Author: Corrina Lee

This summer I began running. Mostly, I ran from my problems. But I also took up running because I wanted to go places or more specifically, to revisit places. On particularly motivated mornings, I would roll out of bed, lace up my torn sneakers, relish in the fresh air, and start jogging. But the air would always feel a tad bit hot, the sneakers always needed to be adjusted, and my legs always cramped at the just the wrong time. So, I usually found myself stopping mere minutes into my grand exercise intentions.

It would never do to return home in shame and humiliation, though. The thirty minutes allotted to exercise was instead spent wandering into suburban neighborhoods. That was when I realized something amazing. When you walk, your body hates you a lot less than when you run. I began to enjoy the quietly watered lawns, the perfect peace of an empty sidewalk. There was no more pounding blood or pulsating lungs. Only lazy strolls and the occasional passing smile. I even appreciated the indistinguishable nature of the houses. Each one had their own pleasantly framed windows, their own shade of grey or blue, and white door. But occasionally, I meandered into the strange and unfinished.

These were the neighborhoods that were still under construction.

Without the affable shells of paint and shingling, they more resembled the outlines that I would scrawl in kindergarten than a home. Knowing this, the builders always posted a rendering, a peek at future glory. A rendering is never bright. That would be entirely too crass. No, a rendering should be lightly shaded, the lines should have the texture of a sketch. A rendering is vague, but the sun is always shining in a rendering, so we cease to notice the other details. The best characteristic of a rendering is that it diverts your attention from the messiness of actual construction. It skips to the neatness when all the splinters have been hidden by wallpaper brick. Once finished, the houses would be as pleasantly smooth as all the rest. The flatness of a rendering imprinted onto the real world. Eventually, though, I was forced leave the calm of the suburbs for the chaos of campus.

Here there is no building alike and no discernible theme or pattern to unify them. Ross is different than Mason is different than West Hall. It scared me when I first came to Ann Arbor. The mess of navigating everywhere. The only similarity is the endless construction. No matter where I am, there seems to be an obsession with building and rebuilding. As soon as one thing is finished, we find an excuse to improve something else. And ultimately it is the same reason that I came to the University of Michigan despite the jumble. It was because I had a rendering of myself. Myself finally finishing a run. Myself getting a job. But what can I do? I am still under construction.

Last week, I watched High School Musical for the first time. I know. According to the overwhelming consensus of my friends who grew up cheering for the Wildcats and hating Sharpay, I did not have a childhood. Unsurprisingly, I loved…hating the movie. The plot is derivative and meandering. The acting is amateurish and unconvincing. Even the significant charms of Zac Efron’s dimples cannot save us from his puppy-dog earnestness.  But he is so conflicted, my friends protest when I complain about his acting. I interpreted the same scenes as Troy suffering from a mild stomachache. Thus, there is no point in seriously analyzing High School Musical. Sometime in the first decade of my life, a train of adoration passed me by and I will never have a chance to board it. There are some pleasures that are restricted to specific periods of our life. In the case of this movie, it was probably during the span of time before I read Romeo and Juliet, before I had any comprehension of story structure or character construction. It was when I could appreciate a plot where Troy and Gabriella’s friends cause more damage than the ‘antagonists’. It was probably a more care-free time. Alas, it is inaccessible now.

I envy the people who can return to that point in their lives endlessly through the lens of this movie. They gain as much enjoyment from the candy-coated plot as when they first watched it. It is a sheer joy that my cynical heart secretly envies. Many of my childhood loves seem to have aged particularly badly, transforming before my eyes into reductive clichés. It makes me reluctant to return to any of those shows that I enjoyed in the past, even things that I have watched more recently. It is simply impossible to recapture the initial shock of The Good Place season one finale or the devastation of every Bojack Horseman episode. These, too, were shows that were specific to one moment, one place. Would I have enjoyed them if I had watched them in different circumstances? Probably not. There was a unique chemistry to each moment, each element contributing to the perfect emotional reaction. Yet, although I cannot replicate those feelings, media allows me to recall them in flawless detail. In this era, we are allowed to endlessly visit the past. We do not even need to wait for reruns. All we need is a Netflix account or a friend generous enough with theirs.  Then, we can shamelessly watch the things that have touched our hearts before. For me, it wasn’t High School Musical. But it was SpongeBob and Avatar: The Last Airbender and even Arthur. I can remember the moment that I fell in love with all these things and I can feel a faint echo of it all these years later. I am glad that my friends can watch Troy and Gabriella and collapse into the long-sold sofa of their childhoods. I guess I will have to settle for simmering disgust instead.

Don Draper, in one of the defining scenes of Mad Men, described nostalgia as ‘the pain from an old wound’. An ad-man to his core, Don, of course, misrepresents the truth. Nostalgia truly means ‘the affliction of homecoming’. However, I think both interpretations contain a similar significance. Nostalgia is something that nags at us. It is that prickle of feeling whenever we reference our childhood. It may not be painful, but it is certainly uncomfortable and a little sad. If it is an affliction, it wounds us all. There is certainly a place for nostalgia in art. To write, for me, is to return to a familiar place. It is there, that a piece of me travels to every time I seek to translate a crisis of emotion into words. The place is not a defined location, but it has a definite origin. Writing began at home. The urge to retreat there is inevitable, every time I begin another piece because nostalgia is my tool, as important to me as a computer or a pencil. I use it to access another time and give those moments a truer meaning, one that couldn’t have existed before. When I look back at the past, I never recreate it in exact proportions. I give the past some part of the present by interpreting and evaluating it. All art must come from some part within us before it can take on meaning for someone else.

