south of the loop

One of my MAPH-mates really said it best in the title of his most recent blog post. It’s exactly how I feel right now.

So now my master’s thesis is done. Done. Done. People keep congratulating each other, “whew” and “thank God” and “we did it,” but it’s a little bittersweet. The school year is coming to a close along with my academic career, and I have to start thinking about the real world… I’d really much rather have the kind of time for writing that I’ve had this year. Obviously “time” is a relative term given that the U of C loads us up pretty well, but it’s so different from the working world. Which I have to re-enter. Soon. And frankly, the thought of having to be anywhere at 8 or 8:30 in the morning FIVE DAYS A WEEK is much more than my worn out little brain can deal with right now. Did I really used to do that? (No, I know I was never actually anywhere as dreadfully early as 8:30am, but still… even 9:30am sounds painful).

I apologize if my next few posts are babbly and incoherent, but I’ve put all my narrative and descriptive energies into the thesis I turned in today, so I might need to recharge. I am pleased that it’s done, and I’m mostly pleased with how it turned out, although I could have kept tweaking it indefinitely. Tim did an absolutely ASTOUNDING job with the layout (a beautiful pdf file available upon request so that you, too, might ooh and aah over the sculptural qualities of the “Stone” typeface) and helped me come up with a title that I’m pretty pleased with: Beholder and Beheld: Essays from the space between. Not bad!

So now that the Blessed Day has arrived, I’m going to do what every new mother desperately wants to do, but cannot: sleep for about seventeen straight hours. And when I awake, my mewling newborn will still be in the hands of my advisor, and I will be left to begin damage control for the two classes I’ve been neglecting.

* * *

current book: I’m quite sure I should be reading at least four other books for my classes, but I have literally not looked at the syllabi in a week.
current music: my roommate just sent me an mp3 of Louis Prima’s “Banana Split for My Baby,” which kind of rules
current socks: ooh, these are good ones! black with a bombshell PINUP COWGIRL sitting atop a barbed wire fence. or, as my high school history teacher used to say, bob wahr.

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Don't worry: the only thing I'm pregnant with is a thesis. It's been nine months in the making, though, and I'm nearing the final days before delivery. I've got to keep my strength up for the arduous process ahead of me.

It's often said that pregnant women crave pickles and ice cream (although I have it on good authority that McDonald's Filet o' Fish–no cheese–is much more appetizing). Since the only extra hormones I'm producing are stress-related, I have been craving (and eating) nachos and ice cream. Hopefully this will keep me going until The Blessed Day when I turn in my thesis.

Please don't call me. I can't talk, only babble about "aura" and "immersion" and other such nonsense. If you email me or leave a comment here, it should include something along the lines of "your thesis fucking ROCKS." I'm so entrenched in it right now that all I see are its inadequacies, and as delicious as nachos and ice cream are, they do not provide the sort of ego boost that, say, shots of whiskey might. However, it's probably ill-advised to drink right now, as it might seriously compromise the health and well-being of my thesis.

* * *

current book: seriously?
current music: my favorite writing music: Anner Bylsma performing Bach's Cello Suites
current socks: stripey Grumpy Bear socks

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Last night, I drowned my thesis sorrows in:

• one IBC root beer
• one-half of a medium shroom & spinach pizza
• one hour of America's Next Top Model
• three consecutive hours of Grey's Anatomy

Slightly hungover, but otherwise feeling much better today. Spent the afternoon confronting my thesis and attempting to organize and discipline the notions of immediacy, authenticity, wonderment, and aura. Meeting with Advisor on Monday. 

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I just got official comments back on the rough draft of my essay. It includes things such as “this is in decent shape for a formal rough draft, but you have a frenzy of work ahead of you,” and “rewrite the entire first essay from scratch,” and “You’re in danger of making us chuckle” (not in a good way!).

Damn.

See you sometime after May 22. I’ve got a frenzy of work ahead of me.

* * *

current book: the essay “Narration in the Fiction Film” by David Bordwell. Yawn. oh, and also my thesis. perhaps only my thesis for the next month.
current music: Joy Division’s “She Lost Control” over and over and over and over
current socks: I think today shows a clear need for the crabby socks. they are bright turquoise with red crabs all over them.

