This is the first opera I have ever experienced, and while I'm certainly not going to go out of my way to see another, I can't say I'm not necessarily going to mind. There's an incredible amount of appreciation to have for all aspects of an operatic production, as it truly is a combination of all theater arts on steroids. The scenic design and costumes are grand, the physical and vocal work is incredible, and it's simply a beautiful spectacle.
I enjoyed UNC's production of Don Giovanni for these many reasons. I wasn't engrossed with the story or baffled by the performances, but had high praise for the work that was being done. I was able to soak in the beauty of the arts, the delicious composition of the music, and so on. The show was impressive, and humorous, and well directed. I've been a part of some intricate productions before, and can only imagine the group effort to get something like this on its feet. It's not a surprise that the rehearsal process was held over a span of a few months. That's absolutely necessary not only to make sure that everything can be directed and choreographed, etc; but also to make sure that no details have been missed and that everything will indeed fit together.
Yikes! What a job to take on. But it was taken on and handled beautifully and the show was one to be proud of for all involved. The show was a wonderful introduction to the art of Opera and has helped open up my mind and appreciation for the many forms of art just a little bit more.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
You Can't Take It With You
I don't know if I can describe how incredibly proud I am of UNC's final main stage production of the Spring 2011 semester. Everything was magnificent and beautiful in only the ways theater can present.
The set is probably the biggest and best of any production I've ever seen. I expected something in relation to the Denver Center's incredible 3 story house for August: Osage Country that took my breath away; however, TCTIWY seemed so much more full and alive. Nik-naks and paintings and books and animals and plants and the list goes on and on sprawled across the stage setting the busy home for an artistic family that is always working on something. Dad and his friend are in the basement making fireworks, mom's working on yet another one of her plays, her daughter's practicing dancing in between baking her candy, her husband is writing and practicing his new composition on the xylophone, and grandpa practices his darts. The best part - that doesn't cover half of it.
The production is littered with 13+ characters that are all interesting and not at all boring in their own ways. The pace is quick for the most part, with some slower sweeter moments, and a few very awkward moments that (thankfully) never linger too long. The timing was snap-snap throughout keeping the flow of characters in and out of the room extremely smooth, and only a few moments that the timing was off just enough for the joke to not quite hit - but still be gotten.
The direction of the show was tight from David Grapes, who luckily worked with an incredible ensemble of actors who know what they're doing and can do it right. Everyone found so many wonderful characteristics in their portrayals that made them stand out in their own right, and everyone had their moments in the show. In fact, the show felt most like a sitcom at times with the audience hooting and hollering with applause enough to stop the show. This is damn funny.
Personally knowing or working or having worked with almost the entirety of the cast filled a warm spot in my heart as I watched these brilliant performers at the beginning of their careers. Their performances, and the show in general, reignited any fleeting thoughts or feelings I may have experienced in the theater arts. It charged me and fueled me, giving me the boost I've needed in the overwhelming past weeks where my college career is coming to an end and my acting career is about to begin with the LA Showcase in May.
This production was magical. Not quite perfect, but as damn close as you can get with the few flaws that are just the nature of live theater. This show inspired me to never forget what really matters in life, and how doing what you love and having fun while doing it is the only way to live as fully as you can. That's something you can take with you.
The set is probably the biggest and best of any production I've ever seen. I expected something in relation to the Denver Center's incredible 3 story house for August: Osage Country that took my breath away; however, TCTIWY seemed so much more full and alive. Nik-naks and paintings and books and animals and plants and the list goes on and on sprawled across the stage setting the busy home for an artistic family that is always working on something. Dad and his friend are in the basement making fireworks, mom's working on yet another one of her plays, her daughter's practicing dancing in between baking her candy, her husband is writing and practicing his new composition on the xylophone, and grandpa practices his darts. The best part - that doesn't cover half of it.
The production is littered with 13+ characters that are all interesting and not at all boring in their own ways. The pace is quick for the most part, with some slower sweeter moments, and a few very awkward moments that (thankfully) never linger too long. The timing was snap-snap throughout keeping the flow of characters in and out of the room extremely smooth, and only a few moments that the timing was off just enough for the joke to not quite hit - but still be gotten.
The direction of the show was tight from David Grapes, who luckily worked with an incredible ensemble of actors who know what they're doing and can do it right. Everyone found so many wonderful characteristics in their portrayals that made them stand out in their own right, and everyone had their moments in the show. In fact, the show felt most like a sitcom at times with the audience hooting and hollering with applause enough to stop the show. This is damn funny.
Personally knowing or working or having worked with almost the entirety of the cast filled a warm spot in my heart as I watched these brilliant performers at the beginning of their careers. Their performances, and the show in general, reignited any fleeting thoughts or feelings I may have experienced in the theater arts. It charged me and fueled me, giving me the boost I've needed in the overwhelming past weeks where my college career is coming to an end and my acting career is about to begin with the LA Showcase in May.
This production was magical. Not quite perfect, but as damn close as you can get with the few flaws that are just the nature of live theater. This show inspired me to never forget what really matters in life, and how doing what you love and having fun while doing it is the only way to live as fully as you can. That's something you can take with you.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
As a Weapon in the Hands of the Restless Poor
This article nearly brought tears to my eyes. What an incredible story did unfold giving such a huge insight within a small circumstance.
It is truly amazing to see how an education in arts, philosophy, and so forth can change a human being so much for the better. Not only did these poor individuals end up earning so much physically through continuing on to institutions with scholarships, etc; they became rich in thought and heart through all that they learned.
That should be the defining difference between those who are truly rich and poor.
I really have nothing more to say that the smile on my unseen face doesn't express.
It is truly amazing to see how an education in arts, philosophy, and so forth can change a human being so much for the better. Not only did these poor individuals end up earning so much physically through continuing on to institutions with scholarships, etc; they became rich in thought and heart through all that they learned.
That should be the defining difference between those who are truly rich and poor.
I really have nothing more to say that the smile on my unseen face doesn't express.
As Lite Entertainment for Bored College Students
It may be due to my lack of consciousness slowly creeping in as I read this text, or the fact that this text is somewhat difficult to read due to the poor quality of the scanning, but Mark Edmundson seems like an enemy of the liberal arts in our schools simply because he doesn't feel people should have an "enjoyable" experience while learning. This may be a strong statement, and possibly it's completely false, but how he speaks negatively about being adored for making his classes fun and how our generation is affected by the constant stream of white noise coming from the radio and television sets makes him sound pointedly against anything that isn't straight-forward, thought changing, education.
I agree on many parts as Mark dissects the political environment of a college campus and compares it more to a candy store - showing off the goods so students will be interested in buying, taking samplers until they find the right taste, etc - than a collegiate establishment meant to educate students within certain standards in order to receive a degree that fully states their accomplishments and knowledge of specific topics.
Colleges do make the process too easy for students. The classes aren't difficult enough, and most professors aren't shying away from admitting that they are dumbing down their course material from what it was before because the newer generations are struggling. How sad is this, that really any worthless being can attend a college and ghost their way to a degree? How is it fair that those who don't care to try get to succeed just as much as those who actually give a shit?
Now this isn't necessarily true in the outside world; reality after university. But we're all on the same road to an ultimate goal, and I personally feel that one better be damn well committed to reach the end. This is also something that baffles me of students who find college time to be party time. What's the point? Why don't you simply rent a house on campus and save the tuition costs on booze instead of wasting your time and money on classes you're going to drop or fail out of anyway?
And why are some of these students not dropping or failing out of classes? Because they university is holding their hands. Most professors have the mentality that "we want you to succeed" without any mention or emphasis on "striving to succeed." The student's should be putting forth the effort, not the professors.
Now dismissing liberal education doesn't necessarily fix the ADD issue students have. What professors and universities need to understand is how this can be used as a tool to help students. It can only be used as such if the teacher forces a challenge on the students to keep to a certain par of performance, while using more enjoyable means of educating.
It sounds to me that Mr. Edmundson needs to stop whining and do something about it.
I agree on many parts as Mark dissects the political environment of a college campus and compares it more to a candy store - showing off the goods so students will be interested in buying, taking samplers until they find the right taste, etc - than a collegiate establishment meant to educate students within certain standards in order to receive a degree that fully states their accomplishments and knowledge of specific topics.
Colleges do make the process too easy for students. The classes aren't difficult enough, and most professors aren't shying away from admitting that they are dumbing down their course material from what it was before because the newer generations are struggling. How sad is this, that really any worthless being can attend a college and ghost their way to a degree? How is it fair that those who don't care to try get to succeed just as much as those who actually give a shit?
Now this isn't necessarily true in the outside world; reality after university. But we're all on the same road to an ultimate goal, and I personally feel that one better be damn well committed to reach the end. This is also something that baffles me of students who find college time to be party time. What's the point? Why don't you simply rent a house on campus and save the tuition costs on booze instead of wasting your time and money on classes you're going to drop or fail out of anyway?
And why are some of these students not dropping or failing out of classes? Because they university is holding their hands. Most professors have the mentality that "we want you to succeed" without any mention or emphasis on "striving to succeed." The student's should be putting forth the effort, not the professors.
Now dismissing liberal education doesn't necessarily fix the ADD issue students have. What professors and universities need to understand is how this can be used as a tool to help students. It can only be used as such if the teacher forces a challenge on the students to keep to a certain par of performance, while using more enjoyable means of educating.
It sounds to me that Mr. Edmundson needs to stop whining and do something about it.
The Library
This compositional piece came about without any real thought or decision to create something filled with meaning. I was having a good day getting many things accomplished, and had the urge to finish off this assignment along with the others that had been checked off my list.
I wandered around my room hitting things and thinking about what I could use to create a piece. I fell upon my book shelf, and began thinking of the many sounds a book can make. Then I thought, that isn't enough. Paper and books. Scribbles, crumbles, etc. These are things you'd hear in a library or classroom. Wonderful, we have something here. Now how can I keep track of all these sounds in some organized way? I don't have a beat...or at least one that's interesting. Then I thought how perfect it'd be to have words keep the rhythm.
I found the instructions to a final essay and copied them into Word. Perfect.
I printed everything off and had fun drawing pictures and imagining how it'd all turn out. In the end it was alright. I'd prefer to compose with actual instruments in the future.
