The arts? Yep, I review them. Here's how...

I have a love/hate relationship with writing. I am pretty proud of myself when I finish a piece that I tried my best on, but I absolutely dread diving into a review. I will clean the kitchen to immaculateness, or run 12 miles on the treadmill just to avoid starting an assignment. (My average mileage equals…four.) So, the hardest guidance/mandatory requirement to swallow this semester has been to “set a schedule, and blog often. Posting with [regularity] will be tough,” an article entitled “How to Blog” declared, “you’ve got other things to do, and writing is a daunting task for most people. But blogging, like exercise, gets easier with practice. The more often you do it, the less onerous it’ll feel, and at some point you may even grow to like it.” Writing has not become a completely torture-less endeavor, but towards the end of the semester, I wasn’t killing myself on the treadmill or scrubbing the kitchen counters nearly as much.

When starting a review, I try to give my audience a short, and hopefully interesting overview of who I am, and where I am coming from as a commentator on a exhibit, an article, a movie, etc. If I had never been to a college choir performance before, and was now about to critique my first show (like I was in my review of the Vocal Jazz Ensemble/Jazz Pop Choir concert), I think I owe it to my audience to let them know—not because my greenness to a certain topic should discredit my opinions, but because it might help to understand why I had certain observations. However, while it is important to be aware of one’s past experiences or predispositions, it’s equally important to not let these predispositions dictate a review. A review is “my take” on an event, but I should look at every event with an unbiased eye. If I’ve hated (or adored) a genre in the past, I should address this, but then make it a point to critique an event without those earlier sentiments tainting my review. As Laura Kipnis, a feminist, admitted in her essay, “(Male) Desire and (Female) Disgust: Reading Hustler,” “I have, in fact, wanted to write this essay [about Hustler] for many years, but every time I trudge out to buy the latest issue, open it and begin to try to bring analytical powers to bear upon it, I am just so disgusted that I give up, never quite sure this automatic response is one of feminist disgust or bourgeois disgust.” Her struggle (which she did overcome) to write a thoughtful piece on a subject that she has always despised, demonstrates one of the most difficult, but essential things a valued reviewer must do—examine, from all angles, the pros and cons of a piece, and why it is successful or unsuccessful to what type of audience(s) and why. As a reviewer, I believe, I must state who I think would appreciate my subject or who would not, and why—I must not simply determine whether a subject was good or bad based on my own tastes.

In my reviews, I also want to appear relatable, easy-going and friend-like to my readers, so that they feel that they can trust my experiences. But, earlier in the semester, my reviews were centered too much on me. Because, yes, I was much more comfortable writing about or parodying myself than I was evaluating external subject matter. I think I managed to tone-down this habit over time. I have tried to remember the advice given in the article “How to Blog,” which insists, “write casually, but clearly. Write quickly, and a good way to write quickly is to write as if you’re talking to a friend. Also remember that your readers want you to get to the point. Be clear, not cryptic.” I had to realize that although I might think my personal stories are amusing, a reader did not scan my review of a gallery exhibit to hear a chunk of my life story.

I feel that I grew the most as a reviewer at the previously mentioned choir concert that I attended. As I was sitting in the audience, with my notepad and pen, I started getting really excited when I became aware of little details (like the director playfully hiding the microphone from soloists), that if I was simply an attendee of the event, I would have forgot about, or probably not have detected. I started feeling like it was actually fun (not a chore) to search for details that would make my review unique.

In our class, I have learned to be an unbiased, clear, witty, and concise (but thoughtfully detailed) reviewer of the arts.

The Columbia-est space...to me, not you.

Trying to determine the Columbia-est space on our campus is like trying to convince someone there is a grocery-ist spot in Jewel. While I spend a lot of time perusing the baking aisle before I drag myself away to any other aisle, I wouldn’t insist to another person that a row of flour and sugar is the grocery-ist part of Jewel just because I spend a lot of time there. The grocery store has many different foods to offer, and anyone with a crumpled shopping list could have a favorite section. Columbia is a grocery store. A hypothetical grocery store. Students come to it, with a list of what they specifically want to get out of it, and they leave with those “items” (i.e skills, knowledge), and maybe some extra purchases that caught their interest along the way.