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One thing I've learned about writing this year is that much of it is a science. Grammar plays a huge part in elegance and eloquence, and part of being a good writer is being able to tap into that during the revision process. But, of course, much of it remains subjective.

I just received comments on one of my essays from An Established Writer (not Advisor or Preceptor). Writer read the essay about my experience of seeing a Georgia O'Keeffe calendar seven months after condition-reporting the original painting. The essay begins in Borders at Christmastime, where I saw the O'Keeffe calendar with Yellow Cactus on the cover. It moves to the Eiteljorg museum, where I condition-reported Yellow Cactus, and then to Taos, where the painting was born. I think it's probably my strongest essay, and I've worked and worked and worked to tighten the narrative structure. I want it to take the reader on the same kind of journey that the painting took me on. I want it to stare art right in the face, with lush, vivid, descriptions, and then take a step back and think about why my experiences were so powerful.

Writer suggested that that framework was awkward and unnecessary. He says:

The problem is that your great subject–the difference between studying an original painting and looking at a mere reproduction–is hung, so to speak, in an awkward frame: the Borders/Christmas thing. You can cut all of that stuff and lose almost nothing. I know it's there to warm up to your subject, and to provide some comedy, but the reader doesn't want to warm up, she wants to go straight to the chase. And Christmas is not funny. It's been done to death. Avoid the subject at all cost. Your framing of your real, original story with this device detracts from the fascinating process of "interrogating" the paintings with the loupe, about which I urge you to say even more in your next draft. Hone in on that and the unnecessary information about Borders and Christmas and Taos' "discovery" by the white man and Walter Benjamin will fade away entirely, or into a mere sentence or two, and your essay will come into perfect focus. It's almost there.

This is incredibly interesting advice, and I don't really know what to make of it. I like the idea of having a framework that, to use museum jargon, is a kind of way-finder for the reader. And I've been pretty attached to the idea of reflecting on my experiences, not just relating them (hence Walter Benjamin). But I also appreciate that those aren't the strongest moments of the essay.

I've been working on this essay for months and months now, and it's difficult for me to have a good idea of what a reader might want. So I'm paying close attention to Writer's advice, since he hasn't seen previous versions of this essay. And subjectivity reenters the scene: who's to say that framework is better than no framework? Advisor and Preceptor–both excellent writers–have encouraged a narrative framework that carries the writer through the story. I wish that this was as scientific as establishing elegance through fun grammatical tricks, and I wish that there was some gold standard I could hold my work up to compare to.

I thought that the worst of the frustration would be over now that I've turned my rough draft in. How wrong I was… but I'm going to play around with Writer's advice and see what I think of the essay when it's been stripped of its frame. Stay tuned.

* * *

current book: still Mrs. Dalloway, although I'm far, far, behind where I should be
current music: The Deathray Davies' The Kick and The Snare
current socks: "I Heart San Francisco" socks covered in hearts and trolleys and sunshines and palm trees and golden gate bridges

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I really do love the irony of spending Easter in Zionsville. I arrived in Zionsville Friday night in the midst of a huge storm. I rather like the idea of big thunderstorms before Easter; it seems an appropriate way of announcing death and resurrection. And there is other Good News to announce: the rough draft of my thesis is polished, shiny, and turned in!!!!! Hooray! I'll get the revisions back in 11 days or less, and then I'll have till May 22 to keep polishin' away.

Some pictures from this Easter…

This little guy was hanging on to the back door for dear life, even once the thunder and lightening subsided.

This is OC (that's "Outdoor Cat," not "Orange County") peering into the basement:

And Easter itself, in all its springtime glory:

* * *

current book: Mrs. Dalloway (for my Time & Narrative class)
current music: I might be going to see Canasta again tonight. With that in mind, I've been listening to their cover of Kraftwerk's "The Model."
current socks: light blue with chocolate bunnies–with one missing ear, natch.

