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Emerson, for instance, left his sick wife, Lidian, and their young children in Thoreau’s care to go to Europe in 1847, writing coldly to Lidian, ‘I foresee plainly that the trick of solitariness never can leave me.’

As suggested two posts ago here, it seems that companionship, or what the biopsychologists like to term as “peer-bonding,” has been cognitively advantageous. Our evolved intellect is bound to our sociality. Memory and the logical proceedings that come with attempting to troubleshoot relationships are augmented with every flex of the social muscle. It has been empirically shown that those older adults who engage in conversation, who are prompted to climb out into the world and sense it like their younger counterparts do, create themselves a sort of buffer against mental decline. And what are we if we do not hold our minds intact? (An entirely separate question to address on another date.)

While this is all well and good, you might be asking yourself, “So you’re saying I should join in with the bacchanals rather than lock myself in this room and in a gust of solitary spirit, finish this essay?” Well, you are talking to one of those curious people who have been wooed by the inexplicable allure of solitude — who desperately defends her own autonomy in spite of her acknowledgment of the inevitable importance of communities. I’d like to explore the other side of the coin in this post (completely contrary to what I had spoke of two weeks ago) and articulate the dichotomy that exists between individualism and social participation, and how this might begin to be reconciled.

Quotes that follow strike a note deep within my reclusive marrow.

In Still Life with Woodpecker by Tom Robbins, it is astutely said that it is “funny how we think of romance as always involving two, when the romance of solitude can be ever so much more delicious and intense. Alone, the world offers itself freely to us.” I nod in emphatic agreement. “Loneliness adds beauty to life. It puts a special burn on sunsets and makes night air smell better,” says Henry Rollins. Rollins brings up a good point: loneliness is charged with an entirely different sentiment, a sort of indignation with your rupture with the web society, a twinge of misery in accompaniment with your self-imposed isolation. Replace “loneliness” with “solitude” and I would be more apt to agree, although I am a proponent of exposing oneself to feeling a wide, wondrous spectrum of emotions. I merely enjoy hanging in existence between all the action, attempting to get to the bottom of things rather than bother, at critical moments, with the often frivolous requisites that waver at the surface of most civilized interactions. Now, you might be wondering what has happened in my biographical past that has made me so jaded, and perhaps even so selfish? Perhaps I deserve an end as miserable as Christopher McCandless, the youth that had passed in an abandoned bus in the novel-turned-movie, Into the Wild, in a stint that emblemized his distaste with civilization. “Didn’t you know that the tragedy was that he realized too late that true joy lay in the relationships that we cultivate?!” No, I think the tragedy was that he had foolishly eaten mold. That may be an extreme case, and I must clarify that I argue from the standpoint of the artist, the tinkerer with life, the one who capitalizes on consciousness in order to synthesize. Every great writer, scientist, musician needed to shut the door to their companions in order to fully, and hungrily take in the world from the vantage point of an outsider. The mark of a genius within any field is his or her innate devotion to the subject – their willingness to engage in investigative learning, and this often occurs on time away from others. The great physicist Richard Feynman, as a child, would watch a ball move in a wagon and found himself plagued with an unabating curiosity to know why it would move like that. He built radios and tuned them to programs, not because this was his part-time job and that money was the incentive, but because he wanted to understand how things worked and what would result if he played with the world out there. These people had that moment of peace within their minds that facilitated their noticing of a pattern, and oftentimes, this required at least a brief disentanglement with social relationships. Einstein said, “I lived in solitude in the country and noticed how the monotony of a quiet life stimulates the creative mind.”

Like everything else that we know and do, the best results seem to come from abiding with the rule of moderation. It’s a delicate balance between understanding that we will ultimately have some dependence on others by virtue of the fact that we are human beings, by virtue of the fact that we need other people to register something as sophisticated and momentous as empathy — and embracing that other half of ourselves that rises to meet the world alone, to level our eyes with it in our own, solitary bodies, and to investigate it. Then, the next step is to take what we discover and present it to others in whatever manner we deem fit. Feynman became a renowned lecturer and teacher at the height of his career. Emerson’s influence had been felt by Thoreau and we all feel his presence in literature classrooms and libraries today. In all these situations, the key initial stimulus however was a moment of solitude — an aside and a breath on one’s own terms.

Sue majors in Neuroscience & English and tends to lurk in bookstores.

During one of the best classes I have ever taken in my undergraduate career, we learned about the changes implemented in the world of journalism.  As the world becomes more and more high tech and people tune into news via digital means, the way of the journalist has become not just limited to words but also to images.

Photojournalism is an art that is taking its foothold in the world of journalism.  Photography has taken the world of professional journalism to a new level, moving readers by providing images that render the invisible, seemingly-irrelevant current event into a relevant image of reality.

Where would we be now without our pictures?  What other media is as fluid and interchangeable as photography?  One person’s hobby can become capture a picture that speaks to people thousands of miles away– photojournalism is not necessarily limited to professionals.  What defines photojournalism is not that it tells about a world event in a newspaper or other news media, but photojournalism is about encapsulating one story in one picture.  It’s not about the reporting of wars or governmental policies, but the reportage on the human condition often overlooked by regular news media.  In its essence, journalism, in all forms, is about speaking for those who have no voice.  And photojournalism is about presenting the face of those people who are not being heard.