I wandered around my room hitting things and thinking about what I could use to create a piece. I fell upon my book shelf, and began thinking of the many sounds a book can make. Then I thought, that isn't enough. Paper and books. Scribbles, crumbles, etc. These are things you'd hear in a library or classroom. Wonderful, we have something here. Now how can I keep track of all these sounds in some organized way? I don't have a beat...or at least one that's interesting. Then I thought how perfect it'd be to have words keep the rhythm.
I found the instructions to a final essay and copied them into Word. Perfect.
I printed everything off and had fun drawing pictures and imagining how it'd all turn out. In the end it was alright. I'd prefer to compose with actual instruments in the future.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
!@#$%^&*()_-+=:;"'<,>.?/~
The compositions of Jean-Claude Risset can be best described as one or all of the following:
- The soundtrack to the year 2300 as represented by a 1970's SciFi film.
- The "Star Gate" sequence of 2001: A Space Odyssey.
- The backing track to a Pink Floyd song/album sans vocals/instrumentation mixed in.
- A nightmarish experience for anyone "Rolling" or "Tripping".
- Interesting, but highly unnecessary.
Obviously this is completely subjective, as there is much to appreciate and look at in this genre of sound making. I can understand the complexity and time it takes to create such a piece as these presented tonight, and I can appreciate the creative process from Composer to Musician or Vocalist. This is not easy to perform, nor is it easy to listen to. Avante-garde is a word that's lost all meaning in nearly every sense that it used to be used. Nowadays it simply means, "weird, different, out of the ordinary" or any other term that lets you know it won't be within the confines or structure of what is stereotypical.
Listening to these pieces I remembered the experience of what it is to watch many of Samuel Beckett's short works. Being an absurdest playwright, many of his pieces serve no purpose of moral telling or entertainment value; however, they exist and are to be respected because of it. Such is the way with compositions such as Risset's, which at many times gave me an experience that is similar to the idea behind Beckett's piece "Rockaby" which gives the audience the feeling of watching an individual slowly and finally pass away on their death bed. You sit, waiting and wishing for it to be over, as terrible an experience it is.
I do not mean to belittle or be abrasive towards this mans hard work, career, or reputation. Again, this is all one persons opinion. It is, I'm certain, an opinion shared by many others; though, certainly not all.
The event did inspire me to create and compose works of my own, and hopefully be able to tell a grand story through the work. We'll see whatever happens.
- The soundtrack to the year 2300 as represented by a 1970's SciFi film.
- The "Star Gate" sequence of 2001: A Space Odyssey.
- The backing track to a Pink Floyd song/album sans vocals/instrumentation mixed in.
- A nightmarish experience for anyone "Rolling" or "Tripping".
- Interesting, but highly unnecessary.
Obviously this is completely subjective, as there is much to appreciate and look at in this genre of sound making. I can understand the complexity and time it takes to create such a piece as these presented tonight, and I can appreciate the creative process from Composer to Musician or Vocalist. This is not easy to perform, nor is it easy to listen to. Avante-garde is a word that's lost all meaning in nearly every sense that it used to be used. Nowadays it simply means, "weird, different, out of the ordinary" or any other term that lets you know it won't be within the confines or structure of what is stereotypical.
Listening to these pieces I remembered the experience of what it is to watch many of Samuel Beckett's short works. Being an absurdest playwright, many of his pieces serve no purpose of moral telling or entertainment value; however, they exist and are to be respected because of it. Such is the way with compositions such as Risset's, which at many times gave me an experience that is similar to the idea behind Beckett's piece "Rockaby" which gives the audience the feeling of watching an individual slowly and finally pass away on their death bed. You sit, waiting and wishing for it to be over, as terrible an experience it is.
I do not mean to belittle or be abrasive towards this mans hard work, career, or reputation. Again, this is all one persons opinion. It is, I'm certain, an opinion shared by many others; though, certainly not all.
The event did inspire me to create and compose works of my own, and hopefully be able to tell a grand story through the work. We'll see whatever happens.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
What to Listen For in the World
Music has always inspired me. As an artist, more specifically an actor, I have always been extremely emotionally attached to music and the story or feelings it can represent. Something magical happens when lyrics are belted with full intensity over a swelling of sound and tears are brought to your eyes for the understanding of what's happening in the story of the piece or because you're simply so moved by the beautiful intricacy of it.
I can fully relate to what Adolphe tells us in this article, about being inspired by the things around us without need of understanding it. Music is something that doesn't always need an explanation, and I think is too often prefaced with such. One such as myself, an actor, I must find every possible detail of the representation of what I am portraying or it is meaningless and thus doesn't work. Music does not need this detail, but can merely happen. Many composers have simply written whatever came to their mind as they let their emotions and feelings pour through them. At times they don't understand what they are getting out, and other times it's clear what burdens are on their mind as they construct their work.
Music is so much based on structure and technique and simply cannot work with it. Musicians are pretty incredible creatures for what they are capable of doing at one given time. Their mind and body must work seamlessly to create, and the training to it takes to reach such a place is magnificent.
I can only equate to the likes of playing Rock Band or Guitar Hero, video game versions of instrumental manipulation. Where a real guitar has chords, the game controller has several button aligned to be pressed and strummed in the likeness of a chord. Playing these games often I have had many instances where I have blanked out mentally and yet my fingers have made the impossible formations flashing by work. I am always surprised when this instance occurs and think myself a God for that moment.
What true God like abilities do real musicians possess.
I can fully relate to what Adolphe tells us in this article, about being inspired by the things around us without need of understanding it. Music is something that doesn't always need an explanation, and I think is too often prefaced with such. One such as myself, an actor, I must find every possible detail of the representation of what I am portraying or it is meaningless and thus doesn't work. Music does not need this detail, but can merely happen. Many composers have simply written whatever came to their mind as they let their emotions and feelings pour through them. At times they don't understand what they are getting out, and other times it's clear what burdens are on their mind as they construct their work.
Music is so much based on structure and technique and simply cannot work with it. Musicians are pretty incredible creatures for what they are capable of doing at one given time. Their mind and body must work seamlessly to create, and the training to it takes to reach such a place is magnificent.
I can only equate to the likes of playing Rock Band or Guitar Hero, video game versions of instrumental manipulation. Where a real guitar has chords, the game controller has several button aligned to be pressed and strummed in the likeness of a chord. Playing these games often I have had many instances where I have blanked out mentally and yet my fingers have made the impossible formations flashing by work. I am always surprised when this instance occurs and think myself a God for that moment.
What true God like abilities do real musicians possess.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
A Collage In Regards to Myself
THE ORIGINAL
This is a collection of titles taken from the posters to a handful of films in my personal collection. I wasn't able to put all of the films I own into the piece as it would have been too busy, overlapped too much, or simply been a mess in general.
I have such a passion for film and the incredible process of creating such art. As an actor I use film to escape from reality, to study those whom are great so that I may learn from them (or borrow their works or techniques).
THE ABSTRACTION
Words are hard to bring into an abstract form. If you can read it it's not abstract. I used a lot of blur in the formation of this piece, while also messing with hue and saturation in sections as well as the whole. Noise was added in sections as well, with multiple styles of blur throughout as well.
This is a collection of titles taken from the posters to a handful of films in my personal collection. I wasn't able to put all of the films I own into the piece as it would have been too busy, overlapped too much, or simply been a mess in general.
I have such a passion for film and the incredible process of creating such art. As an actor I use film to escape from reality, to study those whom are great so that I may learn from them (or borrow their works or techniques).
THE ABSTRACTION
Words are hard to bring into an abstract form. If you can read it it's not abstract. I used a lot of blur in the formation of this piece, while also messing with hue and saturation in sections as well as the whole. Noise was added in sections as well, with multiple styles of blur throughout as well.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Big Fish
Rating: 4/5
"Big Fish" tells the story of a young man grown up and looking for the truths in his dying father's big stories. Will Bloom (Billy Crudup) is happily married with a child on the way, but is summoned back home when it seems his father, Ed Bloom (Albert Finney) hasn't much time left to live. The two haven't spoken in 3 years, after Will told off his father who seemed to have stole the spotlight with his exaggerated story telling during the reception for his wedding. Ed's stories are filled with wonder and excitement, with impossible events and incredible characters; and, these are the only supposed facts Will really knows about his father's life. Will begs his father for the truth, wishing to truly know something, anything about his father that is in fact real.
The film jumps between Will's battle for reconciliation and the stories of young Ed Bloom (Ewan McGregor) and his many adventures. We meet giants, Siamese twins, circus leaders, and an evil Witch with a glass eye that will show you the way of your death should you gaze upon it. It's no surprise that Tim Burton's visuals find a cozy home within the storytelling portions of the film; however, what I found so interesting was how subdued his trademark stylization came across. Burton is never overwhelming with special effects or eerie portraits. The world seems extremely well rooted, with just the perfect amount of heightened reality and/or magic to keep the wonderful effect.
The many stories cut between the real life events at the Bloom household are portioned well, and we find ourselves pleasantly wrapped up in whatever tale is being presented until we snap back to reality with the quick realization of: "Oh yeah, this is happening." The Young Ed Bloom comes across as a charismatic and personable individual with an extreme charm and wit that even the foulest of figures would be hard-pressed not to like. The other characters that greet themselves along the path are never overbearing, but give an existence that's just right for a story that truly revolves around Ed. We meet these characters, learn a bit about them, spend enough quality time with them to care to remember them, and then move on. This is useful as old relationships will reappear or cross paths or be mentioned again at a later time. It doesn't matter about who the person really is, but what story they were involved with and the fact that they exist at all.
This is a fairly typical father-and-son story with the usual elements of necessary reconciliation. The characters are stereotypically stubborn in their opinions as each man's respectful wife leaves room for their husbands to do their thing. What truly makes the film shine is the stories themselves, and even more so the idea of the magic of storytelling. Stories have always been an essential form of passing down ideals and information from generation to generation. It's a means of keeping history straight and passing on traditions. Stories are what keep what has passed, alive. It's the only true form of immortality.