I came to Columbia with the intent to be a photography major. For a semester, my knowledge cart sat in an imaginary aisle stocked with lessons in color theory and shutter-speed techniques, and I spent hours each week in the real darkroom on the 8th floor of the 600 S. Michigan building. The constant smell of chemicals, the occasional “boom!” heard between the collision of two people in the pitch black room, this was my home. This was the Columbia-est spot, to me.

During my next semester, I started feeling a bit uneasy about my cart’s location, and I pushed it to the graphic design aisle. My old darkroom world was now across the store (or a block away), and I found myself sitting in the Design Computer lab in between classes, after classes, on the weekends. I now felt at home in the large, lime green and orange decorated space, among other students having problems with the Xerox B printer, and developing a love-hate relationship with the pen tool in Adobe Illustrator.

What the girl next to me in line for a Manifest t-shirt would pick as the Columbia-est space, would probably not be my choice. We probably don’t have the same major, we probably aren't pushing our carts along the same route—and that’s totally okay. The greatness of Columbia is that we all can choose what subjects we want to learn more about, or stop learning about, and in doing so, we find our own niche, or space, within the sprawling urban campus.

C33 Gallery

“If The Artists Ran The Media” debuted at the end of the fall semester in the C33 Gallery. During my visit to the “collective show of artists’ responses to the often slanted and biased media outlet: the news” it was clear the pieces were cloaked in angst.

As the school’s static-y radio station was piped in from a corner of the room, I stopped in front of an old, hallowed-out television set. Inside sat an overweight couple stuffing crumpled newspapers and garbage into their mouths while a picture of a sports car hung over the dining room table. The artist, obviously irritated and disgusted by advertisements that promote material possessions, greed, excess, and lethargic attitudes, hoped that her piece would awaken a stoppage to our submission to consumerism, that only leaves us wanting more…and more…and more.

Another watercolor artist, angered by the hypocrisy of the tobacco business, painted a glossy cigarette box. Yet, in the place where we might find the small, ineffective Surgeon General’s warning about the presence of carbon monoxide, we see the words “Camel, Cancer-Big, Fat, and Delicious.” Our society, it seems, is so entranced by shiny packaging and the cool “idea” of a product, we deny the fact that drugs, like cigarettes, are essentially killing us, and buy them anyway. The photography, poetry, painting, video, installation pieces and illustrations in this show were chosen because they defy the ideals that are typically presented in corporate-run, government-sponsored media campaigns.

What confused me a bit about this show, and possibly was its one misstep, was the title itself: “If Artists Ran the Media.” While the showcased artists attacked advertisements, certain magazines, the sleek design of a cigarette box, etc. I realized that they are actually attacking the choices/projects of fellow artists. It would seem then that artists DO run the media, just not the ones we look to as pillars of positive social change.

Review Essay

Art school. The stigma attached to those two words when I told my worried parents, my confused friends and my unsure self that I was definitely transferring from a competitive state university to Columbia College, a private art school in downtown Chicago was obvious. My parents wondered why I was trading an “impressive” diploma and the future of a comfortable, entry –level position in cubicle-land for a major, graphic design, that I could I always do as a hobby…or go to school for later, as in “after-I-had-a-real-job” later. My friends couldn’t see me missing “Thirsty Thursdays” or football games to spend time with hippies in art galleries and coffee shops. And I was doubtful that Columbia, for many reasons, would be the right place for me. But. On my first day as an official “art student” (gasp!), I was ready and hopeful for Columbia to be the best decision I’d ever made, and prove my parents, my friends, and myself wrong.

