I hit a stumbling block somewhere between spring training for work and the real start of classes. I hit the ground stateside feeling like I was ready to get right back to work, start churning out ideas, creating fabrics. I was full of motivation and oomph. And now I don't have it.
We had a false start to the semester with our first classes canceled due to extreme weather (which was a laugh, hardly enough snow to slip on let alone close the University) and then Martin Luther King, Jr. day was also a closure. Given my schedule of classes only on Mondays and Wednesdays my first full week of class didn't happen until this week. And then we had a half-day snow cancelation. All the extra time seemed like a boon. A little more time to soak in the peace before the coming storm. Instead it seems to have sapped me on oomph.
I have a few ideas about where the hesitation is coming from. Something called thesis and something else called graduation. Perhaps that one called moving. It's a childish reaction to the inevitable approach of our future. If I don't act like there is a lot of pressure I don't have to admit to the many large changes coming my way.
What is it with me and making big changes tied to graduation? High school- graduate, parents split houses and I fall in love with my supposed summer fling. College- pack up my life, my show and store it all in my Mom's crawl space, hop on a plane 10 days after graduation and fly to Africa to join the Peace Corps. Grad school (projected)- move to Minnesota, drawing my 11 years in Philly to a close, re-commence life as a grown-up.
No reason to be in a slight case of denial, right?
Objectively I know that I am doing well. I have a warp on one of my looms ready to go. I have 4 designs for jacquard that I know will work moving forward with my thesis collection. I love writing and actually look forward to articulating the ideas behind my thesis development. I have made my weaving appointments and even laid out yoga and grocery days through the end of February.
This weekend I go to NYC, barring more extreme weather (which I hear may be on the horizon, boo) for a little museum visiting with friends and family. It should be a whirlwind of art, shopping and visiting. And then, then I will buckle down, nose to the grindstone so that by Spring Break I will feel comfortable and in the clear. Yes.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
About to meet their ghastly fate
When I was little I loved hard boiled eggs. I remember us having them in the fridge on a regular enough basis that if the mood struck all I needed to do was ask if I could have one. I liked to cut them up like a delicacy. We had 2 kinds of wire egg slicers that were as much fun to play with as the eggs were fun to eat. I learned to wield the slicer with as much precision as a violinist tuning their instrument.
I would make a single pressing cut for simple slices. I would pick the whole sliced job up and turn it to slice it into tiny sticks. If I were feeling particularly ambitious I would then take all or part of the stick egg and turn it again so that I had tiny, eensy, weensy little egg bits cubes.
I'm not so crazy about slicing and dicing my eggs these days but as I was preparing some eggs to boil this weekend I sat and thought about my egg-slicing youth. And my tea set. And sitting at my tiny table in the kitchen and being so excited to see one of the marked eggs emerge from the refrigerator shelf.
In my family we marked the boiled eggs with a sharpie or some such marker. I was about to make simple hatch marks to note my ovoid protein packs but got a little carried away. I thought about what faces they might make if they knew their fate. I was also, of course, tempted to just give them all beards. Perhaps next time.
I would make a single pressing cut for simple slices. I would pick the whole sliced job up and turn it to slice it into tiny sticks. If I were feeling particularly ambitious I would then take all or part of the stick egg and turn it again so that I had tiny, eensy, weensy little egg bits cubes.I'm not so crazy about slicing and dicing my eggs these days but as I was preparing some eggs to boil this weekend I sat and thought about my egg-slicing youth. And my tea set. And sitting at my tiny table in the kitchen and being so excited to see one of the marked eggs emerge from the refrigerator shelf.In my family we marked the boiled eggs with a sharpie or some such marker. I was about to make simple hatch marks to note my ovoid protein packs but got a little carried away. I thought about what faces they might make if they knew their fate. I was also, of course, tempted to just give them all beards. Perhaps next time.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
It only takes a few days
On take-off from Rome I thought about my trip and that it had come to an end. I thought about getting home and seeing my parents, about being able to drive my car and sleep in my own bed. I also thought about walking around the perimeter of Trevi Fountain. Sitting at the foot of the Spanish Steps. At the end of each of my trips I find myself nostalgic already. I want to build a place where I can walk from Trevi Fountain to Portobello Market. From Old Towne Square and the Astrological clock to the medieval section of the Louvre where all was quiet and open and old. And, at the end of the day, I could walk to the market, buy ingredients for the evening's meal and on to home. Just a fantasy.