Ed tells large stories rooted in truth for the purpose of making his life seem much more interesting than what it might have been. Why Will is so adamant about knowing the fact facts of his father's life is not really supported strongly enough. It's understandable he wants to know about his father, and feels he's owed enough truth to properly remember his father by. What is learned in the end, at least I hope, is that maybe it doesn't matter whether we are remembered for what we did or didn't do, but that we're simply remembered at all.
"Big Fish" tells the story of a young man grown up and looking for the truths in his dying father's big stories. Will Bloom (Billy Crudup) is happily married with a child on the way, but is summoned back home when it seems his father, Ed Bloom (Albert Finney) hasn't much time left to live. The two haven't spoken in 3 years, after Will told off his father who seemed to have stole the spotlight with his exaggerated story telling during the reception for his wedding. Ed's stories are filled with wonder and excitement, with impossible events and incredible characters; and, these are the only supposed facts Will really knows about his father's life. Will begs his father for the truth, wishing to truly know something, anything about his father that is in fact real.
The film jumps between Will's battle for reconciliation and the stories of young Ed Bloom (Ewan McGregor) and his many adventures. We meet giants, Siamese twins, circus leaders, and an evil Witch with a glass eye that will show you the way of your death should you gaze upon it. It's no surprise that Tim Burton's visuals find a cozy home within the storytelling portions of the film; however, what I found so interesting was how subdued his trademark stylization came across. Burton is never overwhelming with special effects or eerie portraits. The world seems extremely well rooted, with just the perfect amount of heightened reality and/or magic to keep the wonderful effect.
The many stories cut between the real life events at the Bloom household are portioned well, and we find ourselves pleasantly wrapped up in whatever tale is being presented until we snap back to reality with the quick realization of: "Oh yeah, this is happening." The Young Ed Bloom comes across as a charismatic and personable individual with an extreme charm and wit that even the foulest of figures would be hard-pressed not to like. The other characters that greet themselves along the path are never overbearing, but give an existence that's just right for a story that truly revolves around Ed. We meet these characters, learn a bit about them, spend enough quality time with them to care to remember them, and then move on. This is useful as old relationships will reappear or cross paths or be mentioned again at a later time. It doesn't matter about who the person really is, but what story they were involved with and the fact that they exist at all.
This is a fairly typical father-and-son story with the usual elements of necessary reconciliation. The characters are stereotypically stubborn in their opinions as each man's respectful wife leaves room for their husbands to do their thing. What truly makes the film shine is the stories themselves, and even more so the idea of the magic of storytelling. Stories have always been an essential form of passing down ideals and information from generation to generation. It's a means of keeping history straight and passing on traditions. Stories are what keep what has passed, alive. It's the only true form of immortality.
Ed tells large stories rooted in truth for the purpose of making his life seem much more interesting than what it might have been. Why Will is so adamant about knowing the fact facts of his father's life is not really supported strongly enough. It's understandable he wants to know about his father, and feels he's owed enough truth to properly remember his father by. What is learned in the end, at least I hope, is that maybe it doesn't matter whether we are remembered for what we did or didn't do, but that we're simply remembered at all.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Art From The Inside
These small readings seem to focus on the main idea of why art is created. There isn't a simple answer to that question, as each reason is subjective to that individual, but it gives examples nonetheless.
The main reason people create art, such as paintings or sculptures, is to release within themselves some sort of emotion. Perhaps it is to convey some form to another, but mostly it is of selfish acts. And, like stated in one reading about a painting obtaining a different meaning once it's on a wall, art changes form and meaning. A painting or a play are created because the artist had to get rid of something inside them. It is a form of therapy, or expression, or both. But once it becomes before an audience, it loses that special meaning and becomes something to look at, ponder, dissect, etc. It's not what the artist is about but what the painting or play is about. Now this is important, and I feel is necessary and expected of art. If one doesn't pick apart a work and form an opinion than there's no reason for the art piece to exist and there's certainly no reason for you to inhabit the earth.
I do understand in the Conversations with Picasso how people look at a painting on a flower and try to unravel it's beauty; however, they will not take such time to do the same for the actual figure in real life. Art is, especially for those who create it, an escape. It is a window to a world similar to ours, but with something special inside. We share these with others, and they try to understand and enjoy them.
Art, in the sense of a painting or sculpture, should not be driven by what "the other" will think. It must come out of the artist naturally and be brought into existence due to whatever reasons. This is very different from theater or film, with which the art doesn't exist without an "other" to view upon it.
Art is so extremely subjective, and the reason behind art or the purpose of art has no concrete or certain answer. It exists, for personally enjoyment, for the enjoyment of others, or simply as a means of getting something out of ones system. Art is, and always will be. Sometimes one has to leave it at that.
The main reason people create art, such as paintings or sculptures, is to release within themselves some sort of emotion. Perhaps it is to convey some form to another, but mostly it is of selfish acts. And, like stated in one reading about a painting obtaining a different meaning once it's on a wall, art changes form and meaning. A painting or a play are created because the artist had to get rid of something inside them. It is a form of therapy, or expression, or both. But once it becomes before an audience, it loses that special meaning and becomes something to look at, ponder, dissect, etc. It's not what the artist is about but what the painting or play is about. Now this is important, and I feel is necessary and expected of art. If one doesn't pick apart a work and form an opinion than there's no reason for the art piece to exist and there's certainly no reason for you to inhabit the earth.
I do understand in the Conversations with Picasso how people look at a painting on a flower and try to unravel it's beauty; however, they will not take such time to do the same for the actual figure in real life. Art is, especially for those who create it, an escape. It is a window to a world similar to ours, but with something special inside. We share these with others, and they try to understand and enjoy them.
Art, in the sense of a painting or sculpture, should not be driven by what "the other" will think. It must come out of the artist naturally and be brought into existence due to whatever reasons. This is very different from theater or film, with which the art doesn't exist without an "other" to view upon it.
Art is so extremely subjective, and the reason behind art or the purpose of art has no concrete or certain answer. It exists, for personally enjoyment, for the enjoyment of others, or simply as a means of getting something out of ones system. Art is, and always will be. Sometimes one has to leave it at that.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Art as Film
It's incredible how frustrated this reading made me. It not only seems that the thought process portrayed in educating me to the ideals of these skeptics is mundane and repetitious because there really is no true supporting idea in the matter; but also, these individuals are simply trying too hard to try and make a point that film is not art.
Art is, and watch out because this is a really simple answer, something brought purposely into existence for the purpose of evoking thought and/or emotion. Even the worst work of art causes one to think "I don't like this. I hate this. This sucks." It evokes thought, maybe not very deep, but there nonetheless. There are many forms of art that just are, and must be respected as such. Such is the way with most absurd plays. The piece may not have a story to tell, or really any form of purpose; however, it exists, and you can do with it what you will. Ignore it (which is a choice one must think to make) or delve into it and try and find meaning.
Films are so carefully crafted by such a large group of people it astounds me that anyone can say that the end result is not a piece of art. How many ideals came together to create this one vision? The camera (as a machine) is the tool used to capture this work and show it to an audience in order to evoke thought and/or emotion. The dramatic occurrence happening before the lens does not cause any one to ponder it's meaning because the only individuals aware of its existence are the ones that helped create it. It is not until the scene is put to film and show to those who had not be a part of its creation that it means anything, and in that moment it becomes art.
Art is created purposefully, and everything that occurs before the lens is mended with time and care so that when the camera is to record it takes in what it was meant to take in. Mistakes are bound to occur, but art is not perfect. There is no such thing as "perfect" art, not simply because that's extremely subjective, but because in no way is art ever defined with that word in mind. "Art is a perfect..." never comes to mind. Art is always described by what it represents, is supposed to mean, etc.
Does a copy of the work that still represents and causes thought or emotion lose its value as a work of art? Taking paintings and making copies for the rest of the world to have doesn't change the idea of the work, though it is no longer the original work. But is art defined by the value of the work or what it evokes?
This is my argument, and it's fairly weak by any standards. But as an actor I'm so emotionally connected to the idea of art and what it is as a performer.
Art is, and watch out because this is a really simple answer, something brought purposely into existence for the purpose of evoking thought and/or emotion. Even the worst work of art causes one to think "I don't like this. I hate this. This sucks." It evokes thought, maybe not very deep, but there nonetheless. There are many forms of art that just are, and must be respected as such. Such is the way with most absurd plays. The piece may not have a story to tell, or really any form of purpose; however, it exists, and you can do with it what you will. Ignore it (which is a choice one must think to make) or delve into it and try and find meaning.
Films are so carefully crafted by such a large group of people it astounds me that anyone can say that the end result is not a piece of art. How many ideals came together to create this one vision? The camera (as a machine) is the tool used to capture this work and show it to an audience in order to evoke thought and/or emotion. The dramatic occurrence happening before the lens does not cause any one to ponder it's meaning because the only individuals aware of its existence are the ones that helped create it. It is not until the scene is put to film and show to those who had not be a part of its creation that it means anything, and in that moment it becomes art.
Art is created purposefully, and everything that occurs before the lens is mended with time and care so that when the camera is to record it takes in what it was meant to take in. Mistakes are bound to occur, but art is not perfect. There is no such thing as "perfect" art, not simply because that's extremely subjective, but because in no way is art ever defined with that word in mind. "Art is a perfect..." never comes to mind. Art is always described by what it represents, is supposed to mean, etc.
Does a copy of the work that still represents and causes thought or emotion lose its value as a work of art? Taking paintings and making copies for the rest of the world to have doesn't change the idea of the work, though it is no longer the original work. But is art defined by the value of the work or what it evokes?
This is my argument, and it's fairly weak by any standards. But as an actor I'm so emotionally connected to the idea of art and what it is as a performer.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Saying Goodbye to Mr. Zero
It's a strange thing for an actor, to leave behind a grand production. It's a difficult thought in regards to the many hours contributed to creating and performing a theatrical work, and to the countless moments between friends, family, or even one's self that had to be passed on because of the commitment made to the art.
