when all I've done is read words, peruse photos, and watch videos from a giant expanding universe of digital information (often misleading, untrustworthy), I just close the "window." Then, thank the Lord, I can get some real fresh air by opening a real one.

First Love

http://online.wsj.com/article/APe438a5e836ac4412a6eb7e6ec2fd522b.html
http://www.reuters.com/article/2012/01/20/us-kodak-hollywood-idUSTRE80J07D20120120

Dearest Kodak film,

I want to you to know how much I loved you, and love you still. You mean a great deal to me. I even planned to dedicate an entire room to you - a darkroom, and the development of you therein. Once I finally owned my own home. Even though the news says you are "stuck in time," you'll always be timeless to me.

I'll never forget the moment I saw you. I shuttered at your beauty and mystery. As our relationship developed, the emulsion layers were peeled away to our chemical romance. You were the color in my life.

Thank you for all the photographic memories you have provided for my family, and myself. Though my face and the faces of the ones I love will never again appear on your plastic or cellulose acetate emulsion and light sensitive salts and gelatin, your flawless exposition and radiation will always have a place in my heart.

Remember those times we spent together in the dark - before the light emerged and showed us the bright and beautiful world in black and white, then color. I know I'll never forget.

Don't worry because I will never throw away Grandma's Brownie Camera. And all those empty film canisters will be filled with nothing but love. You may think me distant for moving on to Nikon digital, the supposed diversion of my attention for you, but I am never far away. A girl never forgets her first love, nor does it ever leave her completely.

Forever Yours,
Lindsey

 

A Year of Light: In 24 Photographs

It's been a terribly long time since I've written...anything. And now, I disappoint myself once again by not writing something completely coherent or smooth. Because earlier today, I was a little inspired by Time Magazine's "LightBox 365: A Year In Photographs." You can take a look at it here: http://lightbox.time.com/2011/12/31/lightbox-365-a-year-in-photographs/#2. I would recommend it.

So, in lieu of my I-want-to-do-something-to-remind-me-how-grateful-I-am-for-2011-in-a-new-year-blog-post-that-I-haven't-done-yet, I dug up some photos - not one from everyday (that's so many!), but one from every month of last year...okay, we're gonna go with two. So many tiny fraction-of-a-second loaded moments.

By the way, I am so grateful for you, because it's likely I knew you in 2011. Ha. And I'm so happy to know you now. These photos are certainly not the very best photos from each month, because there are too many captured moments in all, too many blessings and people to be contained to 24 images.

Cool. I'm excited. Let's do it.

JANUARY

 

I entered the phase of Photo Booth self-portraiture. I admit it. I shamelessly wanted to document the days I maybe looked cuter than other days. I also began to theme my photographs with warm or cool colors (according to the season - blues for January, right?). This continued throughout the year. And, the painting in the background is my sad attempt to channel a little bit of Georgia O'Keefe sensibility.

 

Here's a favorite photo from "the quad" at Concordia University. It's after the first big snow of the winter. My long-boarder friend Andrew is featured in the center. I sure hope he doesn't read this. If it he does, I might as well say that he keep up the good work of his go-big-or-go-home grins at the ladies and distribution of skipping-heartbeats as he passes through the quad on his long board. I cannot believe I just wrote that. I wish him the best.

FEBRUARY

 

This photo marks the first time in my life I received flowers from someone other than my Mom or my high school prom dates. My best bud Jesse remembered how much I loathe roses and how much I wanted, someday, to just get some flowers from someone I cared about. These are it. Thanks, Jesse. I cannot tell you enough how much that meant to me. You know, Jesse probably doesn't read this, either, since he doesn't read my text messages. But, in the hope that he might be reading: 

Jesse, call your friends!

At some point, I started lying on my floor for long periods of time, looking up and pondering big life questions. In this particular episode, I questioned shirt-sleeve evolution, its social influences, and its artistic relevance.

MARCH

 

The Klenz. The Tanney. These two dashing fellows kept me sane in my old college age, if you know what I mean. This photo was taken in the new field house at Concordia University. I was there to photograph some tennis matches for the school newspaper. Luckily, I ran into these two, and this dreary, awkward day was turned upside down by a reminder to me of their existence in my life. I miss them.

Thus begins my strange fascination with fish - and aquatic photography. This was taken at the Shedd Aquarium in Chicago, after first-time dreadful apartment-hunting in a very new city. This little guy seemed to bring life to the freezing rain outside. Now, after meeting him, I sometimes dream about really cool fish. One in particular, the other night, was a Bob Marley fish - with dreads, yes. Please proceed to raise me on the weird-meter in your head. It's okay.