This one design blog shows 35 great examples of photojournalism.  And you’re going to find that they are not all found in newspapers or news media.

Think about it: What would our news media look like if we didn’t have pictures?  This is the power of photography.

The image of Don Quixote charging towards a group of windmills, lance at the ready, for a jousting match is one that most of us are probably familiar with. Russian-born artist, Vladimir Kush, has reimagined this scene in his painting “Fauna in La Mancha.” In this painting, the windmills’ blades have been replaced with butterflies, and Don Quixote’s lance has been exchanged for a butterfly net. On his Facebook page, Kush encourages us to metaphorically follow in Don Quixote’s footsteps, saying in his description of the painting, “Let us follow [Don Quixote’s] noble example and stretch the net of our imaginations in search for beauty!”

Much of Kush’s art relies heavily on metaphor. He has released a book of his work entitled Metaphorical Journey as well as a dvd of music and images of his paintings entitled Metaphorical Voyage. On his Facebook page, Kush has uploaded images of many of his paintings and with each, he has included a description with explanations of the metaphors in his work. These descriptions are fascinating to read; they give insights into Kush’s work that may not be immediately apparent and allow one to truly appreciate the full complexity of his work.

Kush’s paintings are so much more than a collection of pretty images – each painting contains a miniature story told through metaphor and refined through the talent of a brilliant painter. His paintings are like visual poems, each containing an overlying image with layers of meaning and nuance waiting to be discovered.

I’m quite surprised the topic of tattoos has not yet been brought up in Arts Ink. Seems ironic, no?  Well, I shall be the first to introduce you to the world of tattoos through what I call the ‘Mom’ Tat.  I think tattoos can be both the greatest and worst forms of artistic expression.  They often carry a story, maybe tribute a loved one or say something sacred to the person who wears the tattoo.  Whatever the reason for getting a tattoo, I enjoy looking at other’s tattoos and trying to understand why they got it.

Most recently one of my friends got a ‘Mom’ tat on her ribs.  It has Mom written in a heart about 3 inches wide and 2 inches long.  This is not her first tattoo, but I remember when she told me what she got I thought she might be joking.  When I realized she was not, I took her seriously and found the beauty in what she had done.  I remember saying, “Wow, your Mom must feel so special that you did that!”  Not saying that getting a Mom tattoo is THE way of telling your Mom you love and appreciate her, but it is one heck of a good one!

To get a tattoo in the first place is a big step.  I have always wanted to get one, but I don’t know what I would get, so I am ink free to date.  To get a tattoo in recognition of a loved one I believe is a selfless act.  Marking your body with their name indicates how they have affected you and how they will indefinitely be with you.

I will remain tat free for a while, but I will continue to be intrigued by others’ tattoos decisions.  Long live the MOM TAT!

Peace,

Sara

I am neither a typographer nor an expert in graphic design. Yet, there’s a lot to be said for fonts and their effects. Or rather, the proper (or not entirely appropriate) application of them. What is in the appearance of a letter? In its placement?

Different typefaces, when used in contexts appropriate to them, are as good as invisible in the everyday world. Language, so integral to human interaction, occurs in written forms perhaps more often than one would notice. Books, tags and labels, signs, advertisements of every kind, informative, entertaining, philosophical- the written word is ubiquitous. How it is physically manifested, however, is something that the average reader does not tend to notice unless something goes horridly awry. And it does, it does.

Everyone has seen this, or done this themselves, at least once, I am certain:  It is an email, perhaps, or a hand-coded website, or perhaps a homegrown flyer or pamphlet or newsletter. It has clearly been produced in Microsoft Word because there is WordArt on it. Eye-squinting, brow-contorting, mottled-brown (or perhaps wavy blue, rainbow, or shiny chrome), 3-D (or the kind with drop shadows) WordArt that reads “OUR VISIUN 4 THE FUTRUE” like a whack in the brain with a crowbar. There may be neither misspelling nor poor grammar in actuality, but its appearance does not precisely emanate the glow of professionalism, either.

Without the aid of WordArt, the overenthusiastic font-decorator may turn to the handy-dandy format bar for some nice garnishing. In the same page, there may be eight different fonts, six different font sizes, ten different colors and probably excessive and extraneous punctuation or some glitter and unicorns thrown in there for good measure.

Please, please, no.

Understandably,  simplicity is not always the solution. Less is not always more. A single classy, clean black typeface will not necessarily do the trick. 12pt. Times New Roman in black will leave the correct impression only in certain cases.  But there is often something to be said for restraint. A font that is overly spiky, flourish-y, blocky, or otherwise irregular can certainly be fun to use sometimes, but reading a block of text written in one is most assuredly not fun. Putting up a poster telling everyone about the party would not be very effective if, say, it looked like this:

Also, this is a fantastic guide to fonts.