In high school, theater was everything. It was a home away from home where everyone loved and experienced in ways that no other groups or individuals in the school could. We were better people then all of them, because we saw into the hearts and souls of that which no "normal" person could ever hope to. My high school theater experience did no less but define me completely and utterly as I am today. The relationships created, experienced, lost, forgotten, or destroyed in those three years will be carried within the depth of my heart for an eternity. The moments shared on that stage or in that black box theater will forever cause an ache in my heart at their very remembrance. The roles I played and the direction I was given not only crafted my skills and abilities to become the actor I am today but helped shape and mold the individual I have come to be. Every character one creates lives on in one's self long after the show is over. It's impossible to let them go, because they are a piece of you; therefore, pieces of them must remain and create who you are.
It's funny how often I question how much of me is actually one hundred percent original Trysten Cain. As I've performed roles, and moved on from productions, I have always had physical, emotional, or mental attributes of characters linger on into the crafting of the next one. And these characters were formed from original ideas as well as borrowed attributes from the world around me. If this is what makes up who I am, there's not really any of me that's truly just me.
And at the end of each show, it was not uncommon for most individuals in the cast to be emotional. Usually it was simply the fact that the show was over, the fun was finished, and the experience had come to an end. Rituals were shared and torches were passed literally or metaphorically within the structure of the theater. As the years have progressed, and productions have been had outside of high school, the end of a production has become less traumatic as it had been before. Reaching the point of becoming a professional actor, and starting a career, one simply comes to the realization that this project is finished and it's time to move on to the next one. No tears or rituals or big deals. Shakes hands and hug the ones you've shared this work with, and feel proud of what you've accomplished. Some of these people you'll be fortunate enough to see or work with again, and others will be completely forgotten. Such is the way.
Through my college career thus far, I had not been quite blessed with such an opportunity as The Adding Machine has given. My resume on the campus stood as small, wacky, supporting characters amongst grand worlds and giant roles. I've participated in Shakespeare and Restoration pieces, classical works that I personally am not quite attracted to. When this show came about, it was certain that this role was mine to lose. I heard this from my ever supportive friends, and I felt this in the depths of my soul. This was my chance to show everyone what I was capable of. This was my chance to really create something I'd never had the chance to before.
I can say, without a doubt, that Mr. Zero is the masterpiece of my repertoire thus far. Never have I had a role so demanding on so many levels as I had here. The physical work was like none I'd done before, with hunched postures and deep, brooding vocal work. The memorization was great, though memorizing has never been an issue for me on any level. The simple fact, however, that all these things were on my shoulders for the world to see for two straight hours was a challenge. The show was carried on my back with phenomenal supporting characters there to help me along the way.
I am an actor known for his subtle and honest acting. My strength is bringing a scene to the stage that seems as normal as a conversation in real life. I usually am Trysten Cain Playing Such and Such. It's obvious it's me, but I'm someone else. This was the first time I really took the leap to create a total character and leave Trysten Cain behind. My fault in this program has always been I was too scared to take chances. I never just "went for it" or made strong, passionate choices. I played it safe, never wanting to seem "too big." This is something I've worked strictly on with teachers, directors, and faculty in general. This is the culmination of all that hard work. I think I achieved something I never could have before.
What an achievement that is for me. This is yet another defining moment in my life, personally and as an artist. And what a thing it is, to know that I will not get to share this particular story or character again; at least, not under these circumstances. The run of the show is over, just as I was getting used to the idea of going on a full run as this character with these people. I came to love the cast and crew like any other show, but I truly came to love these individuals within the world of this play. I have spent so much time in the mind and heart of Mr. Zero that I look at the actress playing Daisy, and my heart truly glows with a love for that woman. I spent two hours every night for the past two weeks going through the life and afterlife of Mr. Zero. I shed my life away and existed as another being, going through the things they go through. Thinking their thoughts and feeling their emotions, desires, and pains. Every night I lived the life of Mr. Zero, and I died as Mr. Zero. And that is not a light ideal.
One of the reasons I do what I do is because my life is simply not exciting enough to live through every second of every day. It can be extremely boring and mundane, luckily with many chances here and there to escape to another world through music, film, or text. I am an actor because I crave the opportunity to escape from this world and be someone else. I want to experience things I can't or won't ever experience in this life. I want to take chances and risks that are far too dangerous to do in reality. The highlight of my day is knowing that at some point I get to live as another person for even a few moments.
With that in mind, and the knowledge that this show is over - I find myself lost once again. It's been a mere several hours since the closing of this run so I've yet to get back to the cycle of work and classes and the normal things that I do; however, for the moment my heart is heavy. I am not shedding tears, though there's a knot in the back of my throat, and my heart does ache deep down. I already miss it. All of it. I no longer have it to look forward to each day. As odd as it sounds, I am lost without a life to live beyond my own.
I act because it's my passion. My love. The only thing I can truly do right in this world. I do it to entertain people. To provoke thought in others. And selfishly, to escape.
I am truly blessed to have such a talent and ability to do such a thing as this. And I am even further blessed to have such an incredible amount of support from friends and family who love me and love what I do. I cannot truly share my appreciation for all those audience members who decided (or perhaps were forced in a few cases) to share all of this with me. I do this for you as much as I do it for me. What I do is meaningless without your eyes, minds, and hearts to take it in.
Thank you. All of you.
In high school, theater was everything. It was a home away from home where everyone loved and experienced in ways that no other groups or individuals in the school could. We were better people then all of them, because we saw into the hearts and souls of that which no "normal" person could ever hope to. My high school theater experience did no less but define me completely and utterly as I am today. The relationships created, experienced, lost, forgotten, or destroyed in those three years will be carried within the depth of my heart for an eternity. The moments shared on that stage or in that black box theater will forever cause an ache in my heart at their very remembrance. The roles I played and the direction I was given not only crafted my skills and abilities to become the actor I am today but helped shape and mold the individual I have come to be. Every character one creates lives on in one's self long after the show is over. It's impossible to let them go, because they are a piece of you; therefore, pieces of them must remain and create who you are.
It's funny how often I question how much of me is actually one hundred percent original Trysten Cain. As I've performed roles, and moved on from productions, I have always had physical, emotional, or mental attributes of characters linger on into the crafting of the next one. And these characters were formed from original ideas as well as borrowed attributes from the world around me. If this is what makes up who I am, there's not really any of me that's truly just me.
And at the end of each show, it was not uncommon for most individuals in the cast to be emotional. Usually it was simply the fact that the show was over, the fun was finished, and the experience had come to an end. Rituals were shared and torches were passed literally or metaphorically within the structure of the theater. As the years have progressed, and productions have been had outside of high school, the end of a production has become less traumatic as it had been before. Reaching the point of becoming a professional actor, and starting a career, one simply comes to the realization that this project is finished and it's time to move on to the next one. No tears or rituals or big deals. Shakes hands and hug the ones you've shared this work with, and feel proud of what you've accomplished. Some of these people you'll be fortunate enough to see or work with again, and others will be completely forgotten. Such is the way.
Through my college career thus far, I had not been quite blessed with such an opportunity as The Adding Machine has given. My resume on the campus stood as small, wacky, supporting characters amongst grand worlds and giant roles. I've participated in Shakespeare and Restoration pieces, classical works that I personally am not quite attracted to. When this show came about, it was certain that this role was mine to lose. I heard this from my ever supportive friends, and I felt this in the depths of my soul. This was my chance to show everyone what I was capable of. This was my chance to really create something I'd never had the chance to before.
I can say, without a doubt, that Mr. Zero is the masterpiece of my repertoire thus far. Never have I had a role so demanding on so many levels as I had here. The physical work was like none I'd done before, with hunched postures and deep, brooding vocal work. The memorization was great, though memorizing has never been an issue for me on any level. The simple fact, however, that all these things were on my shoulders for the world to see for two straight hours was a challenge. The show was carried on my back with phenomenal supporting characters there to help me along the way.
I am an actor known for his subtle and honest acting. My strength is bringing a scene to the stage that seems as normal as a conversation in real life. I usually am Trysten Cain Playing Such and Such. It's obvious it's me, but I'm someone else. This was the first time I really took the leap to create a total character and leave Trysten Cain behind. My fault in this program has always been I was too scared to take chances. I never just "went for it" or made strong, passionate choices. I played it safe, never wanting to seem "too big." This is something I've worked strictly on with teachers, directors, and faculty in general. This is the culmination of all that hard work. I think I achieved something I never could have before.
What an achievement that is for me. This is yet another defining moment in my life, personally and as an artist. And what a thing it is, to know that I will not get to share this particular story or character again; at least, not under these circumstances. The run of the show is over, just as I was getting used to the idea of going on a full run as this character with these people. I came to love the cast and crew like any other show, but I truly came to love these individuals within the world of this play. I have spent so much time in the mind and heart of Mr. Zero that I look at the actress playing Daisy, and my heart truly glows with a love for that woman. I spent two hours every night for the past two weeks going through the life and afterlife of Mr. Zero. I shed my life away and existed as another being, going through the things they go through. Thinking their thoughts and feeling their emotions, desires, and pains. Every night I lived the life of Mr. Zero, and I died as Mr. Zero. And that is not a light ideal.
One of the reasons I do what I do is because my life is simply not exciting enough to live through every second of every day. It can be extremely boring and mundane, luckily with many chances here and there to escape to another world through music, film, or text. I am an actor because I crave the opportunity to escape from this world and be someone else. I want to experience things I can't or won't ever experience in this life. I want to take chances and risks that are far too dangerous to do in reality. The highlight of my day is knowing that at some point I get to live as another person for even a few moments.
With that in mind, and the knowledge that this show is over - I find myself lost once again. It's been a mere several hours since the closing of this run so I've yet to get back to the cycle of work and classes and the normal things that I do; however, for the moment my heart is heavy. I am not shedding tears, though there's a knot in the back of my throat, and my heart does ache deep down. I already miss it. All of it. I no longer have it to look forward to each day. As odd as it sounds, I am lost without a life to live beyond my own.
I act because it's my passion. My love. The only thing I can truly do right in this world. I do it to entertain people. To provoke thought in others. And selfishly, to escape.
I am truly blessed to have such a talent and ability to do such a thing as this. And I am even further blessed to have such an incredible amount of support from friends and family who love me and love what I do. I cannot truly share my appreciation for all those audience members who decided (or perhaps were forced in a few cases) to share all of this with me. I do this for you as much as I do it for me. What I do is meaningless without your eyes, minds, and hearts to take it in.