However, recent forays into nostalgia-focused art, also demonstrates its limits. To look at the past in total reverence, without critique results in bland worship. The surge of reboots and remakes of classic films and television shows demonstrate that people are hungrier for the past than ever. Even original movies, such as Steven Spielberg’s Ready Player One, are trapped, reliant on references for audience appreciation. The popularity, though, does not seem to stem from any ‘wound’ or ‘affliction’.  Instead, it is a hyperactive appreciation that urges us to embrace what we already know. It has transformed from nostalgia into simply an exact recreation of the past. As exciting it is to watch the Iron Giant stride into theaters alongside the DeLorean, I am not sure this is the type of entertainment we should be craving.

While searching for information on the Cube, I found the website for the President’s Advisory Committee on Public Art. The Committee works to sustain installation and maintenance of public art around campus. Most intriguing, to me, was the assertion that “outdoor sculpture should be an integral part of the educational and research mission of the University”. I have often had both the blessing and the curse of crisscrossing the campus throughout the day, and thus, have probably scurried around these various artistic endeavors more times than I can count. Every time I walk to the Union, whether it is for my daily dose of caffeine or another inefficient study session, I am dwarfed by the Cube or the crossed red beams of the Orion. Less obvious, are the numerous façades on buildings such as Hatcher, Rackham, or the Ruthven Museum. Placed high above, they are brief splotches in our vision as we approach and pass through the brick walls. Then, there are the varied others: the benches, the fountains, the statues.

It is all so easy to take for granted; for I know that come tomorrow, they will still be there, awaiting me. They are patient, unlike the countless that have rushed by them over the years. During the day, they are constantly busy, constants in a bustling Central Campus. But at night, they must become lonely, with only the occasional visitor back from the library or party. Tired eyes don’t see well and cannot offer any admiration in the dark. So they wait, as anxiously as I, for the return of the sun, when they can be glorious once again. The cycle repeats, year after year, decade after decade.

Even if they are oft ignored, public art works have never been useless. In fact, they are all that we lack. They are constantly present, which is more than can be said about people. People pass too quickly. Blink and they disappear. For people, this University is only a temporary place, a jumping off point for bigger and better. Public art, on the other hand, cannot move from their designated place. They must live their eternal lives as they were built. Thus, they can act as an orienting, dependable force in a constantly shifting environment. At the same time, they are constantly adaptable, too. They easily morph to suit each individual desire. I will never see the Cube with the same eyes. Each day it becomes something new. Perhaps tomorrow, I will notice a new feature that had been there all along. Perhaps I will return twenty years later with my hair already graying, and remember exactly how I felt that very first day of orientation, the day I was introduced to the soaring beauty of the campus. Although I will only be at the University of Michigan four years, I know each and every one of those days have been made better, more satisfying by the inclusion of art, even though I may not have had the time to properly appreciate it. But that is alright. Public art is not ostentatious that way. It does not demand anything of us. But it also forms the very heart of the University of Michigan.

Last Monday evening, with the Oscars already fading from memory, one of the best films of the year was released. Spike Jonze’s four-minute movie is beautifully smooth and full of captivating color. Featuring FKA Twigs dancing to the new single “Till It’s Over” by Anderson .Paak, the video’s kinetic energy is endless. It is impossible to ignore, impossible to watch only once. Every image speaks to a careful attention to detail, down to the impression of an umbrella handle that stretches into eternity. Too bad it’s an ad. Too bad it’s just another commercial urging us to buy and buy. All this artistry, wasted, by devoting it to selling the newest Apple HomePod. At least that is what some believe. But I’m not sure that this is entirely true.

Art has always had a commercial aspect and it is impossible to separate art from the practical necessities that motivates artists to make it. Mozart and Beethoven were commissioned to compose, paid to produce beauty. Yet, their concertos and sonatas are still regarded as classics. Money doesn’t invalidate the works being created. Instead, by making the creating of art valuable, money contributes to the continuous creation of new and imaginative work. Without the massive coffers of Apple, Jonze might not have been able to invest in a massive practical set or attract the talents of two brilliant artists.  Does it matter, then, that its entire premise is convincing you to buy one plastic, cylindrical speaker over another? Perhaps the video’s aesthetic beauty is enough to cover for the shallowness of its purpose. It is enough that Jonze creates imaginative visuals of an apartment stretching and lighting up in perfect tandem with the flowing music. It is enough that I have discovered the charming abilities of FKA Twigs and Anderson .Paak. It is enough that one of my favorite filmmakers, the director of Her and Being John Malkovich, has created another masterpiece that I will watch again and again until his next movie appears in theaters. Perhaps this capitalist society of ours, it is necessary to accept art however it comes.

In the end, the commercial has done its job. I have shown it to all my friends. I have found my eyes drawn to it whenever it appears: before my YouTube videos, after my favorite television shows, at the Buffalo Wild Wings.  Now, I have devoted a blog post to it, joining the numerous others singing its praises. In fact, I am complicit in spreading its touch, like a careless, flu-addled cougher. I can’t help myself. Perhaps I will never buy a HomePod. But I certainly have the product’s name ringing in my ears. Even worse I will forever associate “Till it’s Over”, Anderson .Paak, and FKA Twigs with the product. These are problems that simply arise when art is so closely associated with a clear monetary purpose. Although, I have enjoyed the video, I will always be reminded by Apple’s classic sleek white lettering that this masterpiece is for the HomePod. Mozart and Beethoven, nowadays, would have been commissioned to write the new jingle for Amazon’s Alexa. It is a dilemma that does not invalidate art, but certainly complicates our understanding of it.