Oh, clay lump

You do love me!

My stoneware love(r)

Dear lump of clay,

It's been a while, hasn't it? I knew the summer would be long, but I didn't realize just how long that meant. It was no one's fault, really. You were certainly on mind. It seems that muscles forget even the most familiar movements, though. Do I love you? Do I hate you? How much of you have I forgotten? So many quirks and habits slipped right through my memory like sand through a sieve. It's like my hands forgot as the calluses wore off. We haven't spent as much time together this semester. Do you resent me for that? This time I have a life. I don't live in the studio anymore. Nevertheless, I hope we can spend much more time together. What I really hate is forgetting; confusion and feeling out of place. We'll get to know each other again, I hope. Preferably soon. The last day for working with wet clay is next week.

Baby, come back?
Anxiously awaiting your reply, Ali the Beilke

An Art Student's Lament -or- A Time to Whine

I like the humanities and fine arts. Writing, dancing, music, theatre, and the like; those I can appreciate just as much as the next art major. I just don't want to be graded on them. Take your advanced composition and contemporary dance. You can have your intro to theatre (even if it is an easy A). All I want is what I have coming to me. Just kidding. I'd really love to stay in the fibers and ceramics studio, with a break in between for contemporary art history. Some time for me to work on my conceptual artstuffs would be nice, too. Please? These people in charge say I need to fulfill my degree requirements. Well, it's implied.

Bah. Enough of that for now. I'm annoying myself with this complaining.
Now, what hasn't been done before?

Things I want to remember for later

You need a book before you can toss a book out the window.

Phil, the friendly germ. (Don't be misled, Phil is a girl and her name is short for Philipa.)

Sometimes, maybe it doesn't really matter what I want.

The older I get, the younger I feel. Less adequate, like I'm severely lagging behind in common sense rules. The more I learn, the less I know; the more I realize that I don't know the core of the things that matter, only the frill of the issues.

I think that's it for now.

Misplaced time that may as well be published(in the loosest sense of the word)

I'm so restless, but with no excuse. I have reading to do for my literature class. Finish reading the snippets of Illiad that made it into the anthology, aka class textbook. I have an econ test on Tuesday, so I can keep studying for that joker. Now that I've started typing, I want to go back to Econ after an inexcusable time on facebook. A few things hinder my progress, and by that I mean I'm distracted by a few things. The house is a mess, so I periodically tidy up, but in the process I find nifty art things so I stop cleaning to paint small wooden ice cream spoons, and then arrange said spoons into fun shapes and affix them with glue. Then, of course, I find this inexplicable urge to check my email. Often. Also I have a sinus infection. That's not terribly distracting, though. Oh, and I almost forgot about New Moon, which I started reading earlier today. Before that I was fixated with Twilight. Sometimes the television cuts in and wins my attention.

Goodness, I have laundry to do.
I want my hair to be longer.
I think I'm going to sell a majority of my t-shirts. I have too many.
Yes, econ, I hear you. I'll be with you in a minute.

Good night.

I'm a nerd.

Today was the first day of the first session of summer class. I have World Lit. with Mr. Mayo at 8:00 am, followed by Macroeconomics at 10:00am. They were fun. I like each teacher's teaching style. So, eight am classes aren't really my style, but I kind of like this one. I'm starting this radical new approach to life. I hear it's commonly known as self-discipline. Who knew? I kid, of course. This is no hidden secret. It's just one I have not actively practiced in my academic pursuits. Fine, I'm a lazy bum. Twilight actually seemed to point out my work-ethic shortcomings. Bella is very disciplined, or seems to be that way, and I wonder how normal that is. That is, I wonder how many times I've justified my laziness and assumed that this is how everyone lives, and even further that this is how a person should live. No, this is not the way to go. Blah.

I'm also (very begrudgingly) applying for a job at Target. Nothing against them, it just makes me nervous even thinking about any kind of interview. Plus, my resume is a joke. I have so little job experience. Even if I go through with this thing, what I get turned down? There is something comforting in the possibility that I could have gotten a job if I wanted one there and something belittling in the thought that I did try and put my best foot forward and it wasn't good enough. That's pretty cocky of me. But now that I've said it, I should actually do something about it. I left a voluminous mess at Kelley's house.

Here it is, in no particular order....

1. Go to Kelley's house and relieve her of my mess/things.
2. Go to Target.
3. Read for World Lit. and Econ.
4. Chillax with Kelley and Brandy.
5. Unpack my things and put them away in drawers at Daddy's house.

Let's start at the end and work our way back. But you can start reading at the beginning. Actually, I encourage it.