Teachers matter. The quality of the instruction, and spirit, interest, and motivation of the person standing in front of our desks makes a huge difference on what we take from that class. Yes, it’s possible to learn from an okay professor. Sure, we can manage a decent grade from the bad instructor. But, with an amazing teacher, a person who cares that her students are engaged and excited about her topic, we might leave that class with a passion for a new subject and a optimism towards our capabilities that we probably didn’t find with the boring, “I’m just here to move you along” professor.

At a recent Columbia event, I witnessed firsthand the impact that a special teacher had on her students. On a rainy night this spring, I attended the Vocal Jazz Ensemble and Jazz Pop Choir performances that took place in The Concert Hall of Columbia’s Music Center.

Taking my seat in the still brightly lit room, I noticed the red, blue, green, and yellow shirts sitting in the back row. Members of the Jazz Pop Choir sat giggling, chatting, and anxiously waiting to take the blue-spotlighted stage.

Shortly, the lights dimmed and the Vocal Jazz Ensemble members (six girls, four boys) appeared on stage from behind the curtains. While each singer clutched their own microphone, clear, upbeat, perfected vocals exploded from the speakers. During all of their songs, in which there always seemed to be a cute, flirty dialogue apparent in the men’s and women’s lyrics, the singers smiled, laughed, winked, snapped their fingers and swayed to the beat for the audience as the choir director bopped around in the aisle and the stage, beaming from ear to ear. The entertaining solos and animated gestures that were sprinkled throughout each song made this performance anything but a dull choir concert.

After a few full-length solo songs sung by “stand out” members from the groups, the Jazz Pop Choir swarmed the stage to impress me further. While clearly not as polished, or vocally stunning as the Vocal Jazz Ensemble(the group as a whole looked much younger than the Vocal Jazz Ensembl), the Jazz Pop Choir belted out songs like “We All Need Saving” (originally recorded by popular pop singer Jon McLaughlin), and “Swingin with the Saints,” a contemporary, playful take on the children’s song.

The singers were obviously the stars of the show, but my favorite performance that night was by the groups’ director. An exceedingly happy woman in a black pant suit that danced and joked around with her students on stage (once pretending to hide a microphone from a boy about to do a solo), reminded the soloists to “Take a bow!” mid-song, and gushed about her singers and instrumentalists during every break. She was so proud of her students, and by the end of the show, so was the audience. She also took a few moments to pitch the groups, and encourage anyone in the audience to see her after the show about joining next semester. “We’re looking for new folks,” she explained, “men, especially.”

The director’s spirit resonated through the Concert Hall for the entire show, in much of the same way her enthusiasm for music probably spilled out in her classes. Her familiarity and warm connection with her students was admirable, and certainly made the concert more entertaining, and probably makes her classes incredibly rewarding for her students. Without her presence, this performance would have been lacking. Columbia puts a great emphasis on finding “inventive faculty” that hope to be passionate teachers and mentors rather than simply talking heads in front of the podium. At this choir performance, and in most of my classes, I have found this goal to be successful.

Columbia is not only responsible for providing it’s students with inspiring teachers, it also promises “to educate students for creative occupations in diverse fields of the arts and media and to encourage awareness of their aesthetic relationship and the opportunity of professional choice among them.” What better way to expose students to the continually evolving art world, and introduce them to the limitless options that a person with an “artsy-fartsy degree” (thanks, Dad) has, than to have various exhibits showcasing different professional creators throughout the year.

In January, I was lucky enough to stumble into the Contemporary Museum of Photography (housed in Columbia’s 600 S. Michigan building), and was welcomed into the almost sunglasses-required brightly lit space by a smiling young woman who handed me a brochure for "The Transparent City," German photographer Michael Wolf's first American show. Soon, I shuffled to the closest print, and my boots joined the squeaking symphony of other slush and snow covered shoes meandering across the glossy wood floor.