Thank you. All of you.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Th3 Add1ng Mach1n3
Seeing as how I'm not entirely able to give a review on UNC's production of Elmer Rice's "The Adding Machine", at least not without severe bias, I figure I'd simply post the review given by the Greeley Tribune's Bryan VanDrie.
REVIEW: 'Adding Machine' cast, crew up to the challenge - are you?
The University of Northern Colorado’s Theatre Department opened the second half of its academic season Thursday night with Elmer Rice’s “The Adding Machine.”
The creativity demonstrated in this production sums up, in a nutshell, why this is the best theater program in the region. The vision and imagination demonstrated by the artistic team has to be seen to be appreciated.
Unfortunately, many who see it will not appreciate the show.
This unusual play is the story of a man who has the most dreary life imaginable. He has worked for 25 years as an accountant, only to go home every night to his hag-nag of a wife. When he snaps, and kills his boss in an uncharacteristic moment of anger, you might think his life will be changed forever. In fact, his life barely changes at all, only the setting of his existence.
Director Harrison Butler is brilliant in guiding the cast through this difficult material. Rice certainly doesn’t make it easy on them: The first half of the show features far more monologue than dialogue, and it would be easy to let your mind wander. Yet there is so much imaginative subtext and inventiveness to this production, you never drift away. Some of the unusual aspects of this show include the original music, composed by Aaron Liu-Rosenbaum, the brilliantly haunting onstage cello performance by Gal Faganel, the heavy blanket of fog throughout the show, and the masked chorus.
The technical staff pulled out all of the stops on this production, and it all works extremely well. Zak Keller’s constantly moving, droning set is brilliant, adding an amazing level of complexity to the show. Brian Hapcic’s lighting, complete with perfectly effective projections, is the best we’ve seen around here in a long time, a rare combination of artistically beautiful, always interesting and completely effective. Chris Lundahl’s sound is simplistic and flawless, which is also a perfect way to describe Aaron Sheckler’s costumes.
The only real drawback to this production is the story itself. It’s not a very pleasant story to watch unfold, and this is not a show for everyone. While it is a fascinating study of the human condition, it is an expressionist drama, at times bordering on the absurd. It is not appropriate for children, not so much for content as for the focus required to watch. Nevertheless, it is intriguing to think of this show about the industrial revolution’s impact on society being as relevant today as when it was written in 1923.
If you want a straightforward, easy-to-watch play, “The Adding Machine” is not for you. But if you are up to the challenge of a highly unusual, thought-provoking, intellectually stimulating and challenging evening at the theater, this is a show you should consider.
Bryan VanDriel lives in Greeley and has been active in the arts for over 30 years. He can be reached at bvandriel@aol.com.
REVIEW: 'Adding Machine' cast, crew up to the challenge - are you?
The University of Northern Colorado’s Theatre Department opened the second half of its academic season Thursday night with Elmer Rice’s “The Adding Machine.”
The creativity demonstrated in this production sums up, in a nutshell, why this is the best theater program in the region. The vision and imagination demonstrated by the artistic team has to be seen to be appreciated.
Unfortunately, many who see it will not appreciate the show.
This unusual play is the story of a man who has the most dreary life imaginable. He has worked for 25 years as an accountant, only to go home every night to his hag-nag of a wife. When he snaps, and kills his boss in an uncharacteristic moment of anger, you might think his life will be changed forever. In fact, his life barely changes at all, only the setting of his existence.
Director Harrison Butler is brilliant in guiding the cast through this difficult material. Rice certainly doesn’t make it easy on them: The first half of the show features far more monologue than dialogue, and it would be easy to let your mind wander. Yet there is so much imaginative subtext and inventiveness to this production, you never drift away. Some of the unusual aspects of this show include the original music, composed by Aaron Liu-Rosenbaum, the brilliantly haunting onstage cello performance by Gal Faganel, the heavy blanket of fog throughout the show, and the masked chorus.
The technical staff pulled out all of the stops on this production, and it all works extremely well. Zak Keller’s constantly moving, droning set is brilliant, adding an amazing level of complexity to the show. Brian Hapcic’s lighting, complete with perfectly effective projections, is the best we’ve seen around here in a long time, a rare combination of artistically beautiful, always interesting and completely effective. Chris Lundahl’s sound is simplistic and flawless, which is also a perfect way to describe Aaron Sheckler’s costumes.
The only real drawback to this production is the story itself. It’s not a very pleasant story to watch unfold, and this is not a show for everyone. While it is a fascinating study of the human condition, it is an expressionist drama, at times bordering on the absurd. It is not appropriate for children, not so much for content as for the focus required to watch. Nevertheless, it is intriguing to think of this show about the industrial revolution’s impact on society being as relevant today as when it was written in 1923.
If you want a straightforward, easy-to-watch play, “The Adding Machine” is not for you. But if you are up to the challenge of a highly unusual, thought-provoking, intellectually stimulating and challenging evening at the theater, this is a show you should consider.
Bryan VanDriel lives in Greeley and has been active in the arts for over 30 years. He can be reached at bvandriel@aol.com.
Friday, February 11, 2011
A Cry in the Distance
Glass crashed across the walls and to the floor. Boxes and cans fell off their shelves and spread their innards across the granite tile. Furniture was toppled over and red fell and soiled sleeves. Drunken breath shoved frightened eyes into dark corners and wild hands beat black and blue upon fair skin.
It was a usual Saturday night at the edge of the friendly cul-de-sac. Quiet, except for the soft sound of cars passing in the background. Soft rain fell from comfortable clouds that hung drearily in the darkened sky. Pleasant. Calm. Lovely. No one heard the cry in the distance.
Heavy boots stomped clumsily up stairs trailing angry swears. She kept to the ground for fear of his return. Half an hour passed before she picked herself up and washed her face in the sink. Tinted water swirled down the drain. Tears slowly rolled down bruised cheeks. She brought herself to the couch and fell to sleep with much difficulty.
Expletives were her alarm to open her cloudy eyes. He was cursing through the kitchen searching for Advil amongst the mess. “Why hasn’t this been cleaned up yet?” She slowly rolled off the couch and peddled softly into the doorway. He turned and saw her puffy face, analyzing it for a moment before continuing his search. “Where the hell’s the Advil?”
She sighed and walked towards a cupboard above the sink, retrieving a small bottle from the bottom shelf. She smacked it against the counter and quietly walked upstairs to take a shower. The hot water stung at first as it flowed down her face, but began to sooth after a few minutes. She didn’t step out for another half an hour.
He had gone to work by the time she was getting dressed. She went throughout the house and tidied things here and there. After a couple hours of cleaning and organizing she sat down in the recliner and shut her eyes. She let her thoughts wonder for awhile before coming back to reality.
Her cell phone was buried deep within her purse. She fished for it, shoving cards and wrappers and papers and accessories to the sides. Through her contact list she found MILLY, a friend she’d has since high school. The phone rang on the other end as she leaned on the kitchen counter with her cell pressed firmly against her ear. The ringing stopped for a moment, silence, and then a click. “Hello darling.”
She talked with Milly for nearly two hours, pacing about the house. She caught up with her old friend for the past few months they hadn’t spoken. They laughed and shared gossip and talked about the things that people talk about. Before the conversation’s end, she had to tell her secret of her husband’s inebriated abuse. Milly was stunned, and begged her to come stay with her, or anywhere but where he would be able to hurt her.
She explained how if she left him, he’d find and kill her. If she tried to divorce him, he’d kill her. If she tried anything at all, he’d kill her. Milly sat silently on the other end of the phone, hearing of her friend’s demise. “I don’t understand how he became like this. He loved you so much. You two were perfect. Remember how everyone in school joked how you two were like Tristan and Isolde? We thought you’d taken a love potion and became inseparable from each other. You were so happy then.”
Tears ran down her eyes and she remembered these fond moments in her life from years ago. There was another long silence between the receivers. She wiped her cheeks and silently spoke, “I guess I’m still waiting for my Tristan to really come. Someone whom I can truly love and who will love me forever. I’m still waiting for him.”
Milly asked what she was going to do, with which she got no answer. She hadn’t thought about doing anything, as she knew what the consequences would be. Her husband had become a creature who lived in the house with the sole purpose of terrorizing her each night and then sleeping in her bed. They didn’t talk anymore. He never kissed her or said he loved her. It had been months since they’d last made love.
He didn’t want children anyway. And long ago he had drunkenly told her that there was no point in shacking up unless you planned on bringing little brats into this hell hole of a world we lived in. He had smacked her around good that night. Telling her if she ever got pregnant he would take care of it for her. She had done nothing but cried all that night.
With reluctance Milly hung up the phone and let her friend go back to her desolate wasteland. She went upstairs and laid herself on the freshly made bed, and let herself wonder some more. Her mind was filled with thoughts that made her smile. She stumbled through scenarios and ideas until finally sitting up with wide eyes.
That night she was lying in bed waiting for him to come home. From downstairs she heard the door slam shut and his mumbling voice crawl slowly up the stairs. When he came into the room he clumsily pulled his boots off and flung them into the corner. She got out of bed and helped him take his shirt off. He grumbled and pushed her aside but she didn’t let up. She unbutton his shirt and unbuckled his belt. Slowly unzipping his pants and shoving him onto the bed. He smacked her a few times, but she continued to whisper in his ear and caress his body.
This routine was attempted at least once a week for the next several months, but was often times replaced with the usual punching bag scenario. But she toughed through it bravely and finally gained the courage to sit her husband down one weekend afternoon to have an official and sober conversation.
She slapped a stack of papers on the table and threw a pen at him. He took a sip of his coffee and looked up at her. “What’s this?” She explained they were divorce papers, and that she wanted out. He slammed his cup against the table and stood up in her face. “There’s no way in hell I’m divorcing you! You’ll try and take every nickel I have and that’s not damn near much at all!” He threw a fit, like a small child; however, she expected as much. She sat herself down in the chair across from him and folded her arms on the table. “If you divorce me, I promise to take only what’s rightfully mine and no more. I’ll leave you alone and you’ll never have to see or speak to me again. But if you decide to stay married to me, I think you better know where all those nickels will be going to from now on.” He sat there with a fire in his eyes. Slamming his hand on the table, “What? What are you going to do with my money?” She smiled at him and looked him gently in the eyes, “We’re going to have a child.” He jumped back, knocking his chair to the floor. “A kid? You’re pregnant!? No! No, no, no. I’m not doing that. I can’t afford a kid.” “Then you can afford the divorce I’m offering you,” she said as she slid the papers closer to him.
