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Last night, the Museum of Contemporary Art in Detroit brought more than 90 artists to the exhibitions space to make art in a ‘part performance, part laboratory, part art bazaar’ called the Monster Drawing Rally. The live event and fundraiser started at 8pm and was divided into three hour-long shifts, each featuring 30 artists drawing simultaneously. As the drawings were completed, staff and volunteers picked them up, packaged them at a drying station, and hung them on the wall for exhibition and purchase at a uniform price of $40 each.

While the audience talked, mingled, and drank, the artists sat together at long tables set up in the open exhibitions room, practically bumping elbows as they developed their pieces. The sizes of paper provided by MOCAD were standardized, but the materials the artists brought varied widely– I noticed artists using pastels, charcoal, sharpie, micron pens, markers, stamps, collage materials, rubber cement, and the occasional ipod or laptop for reference. It felt oddly intimate to see the artists’ materials set out on their tables – the weathered pencil case, the folder of cut outs, the personal tub of rubber cement, so well known to the artists’ hands, minds and frustrations. Over the hour-long shifts, the audience watched the development of particular pieces. One artist used grids of tape to paint a perfectly geometric toilet plunger, another blew on globules of ink to create organic patterns, and another studiously sketched while glued to the eyepiece of his own personal microscope, which he was using to examine pieces of tape imprinted with what looked like tiny blue fingerprints.

The crowd favorite during the first shift was a blind contour artist named Hamilton, who was making sketches of people in the crowd. Blind contour is a method usually used to practice coordination between the eyes and the hands, so it requires the artist to keep his eyes off of the paper, forcing trust in the translation of visual perception to development on the page. Hamilton kept his subjects engaged, talking and laughing with them as his marker moved on the paper. The results were distorted, deliberately grotesque, but seeing the method added to my understanding – the lines were accurate, the placement deliberately wrong. During the second shift, the crowds gathered around Jonathan, who was making a piece out of chewed gum. “This is the clean bag,” he said, gesturing towards a plastic bag full of gumballs and chiclets. Audience members were encouraged to take a couple pieces, chew, and then spit into Jonathan’s gloved hands. A couple of children were at the front of the crowd, chewing athletically and looking a little bewildered. Jonathan held out his hand to receive a glob of chewed gum from a small girl, who looked slightly mistrustful of this manipulation of material, and he reassured her, “This is good. Look, it’s almost white. We need that color.” The air smelled sickly sweet in Jonathan’s vicinity; Ty, the pen and ink artist sitting next to him, looked less than thrilled.

Although a few artists engaged actively with their audience, most kept their eyes on the paper. One woman’s pen moved wildly as she glanced up and down from the faces of her audience to her paper, but she appeared to be drawing a minute, angled system of scaffolding.

Pieces changed quickly, and sometimes drastically, before our eyes. The black and white sketch of a man’s face – slightly mournful, classically handsome– was suddenly subtitled, in all capitals, ‘SAUSAGE FACTORY;’ a black and white sketch of an aggressively monstrous-looking bird was transformed as it was colored in with pastel markers, and titled in sloppy pen, ‘Compassion + Love are the seeds of hope!’ Many artist seemed to have a calculated plan for their hour – Tavi Veraldi, an artist and friend of my sister’s, confided in me that she was planning to draw an old man. “I’m super good at drawing old men,” she said, adding that she was hoping to dupe the crowd into thinking she was that good at drawing everything. It was a self-deprecating joke – Tavi is that good at drawing everything – but most artists did seem to be using the techniques or concepts that they were most comfortable with to create something coherent within the time constraint.

Even so, I enjoyed watching them at work. Observing a man labor on his sharpie drawing of an owl, I appreciated how his bold lines began as tentative marks – permanent and dark, but easily erased by incorporation. The bold line is presumptive, scary, and enduring, much like the piece of artwork declared, after an hour, ‘finished.’

Confession: I like One Direction more than any adult is probably willing to admit. Even when I was a camp counselor the summer that they hit it big and crazed tweenagers were screaming the chansons into my ears, I held strong in my adoration of the British boy band.

