For Halloween, you put out spooky decorations and wear crazy costumes as one may see in Ann Arbor nightlife. For any December holiday, you wrap the house lights and display a different set of festive decorations that remind people of the calendar. During the time between October and December, a holiday seems to be neglected. When it comes to family and friends, it may be one with the most obvious purpose with a blatant title designated to giving thanks. Thanksgiving. The excitement of dressing up and trick-or-treating quickly transitions into a stressful period of planning and shopping maybe for wrong reasons, reasons of competition and saving money. The moment the turkey dinner ends, people scramble to the nearest shopping mall in hopes of stealing a bargain. Not everyone, of course, but it sometimes appears that way.

Maybe what we need is a reminder? How would you decorate for Thanksgiving anyway? Putting out a cornucopia doesn’t quite trigger the holiday feeling. Typically, shades of orange and plastic autumn foliage, but that overlaps with plain fall accessories. Nothing really screams Thanksgiving unless you place a pilgrim memento on the table, at least not for me. Maybe the beauty of Thanksgiving is that you don’t need the ornate decorations or entertainment attached to the holiday. No characters, no ridiculous sales, no tangible items the enhance the holiday. Just gratitude. Without the accessories on an outfit, for example, you pay more attention to looking into the eyes of the person as opposed to how he or she is dressed. Likewise, without the accessories of a holiday, you are not distracted from the core meaning of the holiday.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The first few weeks of November can be lonely- Halloween is over, Christmas is still several weeks away, and the days are suddenly shorter, colder, and grayer. But I’ve come to enjoy the inevitable November gloom, as I can cozy up with some tea or coffee and listen to some music that matches the solitary atmosphere. This year, I’ve been listening to a few artists in particular: Banks, London Grammar, and Kaleo.
Moody weather goes best with moody music. My summer go-to is Florence and the Machine; but the fast paced, upbeat songs, and the warm (literally) memories that I associate with them make it impossible to listen to past September. Instead, I crave the melodic sound of London Grammar, the hints of R&B from Banks, and the intense blues and folk tracks from Kaleo.
London Grammar is a group of three from London, led by lead singer Hannah Reid and accompanied by Dan Rothman and Dominic ‘Dot’ Major. The piano is the most prominent sound in every song, and the combination of the classical music and the pensive lyrics make their album, If You Wait, perfect for a gray day.

Banks just recently released her second album, The Altar, as a follow up to her first album Goddess. Just like Goddess, the Altar is intense and thoughtful, but contains even more R&B references. While some of the songs are faster paced, they all have a similar fierce quality.
I started listening to Kaleo last month- just in time for November. Their blues and folk influences combined with the deep lyrics and stormy voice of the lead singer match the relentless weather perfectly.
As Thanksgiving is quickly approaching I know I will soon succumb to the familiar cheery tunes of Christmas music. I am looking forward to getting into the holiday spirit, but I’m actively avoiding any premature exposure. For now I am content to listen to the somber, melancholy, and fierce music of Kaleo, Banks, and London Grammar as I make the most of the November gloom. But make no mistake- on November 29th I’ll be jamming to Jingle Bell Rock with a cup of hot chocolate, as festive and cheery as ever.

“Have you ever questioned the nature of your reality?”

       This is the first line of West World, HBO’s  lavishly futuristic science fiction epic and my new favorite Sunday night treat (Sorry, Walking Dead fans). It features robots, cowboys, villains, heroes, and everyone in between. In this future, West World is an amusement park that allows visitors to role play in the Wild West. Hyper-realistic robots populate this world, mostly to satisfy the baser, and often bloody, instincts of the guests. Some robots are fated to die during the storylines, only to be revived for the next day. HBO has spent a fortune to bring Jonathan Nolan and Lisa Joy’s vision to the screen and it shows. Long tracking shots revel in the majestic Arizona landscape and the glass laboratories of the future. But at the heart of all the technical achievement is a deeper question: How do we interact with narratives? How do we construct them in our own lives?

There has always been a visceral thrill in immersing yourself in a someone else’s story. We like to pretend; whether its dressing up as your favorite character at Comic Con or daydreaming in math class. It allows us the freedom to be anyone, anywhere. There are no restraints, not even moral ones. In 2016, it is more popular than ever in every medium to be someone who you are not. Sometimes, the stories allow us to discover more about ourselves. By viewing the world through different perspectives, we gain empathy for others, an appreciation for situations we could never experience directly. Yet, even this can be taken too far. Assuming that a movie or a television show is a correct representation of real life is a mistake as well. I can’t possibly claim to be an expert in African American culture after watching Empire after all. Unfortunately, it seems to be one that we are making more than ever. Pretending can make us feel morally superior without doing anything. Sympathy for transgender rights after watching Transparent is great, but ultimately the show only raises awareness. It is up to us to carry out the real work needed to create change. It is not enough to pretend to be the hero, we must take that role for ourselves.

All the world’s a stage as Shakespeare famously wrote. I have always loved to create storylines. Sometimes, I was the charging hero. Other times, the rouge with the heart of gold. But always I was the main character, the one who mattered. Watching West World has made me realize that this is not only untrue, but also unintentionally harmful. The guests feel free to treat the robots with malicious abandon because they see them only as tools to advance the plot. If we only see others as disposable, supporting characters to our own, we lose any sense of perspective for their stories. It is too easy to look at other people and see them as side quests that we can explore at random or books that we can close when it gets too uncomfortable. It is too easy to treat real life from the perspective of a faraway bystander and retreat to our imaginary worlds. But this is the only true reality that we share together. I want to treasure it.