But in all honesty, now, what is it that makes some fonts more effective than others? Is it the curve and thickness and slant of their lines, the way their letters sit next to or apart from one another? The exact details are difficult to pin down. But one can definitively declare one type ephemeral, another heavy and authoritative. One can have age and dignity; another, cleanly cut, modern and progressive.

About a year ago, I was tasked with the analysis of a graphic novel. I do not entirely recall what the prompt was, or what we were to glean from it, precisely, but I chose to do a study of different fonts. In a graphic novel or comic, a story is told not only through words and illustrations, but a blend of the two- the appearances of said words. Language becomes not only verbal, or even visual, but both. Darkness and foreboding? Use dark heavy slashes and angular letters. Uncertainty? Weak, widely spaced letters, uniformly shaped but perhaps a bit shaky. Something archaic can be conveyed with an Old-English- style type, evocative of bygone flourishes and grandness, of academia and the intellectual. Flat, angular, typewriter-generated font can suggest a detached coldness.

The connotations and effects associated with different fonts provide a fascinating study. We will explore this further, perhaps, another time. But until then–

-TChen

Ingredients for apple-pie filling
8 apples, sliced into bite-sized to half inch pieces (recommended for baking: northern spies but any tart/hard apples will do)
1/4 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup maple syrup (grade B)
cinnamon and nutmeg to taste
3 tablespoons corn starch or arrowroot powder
dash of vanilla extract

Since returning to Michigan after a spring semester in Maine, I’ve taken steps to become a pie boulangère, all in the interest of keeping the spirit of transcendentalism close against my mind and discerning, once again, its perceptible weight on my open hands. Thus, in every kitchen I step in, pies have begun to spring out of thin air. All sorts of pies. Apple pies. Cherry pies. Blueberry pies. My fall skirts are ornamented with patterned streaks of flour, now becoming a permanent fixture of my daily apparel, of my daily countenance.

Some of my friends think I have gone wide-eyed pie-crazy.

This may or may not be the case, but I would just like to add here that they are perhaps the primary beneficiaries of my pie-inspired neuroses. The number-of-pies-coming-out-of-the-oven to the-number-of-pies-that-I-can-feasibly-eat is a fairly high ratio and consequently, I have begun leaving pies, carefully wrapped in aluminum foil and with the tell-tale etchings of a lattice top, at my friends’ doorsteps. I’ve also noticed a change in my parents’ attitude towards me. I dare say that the atmosphere is merrier when we drive back to their house with a pie pan in my lap than without. (Perhaps a general rule of thumb in all scenarios.)
While most people around me have written me off as merely caught up in a fiery passion, clad in the flour emblazoned trappings of a pie enthusiast, clearly fueled by insomnia, stress hormones and oscillating Michigan temperature, I’d like to say that I have more reason than that.

Andrew Jackson Downing says, spurred by a quote of Emerson’s:

“Fine fruit is the flower of commodities.” It is the most perfect union of the useful and the beautiful that the earth knows. Trees full of soft foliage; blossoms fresh with spring bounty; and, finally, fruit, rich, bloom-dusted, melting, and luscious.

This is one of the reasons I love to bake pies. When I pull out the pie pans and roll up my sleeves, I think about the seasonality of the earth, that serendipitous 23 degree tilt, and how we are inextricably tied to it. Fruits are tied to nature’s cycle, not the supermarkets’ and it is picked from farms, borrowed from your neighborhood’s hidden gardens, scavenged from the town’s public trees before they are crushed under pedestrian heels (my pie maestro and inspiration, Emily, calls it “guerilla urban berry picking”) these fruit are intimately bound to both coordinates of time and place. Fruits are one of the more edible, evident manifestations of the invisible, yet honest geometric reality of the earth. What’s more amazing is that not only does it call upon geologic traditions but human traditions as well: art and altruism (since they are constructed often with these in mind) and a history of refined practices (to make the perfect crust) passed through the fabric of time, pie by pie, until it reaches us, here, now, and when you think about it, we eat all of it — all of it collectively: time, place, history — and make it a part of us… literally! In baking a pie, you invite others to share in all of these wonderful abstractions with you as you sit around a table, on a blanket laid on a spread of grass, stand around a tiny college living room, and then you make it tangible. It becomes your body. It becomes your actions.

Or maybe it’s more aptly described as a rampant yearning for authenticity, to feel the texture of something real again. In acknowledging the most fundamental phenomena of the earth, listening to its rhythms that connect it to something much larger, we can begin to rediscover the value in our hands and what we can mold from the raw, most altruistic organism – the Earth. No matter how removed we now are, how civilized we are, no matter whatever socially constructed mannerisms we have acquired, no matter how deeply we’ve spiritually convinced ourselves that money is the pearl we orbit around, we are born from the earth, blossomed from its pieces. It amazes me to think that one day, far in the future, these things won’t be here anymore. This ground, all these books, my fingers that type… and what have we got to show? I’d like to spend my days rapt in life-affirming, actions. Because, once, life lived here. Not your car or your designer dress. Not resumes suggesting your estimated social worth. But pure, unadulterated, life.

Sue majors in Neuroscience & English and tends to lurk in bookstores.