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There’s a term in art analysis called suspension of disbelief. This refers to the ability of the consumer to ignore the implausibilities of a product. It is absolutely crucial to the enjoyment of the patron. Surprisingly, this can be pretty hard to break, though a lot can. Having too many implausibilities in one scene or expecting the consumer too believe too big of one can shatter this suspension. For me, my suspension seems to be much more easily broken than for others. I personally prefer this as it allows me to keep a critical mind, but quickly annoys the people the around me. The thought of how the scene fits in the real world often breaks my suspension, especially when it comes to the death of people.

I see the death of a nameless character and disturbs me. It breaks by suspension because it makes me wonder how the director can be so flippant about someone dying. In this fictional world, that character was a person, they had a life and people who will be devastated by their death. These movies ignore that and move on as if nothing happened. I think about who they are and how their disappearance will affect so many others. It especially disturbs me when they are just a bystander. They played no part in the plot, yet they are the ones to suffer. It’s an innocent’s death, yet the director treats them as simply an object. I stop becoming an active participant in the movie as I contemplate all of this.

Don’t get me wrong, death can be a very important part of a movie, but I think directors should consider if it is necessary because, more often than not, the death would be unrealistic in the real-world. Even in fantasy movies, the plot must follow some general rules of the real world. You can’t kill a person without some affect somewhere else. That is where the suspension of disbelief breaks. We can’t treat these characters as lifeless plot points, because they wouldn’t be if the film world was real. It is necessary to remember that because the film world must feel like a real world.

The first week of April is here, which means we are a few shallow and anxious breaths away from a whirlwind of papers and exams, and of sleepless nights accompanied only by the sugariest of late night snacks and the saltiest of tears. It’s the time of year where one good reprieve from the frontline of studying is the difference between a mental break and a hard-fought conquest. As you prepare to either give yourself an exhausted pat on the back or tell your parents that “hey, grades aren’t all that matters, you know? I hear the circus is hiring,” I present you with an oldie but goodie.

Marcel the Shell with Shoes On is a video-short series created by Jenny Slate and her husband Dean Fleischer-Camp. You might know Jenny from her time on SNL, or as Jean-Ralphio’s sister Mona-Lisa on Parks and Rec, or even from this incredible interview on Late Night with Seth Meyers where she talks about the time she got high in an astronomy class in college. She really shines as Marcel, who is quite literally a little shell wearing shoes who has a very bright and rose-colored look on the great big world. It’s the perfect pick-me-up for just about any time you’re down, and is an essential piece of any finals coping strategy. If you don’t believe me, see it for yourself:

As an added bonus – here is Jenny Slate on Conan singing Landslide by Fleetwood Mac as Marcel:

For some time now, binge watching Netflix, Hulu, or Amazon has been the vice of students hiding from their homework. We know it’s wrong, we frown upon it when others do it, and we hide under our blanket to bask in the shame. However, in my own experience I have found that binge watching gives me a better experience of watching the show. Back when cable was the only option, I had certain shows that I watched religiously – Gilmore Girls and Buffy the Vampire Slayer to name a few. The shows played one episode each week or day (if they were reruns) at the same time in chronological order. The problem was, I would miss an episode or the station would skip ahead in the season. This gave me a disjointed sense of these shows by skipping/missing an episode or by my own forgetfulness about what happened in the last week’s episode. Sitting down to watch 3-4 episodes of Scandal at a time gave me a much better concept of the arc of the show and a much closer relationship to the characters. I watched the entire first season of Transparent in one sitting and by the end I felt a deep sense of unity with the characters and it was as though I was a part of their journey. When I binge watch, I’m able to see the concept of the season as a whole. I didn’t realize how much this could do for me as a viewer until I got all caught up on Scandal and had to start watching the new episodes once a week. A lot can happen in seven days of waiting for a new episode, it begins to feel as if you’re only seeing snippets of these characters’ lives whereas in binge watching you can see how the episodes flow into and set up one another. Obviously spending hours staring at the TV isn’t something that should be done too often, but binge watching shows has given me a new appreciation for the production team’s vision for the show and improved my viewing experience.

Over the course of the term, as I’ve been writing and animating, I’ve devoted a good amount of time thinking about the creative process – habits and strategies for establishing a good artistic workflow. As the end of the term and imminent deadlines draw closer, however, a new question springs to mind: how do I know when a work of art is complete?

Abstract expressionist painter Jackson Pollock would famously add new coats of paint to a canvas in progress days after his initial work. Perhaps this was a specific process, or perhaps Pollock simply worked on a painting until he couldn’t stand to anymore.

Growing bored of a piece is the easiest way to know I’m done working on something – but also the least satisfying. As another abstract expressionist, Arshile Gorky, once said, “something that is finished, that means it’s dead, doesn’t it? I never finish a painting – I just stop working on it for a while.”

Perhaps the problem is in the assumption that Art is something to be “worked” on. Work implies a task with a specific, tangible goal and rational justification. Art may have goals attached, but motivations for creating Art are often complicated and mutable.

***as a performative element – I’m going to timestamp updates to this post over the next few weeks to demonstrate how I rarely consider an idea complete due to an external deadline **

There’s always been something quasi-romantic about the runaway narrative. Whether you’re 10 years old and that means you create your own world in your backyard, or whether you’re sixteen and it’s the sixties and you’re trading comfort for freedom. The rebellious side, the one that comes out when you make your parents tell you twice to fold the laundry, fuels that itch for freedom. What would things be like if you could leave this stupid world behind? What would it be like to live your life the way you wanted to, no rules, just freedom?

It’s romantic, especially for those of us who were forced to grow up faster than others. But it isn’t possible. Not really.

To truly runaway, you have to give up bathrooms, clean water, mosquito spray. Maybe if you’re seven you can camp out underneath your trampoline for a night and call it good, but that’s not what real running away is. Really running away is eschewing society, with all of its BS and politics.

That’s not what we want it to be though. We want running away to be like the runaway narrative. We want to travel Into the Woods, take a journey, go to New York City. We want to see it in slow motion, our hair flying erratically behind us as we stand up in the bright red two-door convertible. Who’s driving? Who knows. We want to chase freedom, chase boys, chase fireflies, grinning ear to ear as he leans in closer, closer, closer.

But the runaway narrative that shows up in books and movies isn’t real. Real people don’t run away from their lives. They run away from their jobs, their house, their friends, their problems. They move to a different neighborhood or go to college out of state. They stay silent about what’s happening in their lives so that the smile never slips, because if it slips they know.

There’s something romantic about the runaway narrative in art. There’s nothing romantic about the runaway narrative in real life.