The conversation about what is and isn’t fine art has always been somewhat tiring for me. At one point, admittedly, I was engrossed in the belief that I would one day be a part of some higher artistic collective – a part of a contemporary group that would later be remembered as an important historic tradition. It is hard to pinpoint as to why I ever had such ambitions in the first place. The dream appeared as mysteriously as it disappeared.

This subject came into my conscious once again quite recently. I am currently enrolled in a class about the self-taught artist. Given that I had never taken a class in fine art since high school, I believed that I would fall under the category of self-taught. Of course, upon wrestling with the term, I quickly understood that it was meaningless. Unless some artist was trained via data input – utilized like a robot and offered no leniency of self-expression, only commanded to reproduce what is taught in a calculated manner – it is hard to imagine anyone who is devoid of self-teaching. Even the blind interact with the visual world in their own way.

So mid-semester, I am drawing something for an assignment, and someone tells me that my drawings looked similar to the “style” of Joan Miró. I’d never heard of the artist before. So I Googled him and discovered that my drawing did have vague similarities. However, what was interesting was that I recognized a lot of Miró’s paintings (granted they are incredibly famous so my recognition is by no means a testament of anything). I must have, internalized that type of art at some point in my life, only to have it resurface at this point in my life. Given my ignorance, I can’t tell you the exact psychology behind this. But it is undoubtedly fascinating how subconscious influences seem to be directing my art far more than conscious ones. Perhaps it’s due to my focus in English rather than fine art – I never was asked to consciously critique my own style, analyzing where every bit of influence came from.

But suddenly, fine art doesn’t seem like fine art anymore. Lately, I’ve been reading an interview with Victor Moscoso, an artist involved with Zap Comix and responsible for a plethora of psychedelic concert posters. Near the beginning of the interview, Gary Groth (interviewer) was asking Moscoso about the difference between commercial art and fine art. Moscoso gave an incredibly simple answer, “Did you get the job first, or did you do the painting first?” Under this definition, as Moscoso points out, Michelangelo’s painting at the Sistine Chapel is a work of commercial art – a painting that the famed artist was commissioned to produce and one that acts as a commercial for the narratives of the Bible. Then what about the myth of fine art being “good” and commercial art being “bad.” Well, I’m sure we don’t need Moscoso to act as prophet on this debate, for it’s obvious that art, whether it is hanging at the MOMA or hidden in some half-finished notepad stuck in a drawer of some office building that recently saw half it’s employees let go, always has the potential to be shit or beautiful. Perhaps even both?

I am trying not to end this blog post with some cheesy statement on how it’s important to just do what you love and not be concerned with the workings of the fine art tradition and the art world. Which is both true and utterly bullshit, for even the most hardcore self-indulgent bohemian needs to eat. Apartments filled with aspiring artists have open doors during critic visiting hours.

Sometimes, the answer doesn’t quite feel like an answer at all. I must imagine that has something to do with me asking the wrong question. But it truly is insane how juvenile this topic feels while still remaining so annoyingly relevant.

Perhaps it’s best that I just stop thinking about it.

 

 

What is art, you ask?
Well, thank you very much.
This question is as important,
As it is unanswerable.

Anything can be,
But nothing must be.
Some of it shouldn’t be,
And some of what isn’t, should.

But who is to say what is art,
And what’s not?
Nobody can,
And everyone must.

If you can’t differ art,
From what’s not,
You can’t differ the smart,
From the lot.

In art,

We can only be critics for ourselves,
But not our own critics.
I mean, is this art,
Just because it is written in verse?

It is up to you to decide.
I for myself, can’t answer that question.
Why?
Because I to myself, have asked that same question.

 

Remember to be the weirdest you can possibly be.

For Parents and Family Weekend, there was a tailgate before the Maryland Game in the Oosterbaan Fieldhouse for all umich families. Here, everyone was provided with great food, essential maize and blue game-day accessories, and entertainment by campus group performances. Many of which I had not gotten the chance to see until this event shed light on them. Featured student groups included Angels on Call, Harmonettes, GROOVE, FunKtion, RhythM Tap Ensemble, TAAL, Leim Irish Dance, Maize Mirchi, 58 Greene, U-M Dance Team, U-M Cheerleading Team, and the U-M Marching Band. Each act expressed completely different energies from a variety of cultural blends, music, and dance styles. While some, in addition to their voices and steps, harmonized their appearances with uniforms, others distinguished their personalities with their outfits. The synchrony of the groups and the layering of unique sounds complimented the idea of individuality molding with togetherness to produce incredible sound. I recognized a few faces from classes, my living complex, and friends I see around all the time. Little did I know the talent they had. That’s my favorite part about talent; it’s usually a surprise.

To keep your talents to yourself: Is it modest or is it selfish?

Modest: Holding a special ability under the surface could be like a treasure hunt; only a few people ever know you deep enough to find it. More introverts prefer to be the observers. They conserve the electricity with which they have the potential to illuminate an entire room. They astound people with their unassuming excellence.
Selfish: It would be a shame to keep such gifts hidden from the world. If it makes you happy, do it. If it makes others happy, even better. More extroverts prefer to be the performers. Ultimately, having the talent is like having the electricity to light the bulb. If you have power, turn on the lights. If you can play the harp, the allegedly the most difficult instrument to master, I would be disheartened if I never got the chance to hear you.

I suppose it’s how you carry yourself, but tell me what you think. Regardless of stance, you’re special whether your talent is eating six Saltine crackers in sixty seconds or carving Mount Rushmore into a Styrofoam cube with a spork. People like you keep the world interesting.