There is one song of theirs, however, which has always irked me whenever it comes on the radio (or out of the mouth of a love-struck adolescent). It is, the ever-popular: “What Makes You Beautiful.”

In my opinion, the especially problematic lyrics are as follows:

1. “Don’t need make-up to cover up, being the way that you are is enough.”

2. “You don’t know you’re beautiful. That’s what makes you beautiful.”

With regards to this first line I’ve listed, it reminds me of a very passive aggressive roommate I had my freshman year of college. Almost every morning, I would wake up early to apply make-up and one time, she told me: “I don’t wear make-up, because I’m not trying to impress anyone.” My response: “Neither am I. I’m just trying to blend in.” No pun intended, but it’s true. In order to look the way I am expected to as a woman, I need to “cover up” the cystic acne that I have struggled with since I was eleven.

I do not have the appearance of what society deems as “natural beauty” in the morning. My hair looks like I was struck by lightning during the night and my skin’s “imperfections” do not consist of a few freckles. In fact, the year I was on hard-core medication that shut down all oil production in my skin (clearing my complexion, yet also giving me massive headaches and perpetually dry lips), the friends and family members I reconnected with after having not seen them since before swallowing that first intense pill would almost always say something along the lines of: “Oh my God! Your face looks so nice!” And I know they were trying to be kind, but I couldn’t help thinking — It’s great to know that you believe I looked hideous before. Now that the drugs didn’t completely work, I wear make-up, but not because I am vain or want to get laid. I wear it because I want to look “normal”. I wear it because I don’t want people averting their eyes when speaking with me or worse — staring pitifully into mine.

The issue that I find with the second lyric I’ve posted is similar, more general, and a well-discussed concern birthed from the feminist movement — why is a woman measured by her beauty in the first place? And why, in this instance, do a woman’s insecurities make her beautiful? It’s almost like my favorite five-member British boy band is trying to keep my confidence level fairly low if it’s saying that the type of beauty I should be striving for is derived from that special something with which femininity has always been associated: hyper-humility. Why am I not allowed to apply my foundation and lipstick, then look in the mirror and say: “damn, I look good today,” without being pegged as a fake, vain, bitch?

Why is it unacceptable for women to “know [they’re] beautiful” without being told so?

While even at a young age the feminist in me spurned America’s Next Top Model for its blatant perpetuation of social beauty standards and stereotypes of female behavior, the prevailing artsy side of me left me planted in front of the TV for hours on end as the Fashion Network replayed entire cycles back to back. Sure, the fights were entertaining and the judging scenes were always oozing with dramatic tension, but my favorite part was always the photo shoots. With at least a dozen episodes in every season and now 20 total seasons, how could they possibly come up with so many drastically different brilliant ideas for these shoots? For some reason the models get all the credit for “working it” (or not) when really the part that I’m stunned by is the product of an incredible makeup team, photographer, and the person who comes up with all of the themes. The art of storytelling is such a crucial part to each photograph that I could never change the channel, knowing I had to find out what they would do next. Some of my favorite shoots include ones where the models were entirely submerged under water, had paint splattered across their faces, and of course the crazy range of modeling with animals from crocodiles to elephants. Despite my initial hesitation toward the values the show  promotes, within a few seasons they began accepting one to two “plus size” models. It truly was so kind of them to let one or two girls into the competition that, like the majority of the female population, are bigger than a size 2. However, this doesn’t stop the judges from their ruthless comments about women looking “too old” “too commercial” “too sexy” or just too flawed to win the competition. All in all, I say it’s the behind the scenes crew that should win every season. So, without further ado (or ranting), I present some of my top favorite photo shoots from America’s Next Top Model:

Okay, I had to throw that one in there. She doesn’t look very plus sized to me. But, I believe the other photos have illustrated my point on the artistic brilliance of very creative minds that create this beauty, and because of this, I’ll continue to bite my tongue and throw away hours on this show that is so artistically stimulating.

I joined the University of Michigan Gilbert and Sullivan Society (UMGASS) first semester freshmen year. I had been accepted to the music school 2 weeks before school started, having spent January – August on waitlist harassing the music school almost daily to ensure that I got in, and was determined to prove that I deserved to be a voice major. The logical way to prove this seemed to be landing a lead role first semester freshmen year. I honestly didn’t believe that I could do it, but I researched every music & theater group that the University of Michigan had and auditioned for all of them, hoping that someone wanted to cast me. UMGASS did.

