...And the floods came up!

There's a children's song which tells the story of two men. One man, the more sensible of the two, built his house on a foundation of rock. The other apparently wanted a seaside home and built his house upon the sand. In this tale, the forces of nature conspire to pour water down upon the abodes of both men, but each ended up with a different outcome. Man One stayed comfortably warm in his stationary house, while Man Two soon found out that he had something more akin to a house boat. The moral of the story is that we should all build our lives on a solid foundation.


While I agree wholeheartedly with this lesson, the song was brought to mind by a completely different circumstance. This story does involve sensible men and foolish ones, but there are no foundations involved. The words "the rains came down, and the floods came up! The rains came down and the floods came up!" flashed through my mind as I splashed through the puddles on the ground and felt rain water falling on my head. The problem was that I was indoors. *sigh*

There had been a leak in the studio ceiling all last year, which they were supposed to fix during the summer. The Roofing company tried patching it several times over the three months, none of which held, so during the first week of school they tried to do a larger-scale repair job. That week bits of rotten wood flowed down a slide from the roof, and we all prayed (looking up to heaven through the holes in the roof) that the job would work. Our wonderful building maintenance people (wise men, not like the roofers!) worked tirelessly to protect students' studios with tarps. It's a good thing, too, because as soon as this first rain hit, the seam burst open. Now there is flood where before there was a drip. Good repair job, roofing company!

The old roofers (the foolish men) were fired and as of this morning we have a new roofing company. However, the roof is damaged beyond repair, and probably had been since the beginning. The roof will be torn off completely and replaced, which means all of us in that area have to evacuate. I've been transformed into a flood evacuee! Our new graduate director, who is winning a lot of fans among the grad students, is desperately working to find us all adequate accommodations.

I now sign off, listening to the hum of the wet/dry vacs, and thinking that the wise man had probably not only built upon the rock, but also made sure he had a good roof.

Planning and a Variety of Citrus

Growing up, I learned a lot from my mother. One thing would be my cooking skills. Another is how to polka and waltz. My dad has never really liked to dance, but she had been quite good. We would polka in and out of the front entryway and into the kitchen, my mom taking the man's part. Then we'd break down laughing. My mom even taught me algebra in seventh grade. This meant studying my textbook beforehand, re-learning the material that had faded before taking on her frustrated daughter. Then there are all the less concrete attributes that she exemplified that hopefully I soaked up at least in part.

There is one thing I did not necessarily learn: her meticulous planning skills. Oh, yes, I know how to think through a process. My field is very process-oriented and requires one to think things through start-to-finish. Otherwise things have a tendency to blow up on you, occasionally quite literally. This is all very different, however, from the way my mom structured her life, especially at the beginning of her married life. All I have to go on is the written records, but I'm assuming she followed her plans pretty well. She has several weeks' worth of dinner menus written out. According to the plan, you would have the same meal every eight weeks or so, always on the same day of the week. Maybe that is why there are some meals that seem so set in my mind. You eat goulash with steamed cauliflower. That's just the order of the universe, dang it!

Then there are some of the crazy records she kept. I'm assuming they were for idea purposes later on. Otherwise I'm not quite sure why you would need to know what was served at the Sybrowsky's dinner party, held December 5, 1997. She also left lists of what we put on the neighbors' Christmas goody plates each year in the early '80s. In case you were wondering, the almond chocolate balls were a constant. Oh, and blender cheesecake with cherry pie filling was served as the refreshment for the third week of temple prep.

Lastly are the lists of chores and when they were to take place. There were daily chores, weekly chores, bi-weekly chores, etc. All of this comes to mind in stark contrast to my modus operandi lately. No, I've never organized my life the same way as my mom did, but recently it seems more chaotic than usual. And I'm being more forgetful. There is one thing I can attribute it to: engagement. I always maintained that the combined I.Q. of an engaged couple drops to that of a kumquat or some other similarly intelligent fruit. By myself, I think I'm currently somewhere around a grapefruit. Let's just hope that the wedding comes before I get juiced.

