First Post

I have not used blogging websites since high school. In the days of Livejournal, I used Deadjournal. After a few weeks of fervent type-typing and illustrating my moods with emoticons and song lyrics, I decided that I did not like to air my laundry, whether it was dirty or folded crisply. Brittany addressed me and stated that my thoughts ought to be mine own. 

My thoughts are mine own, they always have been mine own. I may learn something more about them if i write them before me; you, reader, may learn something about you if you read them before you. 

 

It is Friday morning and I am eating Kashi oatmeal, drinking orange juice, and watching TCM. The film I am watching is called "Knack, and How." It is a strange British film from the 1960s. I caught the tail-end of it so I cannot explain to you, reader, what it is completely about. It seemed like there was a sexually knowledgeable man who "raped" (but did not actually rape) a young country girl who just came into the city. She described his handsomeness and ruggedness to him and then he fell in love with her. The film ended with them walking along the Thames River in the dark. 

Yesterday was a day filled with strange feelings. When I wrote an extensive bit last night, it was deleted by Safari. Of course. I am trying to get back to where I was when I wrote it last night. I remember describing the way I like to dig my toes into my ivory-with-speckled-harvest-colours carpet. I remember describing my mood-- somewhat sad, but not melancholy. Excited, curious... a petri-dish of tentative emotion. I then continued to express my happiness of hanging out with Kevin! The cold wind that accompanied us on our walk contributed to the mood. We discussed Nietzsche, religion, relationships, philosophy, professors, and art. I learned from a mere conversation with him, and that's a great kind of friend. What I liked most was our conversation about Vincent Van Gogh. Apparently, Paul Gaughin stole his woman. He then went to Tahiti to paint bright, vivid canvases of Tahitian native women. In a letter to his brother, Theo, Vincent said, (I am paraphrasing Kevin) "I would go to Tahiti to see him, but I am afraid my paper-mache ear would melt." Hilarious. Most people choose not to see the human Van Gogh, they simply reduce him to madness. I am generalizing, but I feel as though it is a common tendency to do so. My former French teacher, Madame D'Amore, loved to take our class to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in order to see the Gaughins and the French Impressionist work. I have always loved the work of Manet.

In London I saw an incredible painting entitled "A Bar at the Folies-Bergere." It was riveting to look at. A woman occupies the foreground, behind her is an expansive mirror in which mens' faces are reflected. The drab men are not painted by Manet. The viewers of the painting are reflected in the mirror- we are illegible, we are dark, we are ordinary; there are masses of us. 

On exhibit at the Courtauld Gallery is Walter Sickert's Camden Town Nudes. I first became familiar with Sickert's work when I was researching Francis Bacon. I only saw them online, unfortunately. They are strikingly real. The nudes transcend the painting, the world of art confronts reality.