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One concept I am really struggling with as I finish my thesis is the idea of the “aura,” which was so named by literary critic Walter Benjamin. He is a beautiful writer, but I have it on good authority that the concept of the “aura” is one of the most difficult things he talks about. That makes me feel a little bit better about all the time I’m investing in trying to understand it. Here’s a sample of what I’m trying to untangle right now. It’s from a 1931 essay entitled “Little History of Photography:”

“What is aura, actually? A strange weave of space and time: the unique appearance or semblance of distance, no matter how close it may be. While at rest on a summer’s noon, to trace a range of mountains on the horizon, or a branch that throws its shadow on the observer, until the moment or the hour become part of their appearance–this is what it means to breathe the aura of those mountains, that branch. Now, to bring things closer to us, or rather to the masses, is just as passionate an inclination in our day as the overcoming of whatever is unique in every situation by means of its reproduction. Every day the need to possess the object in close-up in the form of a picture, or rather a copy, becomes more imperative. And the difference between the copy, which illustrated papers and newsreels keep in readiness, and the original picture is unmistakable. Uniqueness and duration are as intimately intertwined in the latter as are transience and reproducibility in the former.”

* * *

current book: see above
current music: “A Perfect Day” by Eiffel Tower. sweet, gritty pop bliss.
current socks: red stripes n’ hearts. yes, I know valentine’s day was two months ago.

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One of my creative nonfiction peers writes a lot about her family. I really admire that–I can't imagine writing about people who will almost certainly read what you've said about them. Can you even imagine David Sedaris' family, wondering and worrying that that one embarrassing thing they said at Thanksgiving dinner will find its way to the best seller list? My writing has so far been exclusively about my own experiences, so if any other characters figure in, it's only for narrative purposes. Only as needed to tell the story.

I shared an essay from my thesis (part of which is excerpted in Part I of this post) with two former co-workers today. One of them had condition-reported with me: she was one of the people I switched places with over and over, sharing the duties of measuring paint loss and recording the locations. She reminded me of the stories we found on the backs of the paintings. Georgia O'Keeffe and Alfred Stieglitz's signatures. Bits and pieces of paper with records of who had purchased the painting. Nearly a century of history scrawled in black crayon on the reverse side of red poppies and white jimson weed.

The other co-worker couldn't believe I had lived through this experience and not shared it. It's a good question: Why didn't I drag everybody I knew into the gallery and say, "Look! That's where the hair from Georgia O'Keeffe's siamese cat is! That's where black paint is splattered over bright yellow petals!"? How could I have kept these secrets until now?

I think part of the answer lies in the process of writing. Capturing something on paper changes it: now it has to be deliberate and meaningful. It has to tell a story. When I started writing this essay for my thesis, I had to recall those details of condition-reporting, mull them over, run my fingers over them, pick them up and roll them around in my palms, smell them, re-live them in every way. And then I had to make a story out of them.

Part of the magic of condition-reporting hit me seven months after the fact, when I came across one of those closely-examined paintings in the form of a wall calendar. That's when I realized just how powerful the condition-reporting had been. That's when the details came rushing back, when my palms sweated and my fingers quivered with the memories of those paintings.

Something we've been talking about in my Time & Narrative class is the difference between lived time and recorded time, and I think that distinction is pertinent here. It's almost too obvious: when we record an event, it is no longer the lived moment. It's why we write. It's why we make films. It's why we make art. Narrating the event lets us roll those ideas and memories around in our brains. It lets us find beauty in the mundane, and a story in the everyday.

But I'm fascinated with how both co-workers inserted themselves into my story. I wonder if I somehow wrote them in by omission, that by focusing on how the events affected me, I also indirectly asked how the events affected them, since we all worked together while the condition-reporting was taking place. I wonder if David Sedaris' family does something similar. I wonder if his essays make his family find stories in the everyday. I wonder if they think, "Why didn't he tell me that then?" But maybe it's just this writing thing that gives the mundane a story to tell.