A Critical Description & Analysis of Ali Beilke’s Aesthetic
Philosophy
Or
Why I’m a Stuckist AND a Conceptual Artist
Or
Why
Genius and Crazy Mean the Same Thing
Or
Why There’s No Such Thing As
Wasted Time
Or
Why I’m an Artist and You’re Not
Or
Why Art Should Be
Its Own Religion, But Not Really Since That Would Be Silly
Or
Why
Everything Is Everything Else
Or
Cases Where Contradiction Should be
Embraced Because Nobody Knows What They’re Talking About

It’s difficult to know where to start. You want answers? I’ll give you answers. Art is a word that many people use but few know what they mean when they use it. That isn’t to say that art is a commonly used word in most vocabularies. I do mean that among those who use the term art, it is a small percentage of them that can produce a coherent definition. This does not speak against the intelligence of those who talk about art. Rather, it sheds light on the complexity of the modern interpretation of art. Art has and can only have an open definition, if you’re thinking like Morris Weitz. He meant this in saying “Perhaps the only constant lies in art’s always being creative, always evolving in style, in purpose, and significantly, in definition.” Right now, I say that I’m an artist and I know I am because I make art. Some examples of my art are the paintings that I did for painting class last semester (all of them), the tiles and giant abstract puppy that I made in sculpture class last year. I did a self-portrait for the final project in drawing II; it’s art. My final project for 2D design is art. The line blurs at my unfinished work and at all of the color study work I did for using color. Those ridiculous color boxes/paint by number assignments are not art… Yet. I’m positive that if I wanted, I could use those learning tools and make something that communicates creatively, expressively, cleverly, and thoughtfully. Art, then, does communicate, but in various ways. Is communication the sole purpose of art? This completely depends on the meaning of “communicate,” and then on the content that one wants to communicate. If at its simplest ‘communicate’ means “to give to another” and/or “to be joined or connected” then I say that all art communicates. This isn’t implying what art ought to do. This is stating what all art has been observed to do. With this in mind, I think that even barriers can be used to communicate and join or connect people. Granted, they obviously impede communication between some bodies, don’t they sometimes bring together those who are on the same side? The barrier itself communicates something about those who, whether consciously or unconsciously, created it and their reason for doing so. To learn from the barrier, though, it would be necessary to a third party, unbiased towards either side.
This brings up the question of “correct” communication. If something is always being communicated through art, is it the right stuff? How can the viewers or experiencers know if they understand what’s being communicated? What if someone misses the point? Can they? I think this is where I’m a bit of an objectivist, if that’s the right term, but also a subjectivist. Everything is beautiful, everything communicates (which is why art also communicates- it’s not excluded from everything), but exactly what is communicated, what is beautiful, the correctness of a person’s interpretation of either is subjective. So, in this view, expressing emotion is a form of communication. But then one is led to ask what it means to “express emotion.” It’s kind of the same question, but deals more specifically with hormonal responses and the gut responses, as opposed to intellectual ones. An emotion may lead to a thought, and often does, but certainly a person can have an emotional response without cognitively labeling it. I sometimes get sad and don’t have any real reason to be sad. I also can be pretty irate at nothing in particular. But, I digress. This question is really whether a person can appreciate a piece of art only if he or she feels what the artist was trying to express through the art. Is it necessary for the appreciation of the art that the viewer be “pickin’ up what the artist is puttin’ down”? Aye, that is the rub.
At any rate, this is why I’m into conceptual art. I like appreciating an idea. It’s the slice of life idea, right? Pulling obscurity from the mundane and ordinary. That’s pretty cool. I turn to the Stuckist’s Manifesto, namely (18), for my views on conceptualism. “If it is the conceptualists’ wish to always be clever, then it is the Stuckist’s duty to always be wrong.” I want to be clever. If this was the only condition for being a conceptualist, then I’d be a conceptual poster child. I guess this mostly reflects my desire to be known for being insightful. I don’t understand the Stuckist’s distaste for cleverness, especially by calling it the “mask of cleverness,” as if to say that behind all that knowledge and insight, the conceptualists are regular people just like us. Ah. Of course they are, sweetie. The Stuckists divorce a person from their mind, it seems. While I do not support intellectual elitism, if the intellectuals offer an explanation, why not listen? To be exclusive by using intentionally confusing jargon isn’t very nice, no matter the field. A person shouldn’t be shunned from being an artist just because they’re not in the know. Now, if they start excluding the elitists from “artistdom” they’re guilty of hypocrisy. My saying is, “It’s bad when the bad guy does it, so it’s bad when the good guy does it, too,” usually referring to some protagonist who resorts to giving the antagonist a taste of his own medicine. I’m not really into