Warmth and light

On Thursday, I looked up from my email at 6 p.m. to discover, though the sun had sunk behind the mountains, there was still light in the sky. Friday was brilliant and clear, with a high temperature in the 60s. A bright sunrise filled my bedroom with early light, and it occurred to me that I've been waking progressively earlier recently, in little bits and increments. I drove to the grocery store in a sweatshirt, with the windows down, listening to the Hallmark Sounds of Halloween tape that Marianne gave me. In the evening, Marianne, Andrew and I walked to new resident artist Amy Tavern's housewarming party. The warmth and light of the day were liberating; in the winter, I feel trapped, cut off, but Friday I felt a part of the world, free to walk around in the open air. It was like being reborn. Today it is chilly and gray; winter is far from gone, but I have gotten a hopeful reminder that it won't last forever.
In Dakota: A Spiritual Geography, Kathleen Norris writes,
"Weather Report: February 10 - Spring seems far off, impossible, but it is coming. Already there is dusk instead of darkness at five in the afternoon; already hope is stirring at the edges of the day."

A dream

A few nights ago, I dreamed that my grandmother was still alive and making dinner for my father, my aunt and I. She was cooking very slowly and we were tired of waiting, so dad took me out to eat instead. As we ate microwaved pizzas at a folding table in the freezer aisle of a grocery store, he looked me in the eye and told me I should give up art and become a writer. The next morning on the radio, Garrison Keiller quoted someone famous (whose name I can't remember now), saying "How does one become a writer? Try to do something - anything - else." So by that reckoning, dream-dad, I'm right on track.

A new age of Hollywood musicals?

I think it's time for the crowd of young Hollywood filmmakers who keep giving us mediocre depressing-and-uncomfortable-life-situation comedies with brilliant, loony musicals buried in them to admit that they are better at creating brilliant, loony musicals than depressing-and-uncomforatble-life-situation comedies. Seriously, Nicholas Stoller, jettison the rest of Forgetting Sarah Marshall and just show us the Dracula puppet rock opera. And Andrew Fleming, why not cut the dead wood that makes up the other 60 minutes of Hamlet 2 and just present the musical in it's entirety? Dare to let go of your ironic detachment, take sugar over saccharine, stop acting like you're too smart for the things you're good at and we (the audience) are too smart for the things we enjoy, and you may just begin a new age of Hollywood musicals.

Last night,

I woke up suddenly from a dream I can't remember, my heart filled with terror and self-loathing. Today, I feel as though I am lost in the woods, and I don't know how to find my way again. So I think that for now I will live in the woods. I've got The Rest is Noise by Alex Ross with me, and I will read by the winter light filtering through the trees. I may also watch the Ravens game tonight. For some reason, Baltimore has been very much on my mind lately, and I find myself strangely interested in the outcome.

Do you read the New York Times?

I do sometimes, most often while waiting for paint, oil, or wax to dry, because there is a stack of last year's Sunday Times kept in the wood studio for use as drop-cloths, and I usually find it depressing. It's not because of the quality of the journalism, which is very good, or the political bias, which tends to coincide fairly often with my own. It's the tone of the writing, and the aesthetic stance that informs it, particularly in articles about music and art. There's a knowingness to it, a sort of numb hipsterish point of view that yearns to be moved, but has seen too much, and is too dismissive of each new thing it sees to let it happen, as though it believes it has already thought critically a few steps ahead of the artists. Reading the Times, one might be led to believe that beauty can be found only fleetingly, in weariness, like a tiny delicate flower in a big ugly city, and it sometimes leaves me feeling tired and angry.

An Allegory for the Art of Painting

Painting is taking much longer than I expected. As I removed the masking tape from the trim last night, aglow with pride and the expectation of a good night's sleep in my own bed in my own room, I discovered that the tape had leaked, allowing runs of (India Ink, semi-gloss) black paint to mar the (Chalk, eggshell) white walls every few inches. So now it seems I will have to do some scraping and touch-up. Urrgggh.
Also, I've been doing some painting work for the school, changing the color of some flat files and display shelves for the supply store (for the princely sum of $10 an hour, roughly 10 times what I make for my work in the Pines; I think I've already earned enough to pay for my first tank of gas). By odd coincidence, the shelves will be the same color as the trim in my bedroom (but satin finish). By lunchtime today, I began to feel as though I was really becoming pretty competent with a paintbrush. Nonetheless, I think this experience seals it - all natural or patinated finishes on my work this summer.

Shhh, listen...

Spring Concentration has come to an end. All the students and instructors have packed up and gone home, the kitchen is closed, and with our short work-week behind us, most of my house-mates have gone away on vacation, leaving me, Joshua, and Shane nearly alone on an empty campus. I had forgotten how quiet it was when I first arrived here (on my first morning walk, I was afraid that I had gone deaf until I realized that I could still hear my feet on the pavement) and now I'm remembering in a big way. Last night we sat, waiting for Tina's spaetzle to finish cooking, with the windows open, savoring the sound of the birds and the occasional passing train. I'm looking forward to a relaxing week. I should be getting my car back tomorrow. I'm planning on doing some major reportage about the spring here on the blog, but first, I'm going to finish painting my room, reacquaint myself with the Nintendo 64 (courtesy of former Core John Shearin), and take a nap. If you're within half a mile, you should be able to hear me snore.