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What has glowing lights, reaches about ten feet high, is rumored to cost 30,000 dollars and has absolutely no purpose on this planet? That’s right, you guessed it! The Rainbow Wall in the basement of Couzens Hall. Fortunate enough to be placed in the brand new, hotel-style dormitory on the Hill for my freshman year of college, I was ecstatic to see how beautiful and high-tech all of the facilities were in my dorm, but I was also puzzled when I first walked into what now is referred to as “The Rainbow Room.” Like most of the convenient and fully equipped study rooms in the basement, the Rainbow Room has an assortment of tables and chairs conducive to working and socializing. This room is unique, however, because it is also home to a monstrous wall with a giant screen on the front that does nothing but display a lazy combination of swirls of colors in every shade of the rainbow. It has three or four set patterns of movement, and shuffles through these every hour of every day. It actually does nothing else.

Supposedly, its function is to serve as a giant speaker, and the light displays are supposed to align and match the beats of the music. Have you ever used the iTunes visualizer? Or maybe you remember those old mac screensavers that bounced light around in different designs? Essentially, this wall is a huge screensaver that bobs to music. We are more than halfway through the school year, and I have only seen someone use the rainbow wall’s speaker system once. The lights didn’t look any different with music. The University spent 30K on a two-hour dance party for seven people. That’s probably worth it.

Of my many reasons to be outraged by this installment to our dorm, the first is its cost. While I have not confirmed the price, the general rumor admits that it cost around 30,000 dollars to install. Here’s a list of things we could have used 30,000 dollars for, instead of an oversized light-brite: two semesters of in-state tuition at the University of Michigan, practically one semester of out-of-state tuition at that same University, a non-profit striving for any sort of positive change (of which there are literally thousands in this country), researching cures for terminal illnesses, the construction of another homeless shelter in Ann Arbor (as of November, 2011 there was only one in operation), fixing the appalling recycling system in the dorms, turning more of the Michigan busses into the new hybrid, clean-energy busses and countless other altruistic causes. Instead, the Housing department decided to spend its additional cash (which more likely that not came in part from students’ tuition) on the Rainbow Wall.

Once we look past the atrocious amount of money we spent to get the wall inside the building, we now can focus on how much money and electricity we are wasting to keep it running at all times of the day. I’m not sure if people still think we have an infinite, unlimited amount of electricity on our planet, but I regretfully inform them that this is, in fact, a myth. We are rapidly using up our sources of energy, and should not be using what limited resources we have on colored lights. Want to look at a rainbow? Walk outside after it rains or turn on PBS.

My third and final complaint is of the Housing department in general. They constructed the wall in the first place because they place an enormous emphasis on presenting an affluent, technologically advanced décor, but also claim to of consider practical, environmentally friendly alternatives. My entire dorm is decorated in this plush, pseudo-wealthy fashion that tries so hard to exude affluence, when it is actually made from recycled materials. Which is great, but then there are also between seven and ten flat screen TV’s that rarely get used. Meanwhile, students are struggling to pay back loans and debts and unemployment levels are still high. In the grand scheme of the school’s massive budget the Rainbow Wall is probably insignificant, but it still represents Michigan’s ambition to flaunt an elite, technologically advanced pretense that is completely unnecessary and undeniably wasteful. The Rainbow Wall is a heinous, ugly, unconscionable use of money, and I sincerely hope that there are not plans for similar atrocities in the upcoming renovations to East Quad, Alice Lloyd, and Baits I. There is simply no need to waste that much money on something that offers no real benefits. If the University is indeed trying to “Go Green” I suggest they put forth their full efforts, instead of backing up recycled carpet with three screen projectors in one single room.

The fog appears early in the morning, a sea mist rolling over the water somewhere beyond, creeping over land, covering it. By the time people are rolling out of bed, yawning, putting on the coffeepot, the world has already been transformed. Predawn blue glows faintly, as it always has, bathing everything in seemingly sourceless light. But today, it somehow has more… body. It is as if each individual particle of water, suspended there, had not merely obscured the light, or refracted it, or anything half so logical, but instead imbibed it.

Somewhere behind layers and layers of cloud the sun has begun its slow ascent. Conversely, the fog only seems to thicken, dampening down into a matte grey veil that swathes the landscape in monochromatic gradients. In other places, such fog would have burned away in a matter of hours. But here, warm currents and cool air have set up shop, where it will proceed to churn out fog for the rest of the day. When the wind lifts, one need merely wait. One feels rather than sees the fog rolling in, a subtle stirring of the air, a quiet approach of a low cloudbank that rides almost insubstantially upland.

It is wet, and it is cold. The damp clings everywhere. Glass panes and signposts and leaves are encrusted with beads of condensation. Mosses and lichens drink in moisture, bright splashes of green and yellow against the black slick of stone paving. Others are less pleased. A single figure has made his way down towards the wharf, grasping the railing for a moment, then releasing it rather quickly. Already his oddslot coat is becoming covered in a fine breath of pearly mist. He shoves his hands into his pockets– clammy hands are no good, and at least his pockets are still dry. (There’s another mile yet along the seafront and back up the road, to breakfast and the morning paper, perhaps.)

Back down towards the water, rows of boats bob quietly in little choppy waves. Even here, sound seems dampened. Insulated. A forest of white masts recedes into the fog. There are tens, surely, perhaps even hundreds. Fog conceals, but it carries with it a sort of potential. While it lasts, anything might be possible, might be true. While the fog lasts, there could be thousands of boats, even, stretching out into the boundless sea.