that. I love the idea of an artist exploring her own neurosis and innocence, but the Stuckists were stuck on painting. I’ll be honest. I love to paint. It’s probably tied with drawing for my favorite medium, but to say that painting is the only art… That’s not my style; that’s ridiculous and snooty. However, the Stuckist thought that through the making and displaying of their paintings, they were “enriching society by giving shared form to individual experience and an individual form to shared experience.” How sweet is that? Using their definition of art, then all art enriches society, and that is something I can agree with. I think that I agree with Kant, too. Art is recognized as art because it has artness. It’s kind of like beauty. I can know that I’m looking at something beautiful because I recognize the beauty in it. Though, true enough, I think everything has some kind of beauty- more like an essence, really. For art, I think it’s the object’s potential for artness that exists in everything. Some things are not art. I’d tell you what they were, but then I’d have to kill you. Not really, but if I described things that are not art, then my description, though not by any use of creative or flowery language, could by default be considered art. Does that make sense? But I’ll ignore that line of thought to develop this one-- things that are not art. This morning, my room-mate Stephanie made coffee. By the time I got up, it was almost all gone, leaving a mostly empty coffee pot. That coffee pot is not art. My brother Clint has in his room a dry-erase board, complete with a marker holder, which he assembled and affixed to his wall with masking tape. That dry-erase board is not art. These two examples both communicate something; the coffee pot, that I’ll have to mooch off someone else to get my caffeine, and the dry-erase board, well, in and of itself communicates a means of communication through reminders. (My brother is a boy scout. He’s always prepared.) These things both have the potential to be art, though. Certainly, I could paint or draw or make some mixed media piece about the empty coffee pot and use it to expose something about myself. Same goes for the board. I could even use the objects themselves to express something and essentially communicate, but I don’t think either Stephanie or Clint would appreciate it, unless I bought them a replacement. Even if I didn’t buy a replacement, it would still be art, I think. It wouldn’t be very nice of me. And yet I wonder. If I just took Stephanie’s coffee pot with no forewarning or permission but I made it into something that was generally agreed to be a great and marvelous work of art, would it be? Could Stephanie see it as anything except a stolen coffee pot? That would make art into a sorry excuse to ignore people as equal individuals, and give any artist the right to do as they please. I could not will it as a maxim that every artist can take things without asking as long as it’s used in the creation of some wonderful and creative piece of art that enriches society. Greatest good for the greatest number of people my big toe. That would be selfish and it would throw the world into contradiction. No one would trust a person who claimed to be an artist because artists would all have a reputation for hyper-egoism acting outside of common courtesy. I would have very little regard for such a person and would give scarcely a glance to pieces made by him or her. I guess now what I’m saying is, “That’s not art, that’s self-righteous poppy cock.” The question here is whether the artist has the right to offend. I believe not. Art should be brought about with sincerity and genuine efforts, regardless of its intended effects. How does this relate to things that were never intended as art? What if I took my room-mate’s coffee pot and made a shrine out of it, and if the deity or whatever for which I was making the shrine required that I get all the materials in some clandestine fashion? So I end up with some thing of ritual, constructed creatively and expressing much emotion, not because it’s art but because my religion calls for those things in its practices. Let’s say that I die without showing anyone my shrine, but my family finds it and they love it so much that they decided to display it locally. Then it gets more widespread attention and eventually winds up in some high and fancy-to-do art museum. (Bear with me. I have delusions of grandeur). But in the public’s frenzy over all my fabulous and for some time, unknown masterpieces, a well-known critic of my work comes across some of my long hidden and very creepy diary entries where he then leaks to the public all my terrible motives. The public would probably feel betrayed, especially those who saw me as an innocent, naive, cute, little artist girl who “just really likes art. Heheh.” But there would probably be some folks who “knew all along” that I was a conniving, dark, and twisted girl. They’d like my art more. There would be a great controversy about my state of mind and my morals (or lack thereof). And at the end, I’d come out of hiding, where I was hanging out, watching the whole thing, and tell people the whole story, but probably in slurred and mumbled sentences, since I hadn’t had anyone but myself to talk to. An even greater slew of people would be upset and write mean things about me and start Anti-Ali cults just to protest my inherent wickedness and my adverse effects on society. But, by golly, if all that really happened, I would be an artist. Only a crazy person(or a genius, which actually means the same thing) would live such a life, and as everyone knows, all artists are crazy. I mean genius.