Looking back, I didn’t deserve the role. I was a freshmen with a meager 2 musical theater cameo roles on my resume, cast as a mezzo soprano (I’m a coloratura soprano) in a show where the other principals were veterans of the society, graduates of music schools or current juniors and seniors within SMTD. But since that first role in Princess Ida, I have performed with the society in numerous shows and outreach events (as a soprano!) and have served on the board as Treasurer and now President.

I was recruited to run for board at the end of my freshmen year. Since I am an engineering student as well as music, the current board figured that I would be a good Treasurer since I am very comfortable with math and numbers in general. After my term as Treasurer I decided to run for President and was elected.

This first semester as President has been quite a learning experience for me. Unlike Treasurer, my duties are less about defined deliverables and more about ensuring that everyone produces their deliverables in a timely fashion and fixing any and all problems which pop up throughout the production of the show. My parents often hear about the latest “UMGASS fire” that requires me to drop everything, hop in the car and quickly take care of it, so that rehearsals or the performances continue without the cast or audience members knowing.

Tonight is the opening night for UMGASS’ Yeomen of the Guard, and this production has had its share of fires that have needed to be put out. There have been times this semester when I have questioned my decision to run for board, let alone President, since the stress of producing a $15,000 show is tremendous. Yet, seeing the quality of production which is possible because of my efforts in collaboration of the rest of the board, the production staff and the cast, make all of the frantic phone calls and late nights worth it.

So yes, this blog post may be a shameless plug to try and get you to come see UMGASS’ Yeomen of the Guard this weekend (which you really should, it is pretty fantastic). If you do, stop by the Green Room and talk with the cast and crew. UMGASS is a great group of community members and students working together to create professional level productions. From freshmen year, this group has served as second family to me and I am honored to be the President of UMGASS. So come to the show (free for Umich students with a Passport to the Arts), talk to the members and see what UMGASS is all about. It will be worth your while.

Tickets available at the door and online. Yeomen of the Guard is being presented in the Lydia Mendelssohn Theatre December 5 – 8.

Yes, this is going to be an article defending Kanye West. Accept that and get over it right now. And no, in no way, am I even going to imply that he is perfect. And yes, I read “Why Everybody Has Missed The Point of Kanye’s Bound 2 Video” a while ago but don’t think it influenced this piece that much. And even if it did, who cares? That’s not the fucking point.

Kanye West is the comic whose audience doesn’t react with laughter but outrage. And he loves it. His unapologetic attitude, mistaken by the masses for arrogance, is the source of his art, whether it be his music, his videos, or his fashion. He attempts to conquer actions, symbols, and words that have been historically used to warp the power dynamics of society and subjugate minorities like Kanye West.

One fantastic example of West’s artistic creativity is a recent song titled “I am a God.” This song, because of its title, was received by absolute uproar and the media had a field day fueling the idea that Kanye’s song was clear proof that he is a narcissist whose only fitting punishment was a special circle of Hell reserved just for him. The mainstream media refused to do any sort of productive analysis of the song and decontextualized the shit out of it to perpetuate its narrative of West, which in turn perpetuated the overarching stereotype of angry, aggressive black men. Then, West, as he often does, had to explain what he meant by his art to America and the world. Here’s what he had to say in a radio interview:

“When someone says ‘I am a God’ everyone says ‘who the hell does he think he is?… would it have been better if I had a song saying I’m a nigger or I’m a gangster? To say you are a God, especially when you got shipped over to the country you’re in and your last name is that of slave owners; how could you have that mentality?”