Like most students who have been at U of M for a couple of years, I’ve discovered a few things at the school that deserve more recognition than they get, my favorite being the Special Collections Library on the 7th floor of the Grad. I was first directed to this collection last year when writing a research paper, and have since used it for much more firsthand research, but probably mostly just for my own interests. There are several sections of the Special Collections Library, but my favorite is the Labadie Collection. The Labadie Collection is one of the largest collections of radical political documents from 19th-21st Centuries in the world, and has pretty much anything you can imagine in that genre. Last year I was doing a research paper on a random political cartoon from 1873 France and they had an original copy of it in their archives. You can spend hours (and I have) just looking through their extensive collection of pamphlets and posters, even if you aren’t a radical anarcho-communist trying to smash the state (but you go to U of M so obviously you are). The Special Collections Library also has an awesome selection of medieval documents and facsimiles, which are wonderful for seeing all of the details and small intricacies that you would never be able to see by just looking on the internet. They also have scrolls, which is another experience that can’t be reproduced over the internet or looking at a book copy. There also many other sections of the Special Collections Library that have amazing documents of history, including an actual document written by Galileo, and I really suggest exploring this stuff while you are still at U of M (you commie).

It is with much sadness that I write this blog post.  Our small, close, family-like department recently suffered a loss.  Professor Glenda Dickerson passed away this past week, and it is a death that we all feel deeply.  The theatre department is like a family both in size, love, and relations.  I never had Professor Dickerson, but the mere principle of losing “one of our own” resonates in my heart.

Professor Dickerson was always a sort of mysterious figure to me.  I was finally going to have a class with her this semester, but another professor ended up taking that class over.  I was thrilled to meet this woman who was renowned within the department for her intellect and experience.  These were qualities I heard generally alluded to but never fully researched until Professor Dickerson fell ill and I found myself searching for what I had missed out on.

Once I began unearthing Professor Dickerson’s accomplishments, my remorse over never having spoken to her grew tremendously.  She directed on Broadway.  She won a Peabody award.  She wrote and co-wrote many books.  Her knowledge seemed boundless, particularly on the subjects of African-American theatre and the art of directing.  This woman had a varied and successful career that anyone would be envious of and seems to have had the courage, vision, and smarts to back it up.

For me, personally, Professor Dickerson’s passing completed the “cycle of threes” that death is supposed to run in, all of which occurred in the past week.  This has led to much reflecting, ruminating, and honestly, steeping myself in art that both comforted me and led to a deeper examination of my relationships and emotions.  I found immense solace in Jason Robert Brown’s “Hear My Song” from Songs for a New World.  My grief was expounded, examined, and ultimately, comforted by “I’ll Fly Away.”  I was also able to use my theatre community and my own personal work to help me move on and make good out of so much bad.

The three people who passed away who touched my life, directly or indirectly, have inspired me to continue on the route I am currently headed.  Each of these individuals accomplished incredible things throughout their lifetimes, which ranged from far too short to impressively long.  They faced adversity, stared it in the face, and overcame their personal obstacles.  I strive to do the same.  While grief can sometimes be overwhelming, it is important to come to a place of understanding the best we can.

For me, that comes by pushing through and creating something new.  Of course a play I write will never replace the loved one I have lost, but by rendering something new I am forcing myself to move on.  I hope that others in my department will do the same.  Important and impressive art has emerged from the deepest tragedies.  Think of Angels in America, one of the greatest American plays, which was inspired by the AIDS epidemic and how it affected the playwright specifically.

There is a great line from the aptly titled song “Move On” from the musical Sunday in the Park with George, “I want to know how to get through, through to something new.”  I think that “getting through” for me both represents the artistic breakthrough that is so desirable in the midst of a project, as well as “getting through” the hardships you face to get to a place where you can create again.  I intend to move on, and I hope to continue the legacy of these people who have touched my life.

Three years ago, the Washington Post and violinist Joshua Bell conducted a social experiment in a subway station of our nation’s capital. In one of the busiest subway stops, the violinist took out his violin and began to play. People flocked by, undeterred by the melody– “Chaconne” by Brahms, considered to be one of the hardest and most beautiful pieces to be played by a musician. Three minutes into the 14-minute piece, a man slowed down and sped back up after a few seconds; half a minute later, a woman dropped a donation into Bell’s hat.

For forty-five minutes, one of the world’s foremost violin virtuosos played– FOR FREE– in a D.C. metro stop and the only people who deigned to pay attention were children that constantly looked back at Bell as their parents swept them away amidst the bustle of the subway chaos. After a while, the violinist packed up his bags and left, leaving the city dwellers to their daily rush through life.

As humans, we pride ourselves on our elevated intelligence– on our emotional and philosophical capacity to appreciate the intangible beauty that surrounds us. We are better than animals because we have the ability to think beyond our physical and immediate needs.

Is this true? Can we truly recognize the beautiful?

In a museum, in a cafe with headphones, on Facebook watching Youtube videos posted by our friends– these are moments where we can “appreciate beauty”. Of course this must be beautiful– the setting is right, the music has actually be recorded, our friends have impeccable taste! If our perception of beauty is dependent on characteristics and circumstances extraneous to the work of beauty itself, do people know how to discern beauty on their own?

Or perhaps this ability is lost in the quotidian routine of life, where the beautiful to us becomes banal because of our inwardly directed perspective of life: “I’m late for this, I’ve already seen this before, I know he’s just another homeless person playing for money”. We begin to categorize the beautiful into the things that are worthy because of its particularity apart from the ordinary and the things that are no longer deserving of attention because of its mundanity.

In doing so, we miss out on the beautiful.

Today, we are constantly bombarded by information, chased by deadlines, surrounded by busy-ness. And it happens that we so often fail to just STOP. BREATHE. And recognize the beauty that surrounds us even in the commonplace.

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Gabby Park is a triple concentrator in Communication Studies, French, and History of Art.