One year down, or a promise fulfilled

Being able to breathe is rather a nice luxury. The semester ended, and suddenly, *gasp* I had the time again. Let me tell you, having time to do laundry and clean the apartment....ahhhh, it seems like there's nothing better! With the end of the semester comes time to post the entry that I've promised several people. I know that some of you wanted to see the end-of-year show that we first year grad students put on but couldn't because you're in a different state. I wish y'all could have come. It was a good show; the work was diverse and ambitious in scale. Even better, I felt that my work was on par with the rest. While that may not sound like much, it means I've come a long way. There seems to be an inevitable artistic crisis that comes with the first year of grad school. Add to that the mile-long list of firsts that I've gone through these last eight months (the first semester especially)... Well, I feel a lot more secure now. And I am very grateful for the support of those who were able to make it out to the gallery. It means more to me than you know.

Here are a few pictures of the piece in the gallery:

Passing (2007), fired and unfired clay, approx. 3" x 12' x 8'

The photo above was taken right after completion; the slip and coils are still wet.
Below are some views of it from other parts of the gallery. (Doesn't that floor look nice? I swept and mopped the whole thing...)





Next we have some detail shots after it had dried some:

Lastly, we have a shot of the coiled "fringe" after someone stepped on it during the opening. One of my professors tattled to me about the first person. The uber-dean lamented it (he really liked the piece!), but I simply smiled. The piece was meant to have a lifespan, be impermanent. That was simply a part of its history.

I had intended to put a second piece in the show, but there just wasn't room for it in the packed gallery. I'll just set it up in my studio and document it there. As it is an impermanent piece, very few people will ever see it in person, which is kind of sad. On the upside, I learned how to mud drywall (which I apparently do quite well), which will be extremely helpful in the future.

For now I'll just take a couple of deep breaths to prepare myself for an exciting summer. Look for me back home in just a few weeks for a short visit. I can't wait to see all of you that are there!

Small Town Life

I live in a small town. Looking at St. Louis, most people wouldn't say so. Sure, it isn't the megalopolis that is New York City, and it isn't Chicago or L.A., either. But to be honest, by the numbers I found, the metro area has a population greater than that of Utah. And truly, driving was a wild ride for a while after moving here. I would get home exhausted from the sheer energy necessary for navigating the crowded maze of streets (not numbered on a grid and with lots of one-ways, ugh). At that time, it seemed like I was a small-town girl that had been unceremoniously plopped in the big city. I was wrong.

At least here in "Gateway City," being LDS shares many of the consequences of small town life. One of the most obvious: gossip. Gossip, chitchat, small talk, gab, tittle-tattle, chin-wagging, scuttlebutt, whatever name it goes by, people feast on it. It's like being able to have all the cheesecake you want without packing it on the hips. Sort of. Maybe it would be helpful if the more a person gossiped, the more weight he or she would gain. I know I certainly would be carrying a little more around the mid-section, which might encourage me to start a low-gossip diet.

While in reality gossips don't balloon into blimps, consequences exist. Sometimes it is true no one gets hurt. For instance, it's rather amusing to hear what the word on the street is about me and the BF. It sounds as though we're likely to run off to Vegas at any moment to get hitched at the Wee Little Temple on the Strip. I'm waiting with bated breath to hear that we've actually gone and done it. Wouldn't that be juicy? But not all gossip is this innocuous. Sometimes talk touches extremely personal, raw topics with a damaging lack of regard. People (myself included) don't necessarily mean to prod or expose emotional open wounds. Most genuinely care about those around them. With enough chatting (and it would be naive to expect that people could sew their lips shut), however, this hurt inevitably happens.

But, you know what? To me, I guess it is worth the bumps and bruises to be known, not to be just another anonymous face in a sea of humanity. So, when all is said and done, I'm not planning on moving out of my small town any time soon.