He picked up his chair and sat down, looking at the papers for a long time. He slowly went through all the text and signed where he needed to sign. Milly came over a short time later and helped her pack her bags. She left that house with a smile on her face, and went on to stay with her good friend until she was able to get herself on her feet.
Months passed until she found herself in a hospital bed below bright fluorescent lights. The sound of doctor’s coaching and machines beeping were swallowed up by her screams and cries of pain. It only lasted so long, and then relief fell upon her like she’d only felt once before when he had signed on the dotted line.
A cry in the distance. Her baby was washed and wrapped in a blanket and placed gently in her arms. A beautiful boy, looking up at his mother with wonder and confusion. She cried, large tears that rolled around her smiling lips. She kissed her son and held him close to her chest, rocking him slowly. “My Tristan has finally come”, she said. “And I will love you forever.”
It was a usual Saturday night at the edge of the friendly cul-de-sac. Quiet, except for the soft sound of cars passing in the background. Soft rain fell from comfortable clouds that hung drearily in the darkened sky. Pleasant. Calm. Lovely. No one heard the cry in the distance.
Heavy boots stomped clumsily up stairs trailing angry swears. She kept to the ground for fear of his return. Half an hour passed before she picked herself up and washed her face in the sink. Tinted water swirled down the drain. Tears slowly rolled down bruised cheeks. She brought herself to the couch and fell to sleep with much difficulty.
Expletives were her alarm to open her cloudy eyes. He was cursing through the kitchen searching for Advil amongst the mess. “Why hasn’t this been cleaned up yet?” She slowly rolled off the couch and peddled softly into the doorway. He turned and saw her puffy face, analyzing it for a moment before continuing his search. “Where the hell’s the Advil?”
She sighed and walked towards a cupboard above the sink, retrieving a small bottle from the bottom shelf. She smacked it against the counter and quietly walked upstairs to take a shower. The hot water stung at first as it flowed down her face, but began to sooth after a few minutes. She didn’t step out for another half an hour.
He had gone to work by the time she was getting dressed. She went throughout the house and tidied things here and there. After a couple hours of cleaning and organizing she sat down in the recliner and shut her eyes. She let her thoughts wonder for awhile before coming back to reality.
Her cell phone was buried deep within her purse. She fished for it, shoving cards and wrappers and papers and accessories to the sides. Through her contact list she found MILLY, a friend she’d has since high school. The phone rang on the other end as she leaned on the kitchen counter with her cell pressed firmly against her ear. The ringing stopped for a moment, silence, and then a click. “Hello darling.”
She talked with Milly for nearly two hours, pacing about the house. She caught up with her old friend for the past few months they hadn’t spoken. They laughed and shared gossip and talked about the things that people talk about. Before the conversation’s end, she had to tell her secret of her husband’s inebriated abuse. Milly was stunned, and begged her to come stay with her, or anywhere but where he would be able to hurt her.
She explained how if she left him, he’d find and kill her. If she tried to divorce him, he’d kill her. If she tried anything at all, he’d kill her. Milly sat silently on the other end of the phone, hearing of her friend’s demise. “I don’t understand how he became like this. He loved you so much. You two were perfect. Remember how everyone in school joked how you two were like Tristan and Isolde? We thought you’d taken a love potion and became inseparable from each other. You were so happy then.”
Tears ran down her eyes and she remembered these fond moments in her life from years ago. There was another long silence between the receivers. She wiped her cheeks and silently spoke, “I guess I’m still waiting for my Tristan to really come. Someone whom I can truly love and who will love me forever. I’m still waiting for him.”
Milly asked what she was going to do, with which she got no answer. She hadn’t thought about doing anything, as she knew what the consequences would be. Her husband had become a creature who lived in the house with the sole purpose of terrorizing her each night and then sleeping in her bed. They didn’t talk anymore. He never kissed her or said he loved her. It had been months since they’d last made love.
He didn’t want children anyway. And long ago he had drunkenly told her that there was no point in shacking up unless you planned on bringing little brats into this hell hole of a world we lived in. He had smacked her around good that night. Telling her if she ever got pregnant he would take care of it for her. She had done nothing but cried all that night.
With reluctance Milly hung up the phone and let her friend go back to her desolate wasteland. She went upstairs and laid herself on the freshly made bed, and let herself wonder some more. Her mind was filled with thoughts that made her smile. She stumbled through scenarios and ideas until finally sitting up with wide eyes.
That night she was lying in bed waiting for him to come home. From downstairs she heard the door slam shut and his mumbling voice crawl slowly up the stairs. When he came into the room he clumsily pulled his boots off and flung them into the corner. She got out of bed and helped him take his shirt off. He grumbled and pushed her aside but she didn’t let up. She unbutton his shirt and unbuckled his belt. Slowly unzipping his pants and shoving him onto the bed. He smacked her a few times, but she continued to whisper in his ear and caress his body.
This routine was attempted at least once a week for the next several months, but was often times replaced with the usual punching bag scenario. But she toughed through it bravely and finally gained the courage to sit her husband down one weekend afternoon to have an official and sober conversation.
She slapped a stack of papers on the table and threw a pen at him. He took a sip of his coffee and looked up at her. “What’s this?” She explained they were divorce papers, and that she wanted out. He slammed his cup against the table and stood up in her face. “There’s no way in hell I’m divorcing you! You’ll try and take every nickel I have and that’s not damn near much at all!” He threw a fit, like a small child; however, she expected as much. She sat herself down in the chair across from him and folded her arms on the table. “If you divorce me, I promise to take only what’s rightfully mine and no more. I’ll leave you alone and you’ll never have to see or speak to me again. But if you decide to stay married to me, I think you better know where all those nickels will be going to from now on.” He sat there with a fire in his eyes. Slamming his hand on the table, “What? What are you going to do with my money?” She smiled at him and looked him gently in the eyes, “We’re going to have a child.” He jumped back, knocking his chair to the floor. “A kid? You’re pregnant!? No! No, no, no. I’m not doing that. I can’t afford a kid.” “Then you can afford the divorce I’m offering you,” she said as she slid the papers closer to him.
He picked up his chair and sat down, looking at the papers for a long time. He slowly went through all the text and signed where he needed to sign. Milly came over a short time later and helped her pack her bags. She left that house with a smile on her face, and went on to stay with her good friend until she was able to get herself on her feet.
Months passed until she found herself in a hospital bed below bright fluorescent lights. The sound of doctor’s coaching and machines beeping were swallowed up by her screams and cries of pain. It only lasted so long, and then relief fell upon her like she’d only felt once before when he had signed on the dotted line.
A cry in the distance. Her baby was washed and wrapped in a blanket and placed gently in her arms. A beautiful boy, looking up at his mother with wonder and confusion. She cried, large tears that rolled around her smiling lips. She kissed her son and held him close to her chest, rocking him slowly. “My Tristan has finally come”, she said. “And I will love you forever.”
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Composing a Symphony
Tchaikovsky speaks here, privately in a number of letters, about his creative process. He explains the magic that is experienced when inspiration appears and how such an even turns him into what he states as "a madman." His body trembles and he writes and writes and ideas flow until a worldly interruption comes crashing through and brings him back to reality. He notes that those moments are somewhat tragic and it will take a long time to find that inspiration or idea again, if there's a chance at all.
What I enjoy most is his statement in regards to creating powerful, moving music. He basically states that one cannot just use the education and knowledge of music to compose a piece and have it truly affect those who are to experience it. Even true musical geniuses create through some form of emotion that they experience. If one is going to move listeners, than one must be moved in creating such a piece. Like anything creatively, if it does not have your heart and soul poured into the piece, it won't be able to evoke the heart and soul of those around.
This is easily identifiable for myself as an actor, performer, or entertainer (three completely different things by the way). I am unable to give a rightful performance that truly touches an audience without being completely given in to the moment. I must feel every pain, elation, idea, etc that my character is feeling otherwise this character is not truthful and therefore not real. An actor who acts dryly and without motivation brings nothing to the stage but empty words and actions. To connect and share with an audience one must truly become a character and feel everything they feel, and then turn oneself inside out and pour those feelings out for everyone to see. You lie naked before a large group of people, in this private moment that can last for ages. Anything less is meaningless.
Sure, there is an enormous amount of research and practice that goes into creating that final product; and, like Tchaikovsky talks about in later letters he describes the process of picking apart and examining his ideals as he attempts to sew them together into a final piece. He talks of violently shredding himself down in order to take away parts written through love and enthusiasm, but that must be put away due to them not working in the ultimate picture. He talks of the meticulous work that is had in working and reworking his sketches before they truly work. An actor must research their character, real or fictional, to every last blood cell in order to fully understand them and/or create them. Then one must understand what does and doesn't work and be strong enough to strip away such hard work of blood, sweat, and tears in order to make an ultimately better form.
I relate to the creative process in many mediums as I feel that anything creative shares almost everything in almost every way. In the end, however, what it really comes down to is creating something emotionally inspired in order to emotionally inspire.
What I enjoy most is his statement in regards to creating powerful, moving music. He basically states that one cannot just use the education and knowledge of music to compose a piece and have it truly affect those who are to experience it. Even true musical geniuses create through some form of emotion that they experience. If one is going to move listeners, than one must be moved in creating such a piece. Like anything creatively, if it does not have your heart and soul poured into the piece, it won't be able to evoke the heart and soul of those around.
This is easily identifiable for myself as an actor, performer, or entertainer (three completely different things by the way). I am unable to give a rightful performance that truly touches an audience without being completely given in to the moment. I must feel every pain, elation, idea, etc that my character is feeling otherwise this character is not truthful and therefore not real. An actor who acts dryly and without motivation brings nothing to the stage but empty words and actions. To connect and share with an audience one must truly become a character and feel everything they feel, and then turn oneself inside out and pour those feelings out for everyone to see. You lie naked before a large group of people, in this private moment that can last for ages. Anything less is meaningless.