Dangling from hopefully strong wall hooks, the exhibit was composed mostly of large-scale photographs that offered the viewer a zoomed-in look into the cubicles and apartments that make up so much of our city. From the vantage point at which the photographs are taken, either looking straight-across or occasionally looking down from a distance, it was almost as if the viewer was a spy into the lives of these nameless people. In one window, I was drawn to a man, who could have probably made a lot of money working as Santa Claus during the holiday season, sitting under his desk, tangled up in a pile of cords. (Where are the elves to help him with this mess, I wonder.) In another building, "grown-ups" wearing expensive suits played a round of mini golf. (I wondered if their bosses knew that they've constructed Pebble Beach in their conference room.) Around the corner, a woman slumped in front of her computer, holding her head in her hands. (I was worried about her, and wonder what has upset her.) Wolf's pieces pull the onlooker into moments we were never meant to be apart of. As I walked from print to print, the feeling that I'd unintentionally become a peeping-tom had set in, but it didn’t stop me from looking. I was then a detective/psychologist/creeper, in search of another person to observe, study, and probably make erroneous, but entertaining, assumptions about.

Students and other museum goers most likely appreciated the uniqueness of Wolf’s prints. He chose not to incorporate skylines; and instead his work was focused on the geometry/layout of the buildings, which seemed to just pile up on top of one another. We are taught at Columbia that a successful photographer/artist can produce an image that makes the viewer consider it in a way that he/she had never thought of it before. Wolf effectively showed us a world that we walked past everyday, but in a way we were not accustomed to seeing, and his creative achievement was meant to inspire students. Exposing us to Michael Wolf’s collection was meant to infuse us with a confidence in our own unique, interesting perspectives.

Later in the year, I stopped in at another exhibit on campus; “Critical Encounters: Topless USA” was located in the Columbia College Library. Though not as sizeable, refined in presentation, or as easy to locate as the photography show—“I’m not sure if it’s still here, but go through the stacks, and it might be on the left.” the reference desk worker admitted when I couldn’t find the exhibit on my own—it still demonstrated artistic endeavors/motivations that are not common or as popularized.

Located in a room labeled the “Library Classroom,” I saw one lonely 3D diorama sitting atop a wobbly table, “protected” by drooping black, velvet ropes. I scanned the room and noticed no other mildly obvious works that might be part of the show, and was confused; one piece does not an exhibit make! At first glance, the sculpture, carved out of rock and spattered with fake moss and clay-colored paint, entitled “The Agony of Gaia,” reminded me of the inside of my cousin’s frog aquarium. Not too impressive. Until I saw that the fake moss was actually resting atop a life-size Mother Earth, who laid in a fetal position, covering her face, while bulldozers ravaged her surface. I saw her exposed ribs, and her blood spurting out, due to “suffering the abuse of strip-mining” and “the devastation brought about by mountaintop removal and valley fills.” The artist, Jeff Chapman-Crane explained, “I believe that the earth is a living thing. I wanted to do a piece that conveyed the torment she must feel when she is abused in this way.”

I was about to leave the classroom, when I turned and finally could discern a framed painting hanging in the shadows. A richly colored, but sorrowful piece showing a man playing a violin to an empty valley rested on a wall of chipped paint, above stained carpet. I only realized it was apart of the exhibit when I read the tiny, crinkled paper taped next to it. Walking out of the room, I noticed three more non-spotlighted, mountaintop-ish themed paintings hanging above desks in “Laptop Land.”

Columbia’s intentions were good in this show—but its presentation was not. I can’t help but think how many aspiring curators at Columbia would have willingly brought some life to this show, because it definitely needed it. What was also glaringly odd to me was that I hadn’t been able to locate any “Topless USA” signage. I wasn’t even sure that those were the only pieces in the exhibit, but I didn’t have time to search in every dark corner or closet of the library.