West’s songs are informed by his own powerful experiences as a member of one of the most marginalized and misunderstood minorities in America. The idea of taking a concept that has been so white-washed and bleached to get rid of even a tinge of brownness (Jesus and the concept of a monotheistic God originated in the Middle East) and making it Kanye West, making it black is revolutionary. And let’s not forget the recent Bound 2 Music Video, featuring the one and only Kim K. My first thought watching the video was how like a western film it looked. The second thought was how shitty the graphics were. The third was the fact that instead of a cowboy, there was Kanye West. Boom. Kanye West had taken the western genre, one of the most racist and dehumanizing genres of visual media to ever exist, and made it his own. The way the video was filmed mimics the original westerns in all their glory, complete with the shitty graphics and random eagles, and highlights all the ludicrousness of the genre. The fact that West is the star of a film that, just a few years ago, would have cast him as the brainless minority meant to adore the tall, blond white male perpetuator of racial supremacy, is absolutely stunning and, of course, completely misunderstood. West’s critics, who are mostly white, simply don’t get the point of his music and the type of press he creates. Either by choice or sheer ignorance, they see a rapper when they should be seeing a black man, a descendant of slaves, a man burdened with experiences, stereotypes, and responsibilities beyond his control, a man burdened with things they cannot even fathom. His actions and comments prompt the initial shock and disgust but no real discussion comes out of them. When he stated on national television that Bush hates black people, there was the visible cringe and retaliation from mainstream America, who just didn’t get it. In the response to Kanye’s comments, racism was reduced from an societal and infrastructural landscape to individualized experiences, making it so that, because Bush himself did not do anything physically violent or say anything overtly racist towards a black person, he cannot be racist. This logic ignores the realities and nuances of the manifestations of racism in our society. Bush not only perpetuated a system in which black people are kept structurally disadvantaged but also initiated policies that disproportionately targeted and discriminated against certain minorities. With reality this harsh, how can anyone say that Kanye should be more “tactful” with what he says? How? And why? What he says is truth that has not been filtered, refined, and polished for easier consumption; it is raw and genuine and paints the reality that many face but so many more ignore. There has been a recent illusion created to boost our egos and avoid our problems, that because mainstream America has been well-off, either everyone else also is or is not because of their own faults; the struggles of those who are not like us are deemed irrelevant to our lives or a result of their own laziness as opposed to historical and structural oppression.

West has been criticized for complimenting and congratulating himself from those who do not understand how radical and poignant it is for a black man to applaud his “creative genius” when the entire world looms with laws, statistics, and power structures against him and constantly reduces him to a perverted image of barbarism and primitivity. West lives in a world where self-love in minorities is revolutionary, in a world where if you’re anything but “mainstream,” you are without a doubt lesser; in a world where if you are the other, you do not matter, you do not exist. More importantly, you should not exist. Our fascination with aggressive assimilation is appalling to say the least. Immigrants need to learn English and become “American” as soon as possible. Education must be streamlined and standardized. Quirkiness must be quelled and controversy must be crushed. Anything out of the hegemonic ordinary must not exist for, in the strange, twisted logic puzzle of our universe, our survival depends heavily on how forcefully homogenized we are as opposed to how we can teach each other through our differences. It is one where our race is ignored when it is uncomfortable to talk about our privilege and emphasized when it is convenient to point out others’ misbehavior. Or at least what the masses see as misbehavior. There is hardly anything more painful than watch people confuse self-love with arrogance and try their human best to shred that self-love apart. Kanye’s enemies (and ours) are history, which has so cruelly favored the conquerors and the colonialists; the law, which was written to protect the interests of the wealthy and powerful hegemony;  and the world, which has made it painfully clear that the darker the skin, the lesser the human. Kanye’s only weapon against such pervasive and omnipresent enemies is a self-love that emanates from his inner being, a self-love that proclaims to the world that there is value in melanin, a self-love that stems from himself and cannot be shackled, whipped, rewritten, forgotten, or erased. And to confuse this self-love with narcissism is a gross crime of ignorance, not “standing up for America’s values” or whatever the fuck the racist, patriarchal assholes on TV are saying these days.

Is Kanye perfect? Once again, no. Some of his actions and words, especially some of his more violent misogynistic and/or homophobic lyrics, are much harder to digest or even listen to. He is human, prone to making mistakes, having melt-downs, everything that all of us sitting in our chairs and criticizing him are prone to as well. But he is more than what the masses understand him to be. He is a parody of his genre, a self-made caricature of everything he detests created as a form of protest to the system, the Machine that the rest of us are all-too-willing to bow down to.