I have been home for only 4 days but it feels much longer. This is part of the nature of training season in my job. I arrived back in Philly on the same day I'd touched down again on US soil. I spent part of the afternoon with my parents and then hit the road to Philly. The next morning training kicked off and it's been going full tilt ever since. In the moments when I can I try to keep my head up and my feet down. I try to remember how long until we start classes again; what I need to do in order to be ready.
Soon my entries will turn to the ideas consuming my thesis, my days in the studio and the ups and downs of my work week. But this morning I sat and re-read some of the entries from my trip and remembered sitting in restaurants. Walking down narrow streets, eating gelato, searching for mementos, loving the very shapes, sounds and colors of being there.
I feel it in my bones. This will be a very exciting year.
I have been home for only 4 days but it feels much longer. This is part of the nature of training season in my job. I arrived back in Philly on the same day I'd touched down again on US soil. I spent part of the afternoon with my parents and then hit the road to Philly. The next morning training kicked off and it's been going full tilt ever since. In the moments when I can I try to keep my head up and my feet down. I try to remember how long until we start classes again; what I need to do in order to be ready.
Soon my entries will turn to the ideas consuming my thesis, my days in the studio and the ups and downs of my work week. But this morning I sat and re-read some of the entries from my trip and remembered sitting in restaurants. Walking down narrow streets, eating gelato, searching for mementos, loving the very shapes, sounds and colors of being there.
I feel it in my bones. This will be a very exciting year.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
A new decade.
I heard someone say this yesterday and it knocked me back. It's a
new decade. Growing up I was (and still am) part of the Class of 2000. News agencies followed us through our development, first days of school, mile markers. The year 2000 seemed far away and exotic. And now it's a decade old.
I rang in the New Year from Rome with a rag-tag group of international folks: 2 women from Chile, 1 man from Nicaragua, 1 man from Belgium, 1 man from Reno and 2 men from Chile. Although our planning didn't pan out (does it ever?) it was pretty spectacular to see the Colosseum lit up at night, the streets thronging with people. Hearing the shouting and laughing, bottles rolling underfoot. The occasional, mis-begotten car.
We made plans to see the fireworks, drink wine and be among the masses then head off for an early morning of dancing and fun.
Though it is not quite what happened (there was no dancing) it was still a fascinating and different way to see Rome.
Once it became clear that the group could not settle on a mutually accepted place to go dancing the man from Nicaragua and I split off. I wanted gelato and to go to bed. It was already 230am and we had no idea how long it would take to find a way back to the hostel on the
opposite end of the city.
We ate gelato and panini (they're EVERYwhere!!!) and began meandering in the direction of the hostel. We figured if the city center was ludicrously crowded and the streets filled with pedestrians our chances would be better walking toward "home." The streets were littered with debris and revelers. I was completely amused to stumble on what was apparently a gas station.
The pumps were thoroughly covered in bottles, cans and other containers. The pumps themselves were also pretty interesting. I have grown so accustomed to the US pumps with their fancy pants credit card readers, the digital displays that they analog pumps that offered one kind of gas were a novelty.
We walked down alleys and side streets making our way to what looked like a larger thoroughfare on my map. I thought about the people living in these neighborhoods. I thought about the woman who I'd met on my way to the Vatican who spoke with me in Spanish, warning me against being out and about between midnight and about 1230am given the Italian traditions of throwing plates and other objects from the windows and into the street to bring in the New Year.
As the crowds thinned away my walking partner and I began to see more of the city. Quiet parts and areas that I had not seen in the day. Government buildings, courtyards where orange trees grew over the walls. Tiny intersections dotted with amazing sculpture and the never-ending supply of water fountains.
The one pictured came from an intersection I did not take note of but seemed to have the four seasons depicted, one on each corner with a different fountain for each. It occurs to me now, as I write, that I never learned why Romans (or Italians in general) were and are so enamored of water works and great, public works of watery art.