Mountaintop removal in Kentucky is probably a totally obscure issue to art students in Chicago, if they hadn’t seen that exhibit (which, I think, unfortunately was pretty likely). But, Columbia’s decision to host the study, was meant to remind students that our creativity has unlimited uses. We can someday use our design or writing skills to craft McDonald’s ads, or we can devote our producing talents to making films about social or environmental topics (like mountaintop removal). Columbia College Chicago wanted its students to bear in mind that there are many avenues to express one’s self, even if some ways are not as obvious or popular as others. So, for those of us who might have imagined, at some point, that a degree in art meant we were only fated to live in a cardboard box, selling hair-dolls on the street, we can breathe easier.

Perhaps Columbia’s greatest desire for its graduates is that we leave this school being aware of the powerful position we can hold in our society. In fact, the school’s mission statement boasts that “Columbia’s intent is to educate students who will communicate creatively and shape the public’s perceptions of issues and events and who will author the culture of their times.” Quite a weighty and influential role we will soon have the chance to play! One show in particular this year aimed to stress this expectation; “If The Artists Ran The Media” debuted at the end of the fall semester in the C33 Gallery. During my visit to the “collective show of artists’ responses to the often slanted and biased media outlet: the news” it was clear the pieces were cloaked in angst. As the school’s static-y radio station was piped in from a corner of the room, I stopped in front of an old, hallowed-out television set. Inside sat an overweight couple stuffing crumpled newspapers and garbage into their mouths while a picture of a sports car hung over the dining room table. The artist, obviously irritated and disgusted by advertisements that promote material possessions, greed, excess, and lethargic attitudes, hoped that her piece would awaken a stoppage to our submission to consumerism, that only leaves us wanting more…and more…and more. Another watercolor artist, angered by the hypocrisy of the tobacco business, painted a glossy cigarette box. Yet, in the place where we might find the small, ineffective Surgeon General’s warning about the presence of carbon monoxide, we see the words “Camel, Cancer-Big, Fat, and Delicious.” Our society, it seems, is so entranced by shiny packaging and the cool “idea” of a product, we deny the fact that drugs, like cigarettes, are essentially killing us, and buy them anyway. The photography, poetry, painting, video, installation pieces and illustrations in this show were chosen because they defy the ideals that are typically presented in corporate-run, government-sponsored media campaigns. Columbia says that rather than be apart of this trend, remember that we as artists can, if we so choose, go against the traditional media channels, and use our creativity as a voice for truth and change.

Columbia College is not an art school where students sit in circles, drinking lattes from the indie coffee shop on the corner, complaining about the world’s flaws, but doing nothing about them. Instead, the school has created an environment where students are directed and inspired by intelligent staff in real-world settings who push us to “create change” with our work. We should leave Columbia feeling confident in our skills, and optimistic and excited about the many career possibilities we have ahead of us. We should feel that we were advised and taught well and that our teachers were our positive career and character role models, not just our graders. While I have encountered a few teachers here that seem to have lost (or never had) the desire to be any student’s inspiration or guide, I have spent time in enough amazing classrooms to feel that Columbia is doing a commendable job in recruiting educators that bring life to their subjects.

At Columbia, we are compelled to find what we love to do, and develop the skills to contribute to our medium’s place in history. To help us grow as artists, we must be exposed to other artists, and see that, yes, indeed, an artistic career is a very real, gratifying possibility. Within Columbia’s fresh, modern, unconventional, and atypical classroom experiences and campus events, we are constantly encouraged to use our creativity to make an impact in the “real-world” we will be entering after our time here.

I took a shower on Michigan Ave. and then went to a “Topless” exhibit.

On my way to the Columbia College library, it started raining, and I arrived in the 624 S. Michigan lobby soaked. On the second floor, I walked up to a young man and an older woman at the reference desk.

“Do you know where the Critical Encounters/Topless USA exhibit is?” I asked through water that was still streaming down my face.

“The what?” the older woman inquired.

“Topless USA?”

“I’m sorry, what? “ she asked again, annoyed.

“Topless USA, an exhibit about mountaintop removal, I think?” I was now starting to wonder if I was in the right building.

“Can’t believe you made her repeat that,” chuckled the younger guy to the irritated woman. He looked up to me, “I’m not sure if it’s still there, but go through the stacks, and it might be on the left.”