Who doesn't like a list?

except the Anti-list. They're probably at odds. Maybe not, but probably.

1. Unload the truck.
2. Unpack said things.
3. Sort through things.
4. Clean the mess of a room.
5. Go to Jackson State and register for class.
6. Do these things in a timely manner.
7. Blah.
8. and stuff.
9. A guy is coming to fix the television. I'd go to JSCC except that I think I should stay here and hold down the fort.
10. This is no longer a list.
11. These items have nothing in common.
12. I have clean socks. Those are a good way to get myself out the door. Clean socks and a pair of shoes to keep my feet from muddy pointed rocks that blanket the driveway.
13. The socks probably don't match.
14. I don't really care, though.
15. Mum's jacket is still on my bed. I can wear that outside if the weather's a cold after rain breeziness.
16. Lethargy, leave me alone.

Of course.

Oh yeah. No.
I waited too long. I've already forgotten a lot of the things I wanted to 'immortalize' via blogspot.
Night jobs= not so much. I was made to be awake when the sun is up. It started innocently enough. I took the job willingly, and stayed up the entire first night with a smile on my face. Kind of. The next night was harder on my body, that is, I was physically exhausted, but wonderful company assured that I would make it through the night. Then the weekend came and hit me with a monster headache. It hit hard and fast. With a vengence it came. Cue my wonderful suitemate and blessing of a room-mate. I went to Wal-mart to get some meds. Oh, the irony. It is staggering. I couldn't make it back from Wal-mart, partly cos I was a-vomitin' and partly cos I was shrieking in pain and anguish. Heheheh. I only exaggerate a little.

The Juno soundtrack is keeping a smile on my face.
So is my brother.

My brother and all his friends are grown high school kids. This trips me out. They're not the little 10 year olds that I remember them being. Those kids grew up, I mean to say. And guess who's gonna be 21 in July? Oh, that would be moi. I'll be a legal adult in all fifty states. Heck Yeah.

I'm not hungry but my mouth sure is bored.
Friends, I have nothing left to say. For now, anway. I almost made a rhyme.
Much love from the other side of the world, aka my parents' living room

My earthenware love/r

Oh, lump of clay. Oh, blob of mud, why have you forsaken me? Why so stubbornly do you insist on staying away from the center? Why be content in your lumpness? Why are you so difficult? Are you not at home on the wheel? Am I not your thrower of choice? You behave so well, move so beautifully in the hands of Mcbeth. You poke and prod into muscles that I never use. For you, the Golden Mean is no option. If the perfect balance is not reached in each of the various hand positions or techniques, you fall to pieces. Pressure, moisture, timing are crucial to you.
I'll be honest. I love the mess you make. You splatter water and muck all over me, and I do very little to minimize the spread. I love the cool feel of your moldability. The very sight and feel of your compressed, decomposed, caked muddy self puts a smile on my face. I spend hours with you at the wheel. I would leave, but I'm compelled to stay "just a bit longer." And yet you ignore all of that.

Lump of clay, why don't you love me?

art, god, math, and evil or "A week of the most fulfilling conversations I've ever had"

What an awesome spring break!

I never knew how much impact a meaningful conversation could have on my mood or just how deceiving or telling first impressions can be. It's like I'm on revelation overload. I continue to see things from a new perspective and it's really fun! Oh, to describe each and every conversation. Let me explain... No, there is too much. Let me sum up. n_n Yes, yes there was a healthy dose of Princess Bride over the break, and by that I mean that I saw it once. Watching the Princess Bride is probably a requirement for any self-respecting good time, if it spans 3 or more days. Probably.

I think my favorite conversation was one of the first that I had and it was with a guy that I doubt I'll see again. His name's Matt, I don't know his major (though I think it was something math related). Hmm... No, I know his major was something math related, but I don't know what he wanted to do with it. The whole thing took place at "Mochaffee" a Union equivalent of the BCM coffeehouse, but on a slightly smaller scale. It was a little crowded, but I eye-balled the tables and their super-nifty drawn on table cloths. At that point, my plan was to let out some pent up creativity. I saw an empty spot next to two guys who were proving $ and pulling out obscure theorems. I started by complimenting noses and eyebrows and hair, which took them aback, but just a little. Then I started asking if various doodles were art. I can't remember when the coffee house started, but I stayed until ~2. The conversation started around the question of "What is art?" but then it drifted into what a Christian's view of art is, which I would scoff at had I not been there to hear this guy's reasoning. He's taking a class, "Christian History of Drama" or something like that. (Whatever it was, I was a little jealous.) The whole time, but especially near the end we'd go off on tangents only to say "I don't know where I was going with that..." It was so funny and refreshing! At random times, I'd think "I want this to never end. I wish I could do this every day," but then I'd let it slide, because new, better ideas demanded my attention. At some point, Matt asked if everything was math because the laws or theorems could be applied everywhere. My brain exploded in my head. I had never thought of that before! Oh my stars! And my only retort, which I kept to myself, was "Of course not, I hate math." Wow. How very superficial of me. Now, we talked about other fun stuff, like the nature of evil and the nature of God, and the reasons why I was fed up with Christianity as I saw it. It feels like we talked about everything. Strange, isn't it? Upon meeting him, I have maybe the most meaningful conversation I've ever had so far, and then we part ways, but I'm not sad. I'm actually really happy. Happy for the brain-swap and the thought-exchange.$