Sure, there is an enormous amount of research and practice that goes into creating that final product; and, like Tchaikovsky talks about in later letters he describes the process of picking apart and examining his ideals as he attempts to sew them together into a final piece. He talks of violently shredding himself down in order to take away parts written through love and enthusiasm, but that must be put away due to them not working in the ultimate picture. He talks of the meticulous work that is had in working and reworking his sketches before they truly work. An actor must research their character, real or fictional, to every last blood cell in order to fully understand them and/or create them. Then one must understand what does and doesn't work and be strong enough to strip away such hard work of blood, sweat, and tears in order to make an ultimately better form.
I relate to the creative process in many mediums as I feel that anything creative shares almost everything in almost every way. In the end, however, what it really comes down to is creating something emotionally inspired in order to emotionally inspire.
Monday, January 24, 2011
A Violent Flash
Bang! Bang! Bang! Then all grew silent.
The silver shone in the darkened ally.
Only sounds of footsteps echoing
eerily off the old brick walls.
The silver shone in the darkened ally.
Red and blue lights flickering
eerily off the old brick walls.
Cries and murmurs in the background.
Red and blue lights flickering
through the cold and dampened streets.
Cries and murmurs in the background
trailing off in the distance.
Through the cold and dampened streets
sirens scream over memories that are
trailing off in the distance.
The feeling of fear and a violent flash.
Sirens scream over memories that are
only sounds of footsteps echoing.
The feeling of fear and a violent flash.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Then all grew silent.
The silver shone in the darkened ally.
Only sounds of footsteps echoing
eerily off the old brick walls.
The silver shone in the darkened ally.
Red and blue lights flickering
eerily off the old brick walls.
Cries and murmurs in the background.
Red and blue lights flickering
through the cold and dampened streets.
Cries and murmurs in the background
trailing off in the distance.
Through the cold and dampened streets
sirens scream over memories that are
trailing off in the distance.
The feeling of fear and a violent flash.
Sirens scream over memories that are
only sounds of footsteps echoing.
The feeling of fear and a violent flash.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Then all grew silent.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
P.o-T(r)>Y
Houseman is an individual smitten by poetry. His love and seemingly profound understanding for what he feels cannot be simply understood is wondrous. Where so many people search for meaning in so many aspects - life, the universe, a book, a film - he understands that poetry is something that exists without any meaning at all. There doesn't have to be an overall message to "get", nor does a poem have to convey some sort of thought or story. Poetry is a delicately written line (or lines) of words that are beautifully aesthetic and often times emotionally evoking.
Most of the examples Houseman provides in his writing are beautiful lines of poetry for certain, but any kind of coherent structure of thought is mostly void. There is some sort of ideal that the poem was born out of, but it is not fully drawn out and nor should it have to be.
Houseman delights in explaining his means of creating poetry. He describes his long walks (at times slightly intoxicated) where he lets his mind run. He talks of how he'll write incomplete pieces of an overall work down at a time with the hope that a stroll around the park the next day may finish and fill the gaps. He looks for inspiration in his thoughts and emotions simply as they are. He doesn't force the likes of poetry into existence, but waits for it to crawl into his mind and out through his fingers.
To Houseman, true poetry is emotional. One should have an incredibly strong reaction to a true poetical work. It should be felt in the pit of your stomach, and make your skin crawl and hair stand on end. It just not be understood, but must be felt.
The selections picked from A Poetry Handbook were quite wonderful insights to the creation of poetical pieces. What I found most interesting was the parallels these instructions had with that of acting. Specifically in Oliver's section of "Imitation" I couldn't help but smile as she pointed out the necessity and helpfulness to imitate great work and use it, learn it, work it, until we are able to come from it with something new and unique to ourselves. Every acting coach, teacher, director, etc will tell you to steal from the greats. If you see an actor do something interesting or unique, use it yourself! That individual was only ever able to come to that creative decision after using another's work themselves. And perhaps "stealing" is the wrong term, and would be more appropriately replaced with "borrowing".
Oliver is very straightforward and simple in her description of learning how to write poetry - one must write. You cannot learn how to write good works without picking up a writing utensil and scribbling some mash of words to a page. To really understand poetry one needs to read it, and imitate what they find in great works, and discover a unique voice for themselves through that process.
As one continues to read and write, one will discover the aesthetics of sounds in words, and will be able to make proper choices in combination and structure of sentences that will create beautiful lines of poetry. The last segment in the selected pieces dealt completely with the structure of words, how the beginning and end consonants or vowels hit by themselves or off another word, and how these sounds create an atmosphere and flowing piece. I would agree with anyone who says she goes a bit too far into detail in regards to dissecting the sounds of words and their placement in a piece; however, the fact that she is able to means there is something there when considering a great poet like Robert Frost. Once you begin writing, you'll discover an ear for words and find those that work and those that don't based on the circumstances. One need not worry themselves over such a thing - it comes with practice.
Most of the examples Houseman provides in his writing are beautiful lines of poetry for certain, but any kind of coherent structure of thought is mostly void. There is some sort of ideal that the poem was born out of, but it is not fully drawn out and nor should it have to be.
Houseman delights in explaining his means of creating poetry. He describes his long walks (at times slightly intoxicated) where he lets his mind run. He talks of how he'll write incomplete pieces of an overall work down at a time with the hope that a stroll around the park the next day may finish and fill the gaps. He looks for inspiration in his thoughts and emotions simply as they are. He doesn't force the likes of poetry into existence, but waits for it to crawl into his mind and out through his fingers.
To Houseman, true poetry is emotional. One should have an incredibly strong reaction to a true poetical work. It should be felt in the pit of your stomach, and make your skin crawl and hair stand on end. It just not be understood, but must be felt.
The selections picked from A Poetry Handbook were quite wonderful insights to the creation of poetical pieces. What I found most interesting was the parallels these instructions had with that of acting. Specifically in Oliver's section of "Imitation" I couldn't help but smile as she pointed out the necessity and helpfulness to imitate great work and use it, learn it, work it, until we are able to come from it with something new and unique to ourselves. Every acting coach, teacher, director, etc will tell you to steal from the greats. If you see an actor do something interesting or unique, use it yourself! That individual was only ever able to come to that creative decision after using another's work themselves. And perhaps "stealing" is the wrong term, and would be more appropriately replaced with "borrowing".
Oliver is very straightforward and simple in her description of learning how to write poetry - one must write. You cannot learn how to write good works without picking up a writing utensil and scribbling some mash of words to a page. To really understand poetry one needs to read it, and imitate what they find in great works, and discover a unique voice for themselves through that process.
As one continues to read and write, one will discover the aesthetics of sounds in words, and will be able to make proper choices in combination and structure of sentences that will create beautiful lines of poetry. The last segment in the selected pieces dealt completely with the structure of words, how the beginning and end consonants or vowels hit by themselves or off another word, and how these sounds create an atmosphere and flowing piece. I would agree with anyone who says she goes a bit too far into detail in regards to dissecting the sounds of words and their placement in a piece; however, the fact that she is able to means there is something there when considering a great poet like Robert Frost. Once you begin writing, you'll discover an ear for words and find those that work and those that don't based on the circumstances. One need not worry themselves over such a thing - it comes with practice.
Friday, January 21, 2011
The Art Show
There was only time for me to see the Oak Room Gallery with my ridiculous schedule. I'm even writing this in another class...don't tell anyone!
The images in the Oak Room Gallery were rich, beautiful, and emotional. The stench, and sweat, and overall rough nature of this existence soured out of the images and into my imagination. As I traveled counter-clockwise around the room I sank deeper and deeper into the heaps of trash. I was engrossed in the imagery, but couldn't wait to get out. I was drawn into the shots of children making their own rounds to sort the ever growing trash land. It was overwhelming and incredibly powerful. The one image that sticks out most in my mind, even now, is the small child in the distance who looked like he was almost dancing, while garbage and fire smoldered in the foreground.
It was incredible to see these people literally living in this dump, with cardboard houses and whatever else they could use to create some sort of shelter. It was deeply saddening, yet a sense of impeccable hope filled my heart knowing these people were actually able to survive under such circumstances. Wow.
I'm hoping to see the other gallery this weekend, especially considering my production is a big part of the "People at Work" theme the campus is putting on.
The images in the Oak Room Gallery were rich, beautiful, and emotional. The stench, and sweat, and overall rough nature of this existence soured out of the images and into my imagination. As I traveled counter-clockwise around the room I sank deeper and deeper into the heaps of trash. I was engrossed in the imagery, but couldn't wait to get out. I was drawn into the shots of children making their own rounds to sort the ever growing trash land. It was overwhelming and incredibly powerful. The one image that sticks out most in my mind, even now, is the small child in the distance who looked like he was almost dancing, while garbage and fire smoldered in the foreground.
It was incredible to see these people literally living in this dump, with cardboard houses and whatever else they could use to create some sort of shelter. It was deeply saddening, yet a sense of impeccable hope filled my heart knowing these people were actually able to survive under such circumstances. Wow.
I'm hoping to see the other gallery this weekend, especially considering my production is a big part of the "People at Work" theme the campus is putting on.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Covered Bridges & The Woman Who Lost Her Names
At first I must admit a certain amount of jealousy towards the narrator/writer/what have you of the short story Covered Bridges. His life, and love for his wife, seems to incredibly pure and perfect. The relationship housed between this couple is something I pray for each day. This story gave such a lightness to my heart, while also keeping a heavy grip. Is that heaviness felt, I pondered, in regards to the fact I don't (as of yet) have a relationship like I had read about; or, was I simply weighed down by the pure truth of such love shared here. I'll admit that on Lena's action of spitting out a hornet, I sank and whispered a thought, "oh shit..." like I too had everything to lose in that moment.
I only gave a few moments thought towards the title given to this piece, thinking that obviously their tour of the bridges wasn't substantial enough to label the story as a whole. But in that few moments I realized what symbolism a covered bridge can house. A bridge is something that helps one achieve the task of passing from one location to another. Without a bridge, it is not possible to walk across a rushing river without getting wet, or crossing a canyon without falling far below. In life we have bridges that arise before us, helping us travel to the next moment in our lives. High school, for example, is a bridge that leads us to a number of destinations; whether it is to college or an immediate start to a career.