After circling the floor twice, I stumbled into a room labeled the “Library Classroom” and saw one lonely 3D diorama sitting atop a wobbly table, “protected” by drooping black, velvet ropes. I scanned the room and noticed no other mildly obvious works that might be part of the show, and was confused; one piece does not an exhibit make! At first glance, the sculpture, carved out of rock and spattered with fake moss and clay-colored paint, entitled “The Agony of Gaia,” reminded me of the inside of my cousin’s frog aquarium. Not too impressive. Until I saw that the fake moss is actually resting atop a life-size Mother Earth, who lays in a fetal position, covering her face, while bulldozers ravage her surface. I saw her exposed ribs, and her blood spurting out, due to “suffering the abuse of strip-mining” and “the devastation brought about by mountaintop removal and valley fills.” The artist, Jeff Chapman-Crane explained, “I believe that the earth is a living thing. I wanted to do a piece that conveyed the torment she must feel when she is abused in this way.” The piece takes on much more meaning after reading the artist’s motivation and devotion to environmental activism.

I’m about to leave the classroom, when I turn and finally can discern a framed painting hanging in the shadows. A richly colored but sorrowful piece showing a man playing a violin to an empty valley rests on a wall of chipped paint, and above stained carpet. I only realize it is apart of the exhibit when I read the tiny, wrinkled paper taped next to it. “Why wasn’t there a spotlight on this?”, I wonder. Walking out of the room, I notice three more non-spotlighted, mountaintop-ish themed paintings hanging above desks in “Laptop Land.” The late John Denver would appreciate the topic of this exhibit, but he would be mortified by the presentation. I can’t help but think how many aspiring curators at Columbia would have willingly brought some life to this show, because it definitely needed it. What is also glaringly odd to me is that I haven’t been able to locate any “Topless USA” signage. I’m not even sure that these are the only pieces in the exhibit, but I don’t have time to search in every dark corner or closet of this library.

Mountaintop removal in Kentucky is probably a totally obscure issue to art students in Chicago, if they haven’t seen this exhibit (which, I think is pretty likely). But, Columbia’s decision to host this study, is perhaps meant to remind students that our creativity has unlimited uses. We can someday use our design or writing skills to craft McDonald’s ads, or we can devote our producing talents to making films about social or environmental topics (like mountaintop removal). Columbia College Chicago wants its students to remember that there are many avenues to express one’s self, even if some ways are not as obvious or popular as others.

3CVJE and the Jazz Pop Choir, Columbia College Chicago

As someone who had never been to a Columbia College musical event until the other night, I was amazed by the 3CVJE and Jazz Pop Choir performances that took place in The Concert Hall of Columbia’s Music Center on April 20, 2009.

Before entering the hall, I picked up a program, and read that the Jazz Pop Choir is a one-credit course that meets two times per week, and is open for anyone to join. The other ensemble, 3CVJE is, however, by audition only, and rehearses three times each week.

Taking my seat in the still brightly lit room, I noticed the red, blue, green, and red shirts sitting in the back row. Members of the Jazz Pop Choir sat giggling, chatting, and anxiously waiting to take the blue-spotlighted stage.

Shortly, the lights dimmed and the 3CVJE members (six girls, four boys) appeared on stage from behind the curtains. While each singer clutched their own mic, clear, upbeat, perfected vocals exploded from the speakers. During all of their songs, in which there always seemed to be a cute, flirty dialogue apparent in the men’s and women’s lyrics, the singers smiled, laughed, winked, snapped their fingers and swayed to the beat for the audience as the choir director bopped around in the aisle and the stage, beaming from ear to ear. The entertaining solos and animated gestures that were sprinkled throughout each song made this performance anything but a dull choir concert.