We walked and talked until I believed we certainly would not locate a taxi and would instead walk all the way across the city. My friend spied a lit taxi header but it seemed too late, the vehicle had passed us. I jumped into the road and shouted "TAXI!" at the top of my lungs. He stopped. And we enjoyed a new view of the city, by car. At an hour when many would normally be waking for a new day we were just crawling off to bed. Revelers trickled by the cab windows, streets slid by, cobblestones bumping against the tires, other vehicles seeming to draw close enough to us to barely slip a sheet of paper between us. My delirium and wonder kept me from feeling the anxiety I surely would have during the day.
When my travel partner and I returned to the hostel I felt soft and happy. Exhausted and grateful to pull off my shoes, climb into bed and set no rules for when I must rise and what I must do with my day. Though I remember feeling frustrated at turns during the evening all I feel now is a smile and a fond memory of walking across the city in its quiet. All wrapped up in the promise of a New Year.
Bon Anni, Roma!
new decade. Growing up I was (and still am) part of the Class of 2000. News agencies followed us through our development, first days of school, mile markers. The year 2000 seemed far away and exotic. And now it's a decade old.
I rang in the New Year from Rome with a rag-tag group of international folks: 2 women from Chile, 1 man from Nicaragua, 1 man from Belgium, 1 man from Reno and 2 men from Chile. Although our planning didn't pan out (does it ever?) it was pretty spectacular to see the Colosseum lit up at night, the streets thronging with people. Hearing the shouting and laughing, bottles rolling underfoot. The occasional, mis-begotten car. We made plans to see the fireworks, drink wine and be among the masses then head off for an early morning of dancing and fun.
Though it is not quite what happened (there was no dancing) it was still a fascinating and different way to see Rome.
Once it became clear that the group could not settle on a mutually accepted place to go dancing the man from Nicaragua and I split off. I wanted gelato and to go to bed. It was already 230am and we had no idea how long it would take to find a way back to the hostel on theopposite end of the city.
We ate gelato and panini (they're EVERYwhere!!!) and began meandering in the direction of the hostel. We figured if the city center was ludicrously crowded and the streets filled with pedestrians our chances would be better walking toward "home." The streets were littered with debris and revelers. I was completely amused to stumble on what was apparently a gas station.
The pumps were thoroughly covered in bottles, cans and other containers. The pumps themselves were also pretty interesting. I have grown so accustomed to the US pumps with their fancy pants credit card readers, the digital displays that they analog pumps that offered one kind of gas were a novelty.We walked down alleys and side streets making our way to what looked like a larger thoroughfare on my map. I thought about the people living in these neighborhoods. I thought about the woman who I'd met on my way to the Vatican who spoke with me in Spanish, warning me against being out and about between midnight and about 1230am given the Italian traditions of throwing plates and other objects from the windows and into the street to bring in the New Year.
As the crowds thinned away my walking partner and I began to see more of the city. Quiet parts and areas that I had not seen in the day. Government buildings, courtyards where orange trees grew over the walls. Tiny intersections dotted with amazing sculpture and the never-ending supply of water fountains.The one pictured came from an intersection I did not take note of but seemed to have the four seasons depicted, one on each corner with a different fountain for each. It occurs to me now, as I write, that I never learned why Romans (or Italians in general) were and are so enamored of water works and great, public works of watery art.
We walked and talked until I believed we certainly would not locate a taxi and would instead walk all the way across the city. My friend spied a lit taxi header but it seemed too late, the vehicle had passed us. I jumped into the road and shouted "TAXI!" at the top of my lungs. He stopped. And we enjoyed a new view of the city, by car. At an hour when many would normally be waking for a new day we were just crawling off to bed. Revelers trickled by the cab windows, streets slid by, cobblestones bumping against the tires, other vehicles seeming to draw close enough to us to barely slip a sheet of paper between us. My delirium and wonder kept me from feeling the anxiety I surely would have during the day.
When my travel partner and I returned to the hostel I felt soft and happy. Exhausted and grateful to pull off my shoes, climb into bed and set no rules for when I must rise and what I must do with my day. Though I remember feeling frustrated at turns during the evening all I feel now is a smile and a fond memory of walking across the city in its quiet. All wrapped up in the promise of a New Year.
Bon Anni, Roma!
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