The image of a covered bridge has me thinking of an individual crossing a bridge, but unable to see the location around him. The bridge is covered in each direction, walls and ceiling. The individual only sees that the bridge comes to an end before him, but where exactly is not necessarily known for sure. This is a metaphor for crossing bridges in life, that lead to places one cannot be quite sure of. Like the story, the couple decides whether or not to cross the bridge into child bearing. As they cross that bridge, they discuss back and forth the pros and cons of such an act, not knowing if they're going to reach that destination or not. It isn't until they come off that bridge that they realize their destination is not filled with the soul of a new born.
This story grabbed my attention, and whether it be the writing or the story's fault for this, I cannot be sure. I was interested to continue reading, and never got sidetracked or bored at any point during. I felt I had learned so much of these people's lives, and began to feel like I belonged with them. The man's love for his wife passed on to me, and I began to see her beauty and perfection. I connected, simple as that. When one can do that in a story, a film, or what have you, it is such an incredibly power thing.
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Where the previous story held me strong with thought and emotion, The Woman Who Lost Her Names left me simply confused and indifferent. The ending line of the story holds so much power and strength, yet I'm not quite sure the significance of it's being.
The story follows a girl who grows to a woman, who is given new names several times in her life. The name being a very important part of passing on the family through generations. Her mother speaks of others marrying for money and changing their names, ridding themselves of their birthrights. And Sarah meets her cousin who's name was changed, saying that the name is nothing as the soul underneath is the same. There are contradictions in the belief of the necessity of a name and it's importance in continuing a line of family.
Sarah's name is changed so for her marriage, and in the end the couple disputes over the name of their new born daughter. Sarah has a name picked out, but her husband says she should be named after her mother. Sarah tells her that her mother will understand and it must be the name she chose. Eventually she raises her voice and reads from her bible so her husband understands that he is trying to name their daughter after a rape.
I don't quite understand the significance of this story, and it's possibly due to culture differences in myself and the characters of the story. Perhaps a discussion in class will help straighten things out.
I only gave a few moments thought towards the title given to this piece, thinking that obviously their tour of the bridges wasn't substantial enough to label the story as a whole. But in that few moments I realized what symbolism a covered bridge can house. A bridge is something that helps one achieve the task of passing from one location to another. Without a bridge, it is not possible to walk across a rushing river without getting wet, or crossing a canyon without falling far below. In life we have bridges that arise before us, helping us travel to the next moment in our lives. High school, for example, is a bridge that leads us to a number of destinations; whether it is to college or an immediate start to a career.
The image of a covered bridge has me thinking of an individual crossing a bridge, but unable to see the location around him. The bridge is covered in each direction, walls and ceiling. The individual only sees that the bridge comes to an end before him, but where exactly is not necessarily known for sure. This is a metaphor for crossing bridges in life, that lead to places one cannot be quite sure of. Like the story, the couple decides whether or not to cross the bridge into child bearing. As they cross that bridge, they discuss back and forth the pros and cons of such an act, not knowing if they're going to reach that destination or not. It isn't until they come off that bridge that they realize their destination is not filled with the soul of a new born.
This story grabbed my attention, and whether it be the writing or the story's fault for this, I cannot be sure. I was interested to continue reading, and never got sidetracked or bored at any point during. I felt I had learned so much of these people's lives, and began to feel like I belonged with them. The man's love for his wife passed on to me, and I began to see her beauty and perfection. I connected, simple as that. When one can do that in a story, a film, or what have you, it is such an incredibly power thing.
--------
Where the previous story held me strong with thought and emotion, The Woman Who Lost Her Names left me simply confused and indifferent. The ending line of the story holds so much power and strength, yet I'm not quite sure the significance of it's being.
The story follows a girl who grows to a woman, who is given new names several times in her life. The name being a very important part of passing on the family through generations. Her mother speaks of others marrying for money and changing their names, ridding themselves of their birthrights. And Sarah meets her cousin who's name was changed, saying that the name is nothing as the soul underneath is the same. There are contradictions in the belief of the necessity of a name and it's importance in continuing a line of family.
Sarah's name is changed so for her marriage, and in the end the couple disputes over the name of their new born daughter. Sarah has a name picked out, but her husband says she should be named after her mother. Sarah tells her that her mother will understand and it must be the name she chose. Eventually she raises her voice and reads from her bible so her husband understands that he is trying to name their daughter after a rape.
I don't quite understand the significance of this story, and it's possibly due to culture differences in myself and the characters of the story. Perhaps a discussion in class will help straighten things out.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Albert Einstein: Letter to Jacques Hadamard
With an initial read through it's easy to see the intelligence of Einstein and the confusion that his words can cause when context is absent. After going through the notes written by Jacques after the letter, explaining the questions asked to Einstein, it helped me understand in what light this letter was being written.
It's a simple Q & A - about the creative sense of a mathematician.
Jacques asks how Einstein, or a mathematician in general, sees their work in their mind. Sure, on paper it's a jumble of symbols, letters, and numbers. But Jacques poses questions in regards to the explanation of this gibberish to others, and Einstein explains (I feel, still not completely understanding his answers completely) that words and explanations cannot suffice what these symbols and signs are able to create and produce.
Einstein also explains how these symbols and signs are used habitually and simply come at will when necessary to explain or create a proper equation. His answer to questions (B) seems to say how difficult it can be to search for the proper wording for explanations, when these signs can be produced with little effort to explain.
Question (D) seems to answer a questions in regards to what Einstein feels are the necessary or most common senses used when producing and explaining mathematical equations. "Visual and motor" is his simple statement to start, explaining that words are simply auditive pieces that don't seem to piece together a whole as simply as the visual aspect of the writing on the page, or the motor reflexes to write or determine the actions of that equation.
After reading through several times, but doing little research in the matter of the letter or who Jacques Hadamard is - the above analysis is all I can fully comprehend or equate at the present time. Also, the connection of this document along with the Creativity class this assignment is for is still a slight mystery. But overall, I do see a connection to the creative sense and how we all differ in how we see or prefer to perceive elements of life.
It's a simple Q & A - about the creative sense of a mathematician.
Jacques asks how Einstein, or a mathematician in general, sees their work in their mind. Sure, on paper it's a jumble of symbols, letters, and numbers. But Jacques poses questions in regards to the explanation of this gibberish to others, and Einstein explains (I feel, still not completely understanding his answers completely) that words and explanations cannot suffice what these symbols and signs are able to create and produce.
Einstein also explains how these symbols and signs are used habitually and simply come at will when necessary to explain or create a proper equation. His answer to questions (B) seems to say how difficult it can be to search for the proper wording for explanations, when these signs can be produced with little effort to explain.
Question (D) seems to answer a questions in regards to what Einstein feels are the necessary or most common senses used when producing and explaining mathematical equations. "Visual and motor" is his simple statement to start, explaining that words are simply auditive pieces that don't seem to piece together a whole as simply as the visual aspect of the writing on the page, or the motor reflexes to write or determine the actions of that equation.
After reading through several times, but doing little research in the matter of the letter or who Jacques Hadamard is - the above analysis is all I can fully comprehend or equate at the present time. Also, the connection of this document along with the Creativity class this assignment is for is still a slight mystery. But overall, I do see a connection to the creative sense and how we all differ in how we see or prefer to perceive elements of life.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Creative // Imagination // Culture
These three words swim together rather nicely when tossed into a simmering pot filled with fresh cut taters and baby carrots. At first glance these words do seem to piece together quite perfectly, specifically "creative" and "imagination". "Culture", however, seems slightly outside of the circle, but subconsciously you understand where it fits into the mix.
When looking into the definitions of the words "creative" and "imagination" you can find that each word is used in the others description. This, I feel, is appropriate. My personal definition of these words, pretending I didn't look at any sort of reference, would be as follows:
"Creative" would be used to describe a set of ideals and thoughts being put together in a way or means that is not readily available in thought. It is something that combines many aspects and concepts in a manner that requires a step-by-step thought process. At times this is used to make stories or ideas that are not necessarily within reality, or are matters of art in whatever form.
"Imagination" is something that individuals have which uses creativity. Much like the above definition, it is ideals and concepts being constructed in non-conventional forms. Those who are creative have an imagination, the imagination is linked to one's creativity.
Now "Culture" is something that sort of consumes the previous words mentioned above. Imagination and creativeness are what make up a culture. A culture would be defined as the major, consistent forms of art that differentiate a set of people from another set of people. Our culture consists of certain films, stories, events, mythologies, heroes, villains, paintings, etc. No other culture has our specific blah, blah, blah. They have their own forms, and that makes up their culture. But our imagination and creativeness established in our culture is unique.
These are loose definitions that could use some major honing and chiseling; however, it's a start in the right direction. And, like what these words represent, the words themselves are not easily contained within single, simple summaries.
When looking into the definitions of the words "creative" and "imagination" you can find that each word is used in the others description. This, I feel, is appropriate. My personal definition of these words, pretending I didn't look at any sort of reference, would be as follows:
"Creative" would be used to describe a set of ideals and thoughts being put together in a way or means that is not readily available in thought. It is something that combines many aspects and concepts in a manner that requires a step-by-step thought process. At times this is used to make stories or ideas that are not necessarily within reality, or are matters of art in whatever form.
"Imagination" is something that individuals have which uses creativity. Much like the above definition, it is ideals and concepts being constructed in non-conventional forms. Those who are creative have an imagination, the imagination is linked to one's creativity.
Now "Culture" is something that sort of consumes the previous words mentioned above. Imagination and creativeness are what make up a culture. A culture would be defined as the major, consistent forms of art that differentiate a set of people from another set of people. Our culture consists of certain films, stories, events, mythologies, heroes, villains, paintings, etc. No other culture has our specific blah, blah, blah. They have their own forms, and that makes up their culture. But our imagination and creativeness established in our culture is unique.
These are loose definitions that could use some major honing and chiseling; however, it's a start in the right direction. And, like what these words represent, the words themselves are not easily contained within single, simple summaries.
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