A drop in, er, of the bucket

People talk about the urban jungle. In fact, when my family sent me out to St. Louis, they sent me equipped with a very reliable car. I think my dad, especially, worried about the apparently certain mugging that would happen every time I stopped at a red light. The headlines declaring St. Louis the most dangerous city in the country could not have soothed his fears. Today I can attest that where I live is indeed a wild place.

A vicious assailant shattered my sense of security just two days ago. I was taken completely unawares, and at first I could do nothing but freeze. Although someone saying "hello" is enough to make me jump sometimes, this time it was justifiable. Imagine long, spindly legs flying so fast they are a blur coming straight at you. It was unnerving. Luckily for me, I've taken a self-defense class, so it didn't take long for me to regain my composure. I reached for the nearest weapon I could find: a common plastic bucket. In my hands, however, it was anything but harmless; it was lethal. My attacker's legs popped off and continued to quiver for several minutes. Peace and order were once again restored, although I was left pretty creeped out. After the legs stopped trembling, I moved the bucket and sweeped the carcass into my dustpan. At this point, it was no longer recongizable as a house centipede (a joy not shared by my family in the desert).

My experience of the jungle that is St. Louis is not limited to that one episode. Today, in fact, during a lovely walk in the cool of the morning, tufts of what looked like cotton floated down from overhead. Curious, I took a closer look and realized that it was bird down. Perched in the trees above sat a large bird. I should say more specifically that it was a hawk plucking the feathers off of its unfortunate meal. Yum. Hungry?

Thankfully, my experience of St. Louis wildlife hasn't been all alarming. In fact, I've seen beautiful cardinals and woodpeckers and even come across a couple of these in Forest Park:
He had a friend, but the friend was a bit more skiddish and I wasn't able to get a picture. It really made me smile.

So, while it is a jungle out there, I think I'll survive. Well, that is if I can evade the blood-sucking bunnies and the rabid squirrels. They'll get you every time.

Book Tag Relay

I really hope to post something profound sometime. However, these sorts of things are quick and an easy way to procrastinate that paper I should be writing. Anyway, here's a little taste of the books I get to read....

The rules of the game:

1. Find the nearest book to you.
2. Name the book and author.
3. Turn to page 123.
4. Go to the fifth sentence on the page.
5. Copy out the next 3 sentences and post to your blog.
6. Tag three other people.

The nearest book is "Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man" by Marshall McLuhan, media theorist and media determinist extraordinaire.

"Baudelaire originally intended to call his Fleurs du Mal, Les Limbes, having in mind the city as corporate extensions of our physical organs. Our letting-go of ourselves, self-alienations, as it were, in order to amplify or increase the power of various functions, Baudelaire considered to be flowers of growths of evil. The city as amplification of human lusts and sensual striving had for him an entire organic and psychic unity."

What an adrenaline rush. All I can say, Molly, is that you brought that upon yourself. Now to decide who to tag... I don't know if I have three would comply, especially as really I only know of three people who know of this blog so far. Well, I guess I'll just tag Ben. So, Ben, here's an excuse to add something else new.

I'm 'it'?

Only for you, Molly....

7 Weird Things About Me:

1. In the game of blog tag, mine was tagged before it was created. I'm no longer a "lurker."

2. I fell off a cliff as a child. Backwards. That might explain a few things.

3. I've never been skiing, despite living in the shadow of the mountains most of my life.

4. I have a favorite power tool. Ah, the angle head grinder....

5. I'm allergic to eggs... I can eat them, but I just can't have them injected.

6. Once I got raisins for my birthday, and I was excited.

7. I'm an artist, isn't that weird enough?

I don't know seven people to tag. Hopefully this isn't like a chain letter, where I'll come down with a case of flesh-eating bacteria if I don't comply....

Starting is the hardest part....

So, apparently someone out there thinks I need a blog... I'm not so sure about that myself, but, also apparently, she doesn't seem to care. So, here it is. Don't expect it to be updated often.