APRIL

 

There's a special weekend at Concordia University called "Spring Weekend." It's full of awesome (sometimes really weird and effed up) shenanigans. This was the first year, after two groundbreaking, liberating Spring Weekends with my best friends, that I didn't participate in the festivities. So, I volunteered myself to take photos of all the best events for the newspaper. Actually, I assigned them to myself, since I was the photo editor. And, boy, was that a great decision. This photo: Team Team, with the hunchback, the unicyclist in wrestling tights, and some guy I don't know with a wig. Like I said, awesome and effed up with a nice epic quality. It just doesn't have an explanation. No, really, I have no idea.

 

Even though this snapshot wreaks of cheesy facial expressions, it was part of a very exciting day. Here I am with Jessica, Jesse, Chad, and Theron. I look ridiculous because I'm wearing my choir dress with the puffy shoulders, and I've just received a letter that confirms my move to Chicago, where I will enter grad school...at an art school. I think the look on my face is partly "Whoa, Georgia O'Keefe studied at this school!" January painting attempts came back to me then. Earlier that day, I was crying (an embarrassing amount) about my last A Cappella Choir concert. A few minutes before this photo, I was crying in a very different way. Thanks, guys, for driving all the way to First Street to hug me and celebrate.

MAY

 

The final days of school. Together. With good friends. The balloons were made for Paul and Caley's homecoming, and then they came home! So, we celebrated. This photo is my life with the people I love. I also wanted to document our desperation for fun-ness when there's almost nothing more to do in the quaint and humble town of Seward but bop around balloons like good 'ole 90s kids would.

 

Me. And my pal Alex. Our happy selves on a lazy, beautiful spring afternoon. What a day that was. I'm a little speechless at the memories that accompany this photo, so I'll let it breathe a little.

JUNE

 

Laughter really is the best medicine...especially during a full week at camp. Here are some friends of mine, full of life, gusto, hope, and love. I almost can't get over their mysterious truth in this picture. God is good, all the time. All the time, God is good. And so is His mysterious majesty in His creation of man and laughter.

 

This is possibly what the inside of my brain looks like. Or, what I wished it looked like. This photo was taken at Carol Joy Holling Camp, just a short walk from the Sjogren Center, where the photo above took place. These photographic memories have a great big place in my heart.

JULY

 

A nice glass of Cutthroat Porter was a large contributor to the first day I got drunk before 2 p.m. No ordinary beer fest (no, nothing like the movie). It took place in the mountains of Colorado. I guess the altitude might explain my timely drunkenness. A trip to Alamosa was one of the best 10-hour drives I have ever made. Multiple glasses of kiwi beer, my first Jagerbomb, my first Irish Car Bomb. Enough said. The greatest was time spent with a friend, his family, and his roots.

 

One more photo of camp, when the crickets came out and perspectives were strangely illuminated on a makeshift stage. There's something about this photo that is striking and beautiful. And again, mysteeeeeerious. I use that word too much.

AUGUST

 

This is a dirt track racing moment that my Dad, my brother, and my brother's friend, Charlie, would probably not make sentimental like I am. Just under a half hour after I took this photo, the motor blew, a huge white cloud of smoke swallowed my brother and the car, and I realized, again, how dear these men are to me.

 

Nothing like a reunion with these guys, after a long summer. 

They are the bee's knees, I tell you. 

Not long after this photo could I even remember this photo was taken.

SEPTEMBER

 

The first big art gallery opening in the first big city I've lived. This gallery contained work by Angel Otero. I sort of got lost - in many different ways - this night. 

http://angelotero.com/home.html

 

Here begins my undying affection for the Chicago Blackhawks and the sport of hockey. Sometimes, I really do think this organization and its professional athletes got me through a few rough months in my young adult life. That sounds a little dramatic. It really isn't. But, I really do have to thank my friend, Katy - not just for sharing the Blackhawks with me, but for her friendship.

OCTOBER

 

A kiddo. And pumpkins. A day when Steph and I got to be like kiddos and, well, not really like pumpkins. A Cinderella reference would be a little much here. But we got to spend some quality time with these great pumpkins - and each other.

 

Our shoebox apartment started to grow on me. The objects here have strange auras. I think these weird little halos of color symbolize the objects' sentimental value in a cozy place, now full of new memories.