* * *

current book: May 2006 issue of The Atlantic Monthly. Finally! A (brief) break from Ricoeur!
current music: Dengue Fever, Escape from Dragon House
current socks: purple and polka-dotted

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Condition-reporting is the task that must happen before a museum exhibit gets installed. It involves checking every object for tears, rips, paint chips, cracks, etc., and recording their location with a painstaking exactness. A tiny excerpt from my thesis:

Not many people enjoy condition-reporting, especially after the first few hours. It is painful. It makes your eyes cross, your back sore, your brain numb. Combing every centimeter of every surface of an incoming exhibition takes days. Your hand cramps from holding the light loupe for too long, but you can’t loosen your grip; you might drop the heavy metal tool on the painting. Your palms sweat inside the cotton gloves. You arch your back, squeeze your eyes shut, and stretch your neck upward to counteract the constant stooping and squinting. You switch places with your colleague over and over; you measure the exact location of a tiny chip of lost paint or unknown detritus, visible only under the light loupe, while your colleague records it. A day of condition-reporting starts early and ends late. This other world, a world where time slows to a crawl, is immersive. This other world, a world where you are locked in the gallery for hours at a time, is imprisoning.

But I loved it. I loved breathing the same air as the painting, running my gloved hands over the frame to check for dust, calling out, “white accretion, two inches from the right, sixteen inches from the top.” I loved being so close to the paint that my eyelashes were in danger of brushing it. I loved the thrill of finding something that nobody else had ever noted before, of finding that miniscule scratch in the paint that had gone unnoticed by dozens of condition-reporters. I loved poring over every painting’s surface with my eyes inches above the canvas, gripping the sides of the table to prevent me from literally falling into the wideness and wonder of the piece.

The locked, hushed gallery contained only a few people and several dozen crates. I belonged to an underground society whose sole purpose was to uncover the secrets of paintings. And such secrets! Only we knew exactly where the thin strokes of black and gray swirled together on the gnarled tree trunk in a knotty seam. Only we could see where the canvas buckled under bulky layers of paint. Only we knew where the artist had splattered paint across a corner of her canvas in microscopic dewdrops. We stood on hardwood floors underneath bright lights and interrogated each painting: we asked what it knew, who had touched it, whose cat hair was forever embedded in its thick paint. The interrogations took place on old morgue tables covered with archival foam. It was strange to place something so rich with history, something so alive, on something that was built to hold the dead. The paintings changed from one exhibit to the next in ways obvious to our secret loupe-wielding society; minute damage was the inevitable trade-off for thousands of museum-goers having access to the works. But they changed more subtly when we carefully lifted them off the morgue tables and placed them on brightly colored walls next to each another, when we put a red-and-brown West Texas tree next to blue Taos skies. We could unlock an infinite number of melodies; we could play the paintings off of one another and watch the song change. I loved this part of the installation process, of entwining ourselves into the paintings’ histories, of adding ourselves into their complex equations.

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Breaking news: I have now left Hyde Park two times in two days.

I just got back from the Canasta show at Schuba's in Lakeview, which was good, especially for a Monday night. Smoking is now banned in the music room at Schuba's, and they sell ear plugs at the door. I am officially old enough to greet both of these things with wild, unadulterated enthusiasm. I believe I said to the bouncer, "You sell earplugs?!?!? I'll take two packs!!!!" Emphasis on the exclamation points.

Canasta debuted two new songs, both ballads, one of which ended with a fun upbeat. They also did a beautiful and haunting cover of Peter Schilling's "Major Tom" (in English), and then maybe another six songs off their full-length album We Were Set Up, including "Slow Down Chicago:" "I'd like to ask this town to slow down / selfish I know / but I think it's come to this / I'm losing my breath and I'd take a break / If I thought I could."

* * *

On the thesis front: Advisor and I spent over two hours going over my thesis page by page, sentence by sentence, word by word. He found some funny quirks in my writing, such as a tendency to use "where" instead of "when" or "in which." Such as:

I finally visited the Hyde Park murals on one of those cold mornings where the stinging wind reminds you that Chicago is on a lake, the kind of morning where the precipitation is neither snow nor rain nor sleet, but some vicious, frozen mixture that bites mercilessly at your face.

Strange, no? I do this repeatedly throughout my thesis, and I'm not sure I would have caught it if he hadn't pointed it out to me. My work this week will focus on concluding this behemoth. That means tracking all of the unanswered questions throughout the existing thirty-three pages and figuring out where and how to answer them. Can art hurt you? Stay tuned to find out. And wish me luck.

* * *

current book: Foucault's reading of the painting Las Meninas from The Order of Things.
current music: Canasta! check out www.canastamusic.com and do yourself the favor of listening to "Major Tom." Seriously.
current socks: my concert-going socks: green with little records all over them.

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