Did I mention that this was the first night? It's true! Thursday night this took place, and then it snowed, and I met more people with their respective thoughts and hopes and filters. I think infinitely more of Brandy, Stephanny, Mum, and Matthew. Oh, there's so much here, I don't know where to start. I haven't said anything about the time Brandy, Stephanny, and I spent with Travis and his brother Dustin. I haven't said anything about Barefoots Joe, the new coffee spot on campus, and all the fun conversations that went on there. Nor did I touch on Mum's visits to Union to work on her dissertation, or Clint's visits to bring dessert pizza and watch a movie. And now that I've said that, I almost went to Baton Rouge, but decided against it. At any rate, now Matthew and I are on good terms. We had some good conversations, too.

So, now I'm awake at 3:26 a.m. and I never know how to end a sentence with an abbreviation. Generally, it's not good to take naps after 4, so I've heard, but especially not good to take a nap between 6 and 7. Alas, those bugger head aches have a mind of their own and they're not following anyone's rules. Samson went back to bed, not much hair left on his head. Ate a slice of wonder bread and went right back to bed.
Me too. Good night.


P.S.
How's this for something to read, Ashley? :]

Hi friends.

I feel out of place, but if I pretend to belong then sooner or later I'll actually believe it and it'll come naturally. Thanks for your time. :D

Mallorey’s blog got me thinking. Since thinking is so much fun, and even more fun to share I figure I’d follow her lead. Here are my guilty pleasures. I don’t suppose the original format is so important, but mine are a little quirky any way.

Eavesdropping—
I get such a kick out of this! It’s terrible, I know. I’m not creepy about it, though. I respect people’s privacy. Usually it’s just when I’m when a group of people and I’d rather listen. Well, okay, sometimes I’m not actually a part of the group, but they’re nearby and they’re audible. I figure, “Why not listen?” It becomes a problem when I’m engaged in a conversation and I stop listening to whomever to comment on what was said in someone else’s conversation. Oh, it’s also bad when I need to get work done. I guess it’s a combination of my incredible distractibility and my love for a good story.

Paint samples—
Ah… They’re great. AND they’re free. I’ll admit it. I will spend upwards at thirty minutes looking through and picking out paint samples with no particular goal in mind. I just like the colors.

Memorizing, Quoting, and Imitating—
I just love memorizing things; movies, songs, books, poems, commercials, jokes, or even just comments that people make. But it doesn’t end there. Once I memorize it, I’ll quote it and probably at the most random times. It might relate to something going through my head, and might or might not be recognized by anyone around. Facebook could have a part in this since I’ve started trying to remember funny or insightful things to don as one of my “favorite quotes.” ‘Course not all things are funny because of content. The kicker is in the delivery, whether it be a funny accent, inflection or facial expression. This gets me into trouble when I imitate people that are nearby, like two feet away (especially when I don’t know them). I hear imitation is the highest form of flattery, but most times it’s not taken that way.

Most things ridiculous—
This includes puns of all shapes and sizes, cheesy but not romantic, pointless jokes, and arguments that are full of holes. The things that are based on nonsense crack me up. Unfortunately, there are times where people don’t realize how ridiculous they sound (to me, anyway). Intentional or not, when they’re serious my laughter usually isn’t appreciated.

Commercials—
I enjoy these because I like putting words in the advertisers’ mouths. There’s something really fun about tearing apart the life-changing claims. I also appreciate the design that goes into making them. I hate the sleazy or degrading ones, but overall it’s an interesting way to analyze our society and common mindsets.

All of this reminds me something St. Augustine said, “The single desire that dominated my search for delight was simply to love and to be loved.” I certainly agree, but wonder how it applies to things like this; things that I could feel guilty for enjoying.
I’m probably full of it.
Kbai.