 

NOVEMBER

 

A trip to St. Louis, and some quality time with Chris T. If you know him, you're lucky. If you don't, you should. Ha. Kidding. Well, not really kidding. Eh. But really, this trip was wonderful, and so were all of the people we visited in St. Louis and the surrounding area. I love you all, and you know who you are.

 

This is my Mom. I love you, Mom. That's all.

DECEMBER

 

I am proud to talk about how well I can navigate the public transportation system in Chicago. Granted, it's one of the better-engineered ones in the nation, and also one of the most interesting and friendly ways to go to and from the places I now call home...most days.

 

And now, we've come full circle to another self-portrait. I guess some things never change when Photo Booth is involved. Guilty. I'd like to thank Mary Poppins. 

And you. 

-----

"In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed."

- 1 Corinthians 15:52

When I was sinking down

Sometimes, when I have too much time to think about it ("it" being my "love life" and the time being those days right after the student finally realizes that there are absolutely no papers to write for absolutely zero classes), my heart gets heavy. Sometimes, your body is weighed down by some inexplicable force besides gravity. It can happen on the train, alone, witnessing a moment. A specific person comes to mind immediately. That person is the exact emotional and relatable substance you want to be sitting or standing next to you when you see or hear this particular moment. But, they're not there. That's all about missing someone, I know. Lots of people. It happens. Maybe it's also because my body's heavy from being sick, or because I miss my close friends, far away, or because I'm not singing. Or, the reality that, even during the "happy" holidays, hate, greed, and hunger still happen. True loneliness, grief, longing, inpenetrable sorrow.

God still calls us to lift our heavy hearts, bodies, emotions, not just at Christmas time but all the time. Because the Baby Jesus DID come and he DID die for you and me. So, it counts for something that we spread the cheer - faithfully and whole-heavy-heartedly keep the love going around all year long, not ignoring the evil, but spreading the good, not glossing it over, but penetrating it wherever it might be.

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. - 2 Corinthians 1:3-4

As for my "love life," it's the only thing that's actually "lonely," but me, myself? I have so much to make me, well, not alone, which makes for a full, heavy heart.

What wondrous love is this
That caused the Lord of bliss
To bear the dreadful curse for my soul.

When I was sinking down,

Beneath God’s righteous frown,
Christ laid aside His crown for my soul.

To God and to the Lamb I will sing;
Who is the great I AM,
While millions join the theme, I will sing.

And when from death I’m free, I’ll sing on,
And when from death I’m free
I’ll sing His love for me,
And through eternity I’ll sing on.

Manchester Victoria Station

I came across some of my old poetry the other day - some that I wrote in the last five years. Seems more like a decade ago, because so much has happened. It was comforting to read my own words again, knowing exactly what they mean. Maybe it's because they're still all my words, not really meant for an audience. Not an essay, a review, a feature story. Just poetry. Just words and lines, and my own goofy life between the spaces and line breaks, inside and underneath. Maybe it's selfish, but it really is something to look back, know yourself then, and know yourself now.

I wrote Manchester Victoria Station for a poetry publication in college. The critics of the publication said there was a tragedy and desperate longing in the poem. I agree, and that stinking hopelessness really is there, because that's what I thought a lot of things were - hopeless. I've never even been to Manchester. It's ironic that I would write a "love" poem about it, though, because putting the thoughts into words confirms something, not sure what, maybe the existence of that actual hope of going there someday and having the conversation. It's all forgettable and memorable at the same time. So utterly and despicably sentimental.

I haven't written a poem in two years. Now, I don't think every thought and sentence has to be poetically unforgettable and sentimental. Not that all poetry is like that or should be. But, the sappiness of my old words has probably disappeared because reality slapped it right out of me. Sometimes, though, I still think in measure, iambic pentameter, and hopeless romanticism. But that's rare now, because I realize actual love isn't held together by these things.

Our kneecaps touched on the train.

A five-hour surge soda

pulsed through my veins,

at the touch of our denims

Your lips fluttered,

smooth and jagged at once

while stories spilled out and

laughter echoed them apart

Mine put to shame,

as they were bitten

and trembling

I felt your big-hearted blue eyes

wash over me

as

     I

       stepped

     off the stool and 

     onto the brick.

Your warm hand

on the small of my back

the fog of air from your mouth

hazing me closer

I could only hear the song of

the tickle of our eyelashes

And your smile

draping the rims of my mouth

And our kneecaps tapping gently

as your heat filled my lungs