After a few full-length solo songs sung by “stand out” members from the groups, the Jazz Pop Choir swarmed the stage to impress me further. While clearly not as polished, or vocally stunning as 3CVJE (the group as a whole looked much younger than the 3CVJE), the Jazz Pop Choir belted out songs like “We All Need Saving” (originally recorded by popular pop singer Jon McLaughlin), and “Swingin with the Saints,” a contemporary, playful take on the children’s song.

The singers were obviously the stars of the show, but one of my favorite performances that night was by the groups’ director. An exceedingly happy woman in a black pant suit that danced and joked around with her students on stage (once pretending to hide a mic from a boy about to do a solo), reminded the soloists to “Take a bow!” mid-song, and gushed about her singers and instrumentalists during every break. She was so proud of her students, and by the end of the show, so was the audience. She also took a few moments to pitch the groups, and encourage anyone in the audience to see her after the show about joining next semester. “We’re looking for new folks,” she explained, “men, especially.”

I clapped loudly song after song – and I’m not normally a passionate clapper. I expected to be dying to leave the one and a half hour concert early, and I ended up reluctantly exiting the hall, wishing the show hadn’t been over so soon. Walking home, I realized that I now wanted to be every girl that performed, and I had a crush on each boy that had sung.

Like Columbia College, the concert offered a quirky, non-traditional, and inspiring take on the arts. Both groups will be performing at Columbia's Manifest this May.

Harrison Haiku

I never really want to spend extra time hanging out in the subway. But, when I have to involuntarily freeze underground while waiting for the next train, it would be nice to have something artistically interesting to look at (besides the occasional singing homeless man). Unfortunately, I think Columbia College’s Harrison Haiku project at the same red line stop, is not more engaging to me than the homeless man. Tiled walls are adorned with boldly colored green, red, and yellow assorted squares. Geometric leaves of the same primary coloring are scattered aimlessly on the tunnel’s domed ceiling. But what I assume was meant to be the “star” of this project, the poetry, is plastered in plain, simple black lettering throughout the station. Some poems appear in full, while others are broken-up, and dispersed among pillars. Kenneth Daley, chair of the English Department at Columbia pleads, “The spare beauty of the Haiku form paired with the colorful graphics will be a wonderful ‘awakening’ for the South Loop residents and workers, as well as the thousands of Columbia and Jones students, faculty and staff who use the Harrison subway each day.” Though I appreciate this attempt to make poetry an appealing read and sight, this display is underwhelming. The chosen typeface seems much too large for the space, so that it easily gets lost in the graphic squares, and becomes just letters. My eye was not immediately drawn to anything when I walked into this not absolutely gross, but mostly run-down subway entrance. There was simply too much going on, and not enough negative space; if the lettering had been smaller, perhaps the viewer’s attention would be captured…because, apparently, crazy-homeless-man entertainment is hard to beat.

What I assume Columbia College hoped to promote with this project was a sense of hip, urban, simplicity that the school embodies. The graphic, choppy, modernist leaf stickers are kind of edgy, I guess. Sort of. The poetry itself is a bit quirky, in a way. Maybe. In it’s entirety, however, the Harrison Haiku project does not portray the lively, evolving, exciting art world that Columbia students (and future students) are (or want to be) absorbed in.

Michael Wolf's "The Transparent City" (revised)

On this dreary, gray day that I visit the Contemporary Museum of Photography in Chicago, I feel as if the sun might be hiding in the exposed scaffolding of the museum when I walk into the almost sunglasses-required brightly lit space. As my eyes adjust to glare, a smiling young woman hands me a brochure for "The Transparent City," German photographer Michael Wolf's first American show. Soon, I shuffle to the closest print, and my boots join the squeaking symphony of other slush and snow covered shoes strolling across the glossy wood floor.

Dangling from hopefully strong wall hooks, the exhibit is composed mostly of large-scale photographs that offer the viewer a zoomed-in look into the cubicles and apartments that make up so much of our city. From the vantage point at which the photographs are taken, either looking straight-across or occasionally looking down from a distance, it is almost as if the viewer is a spy into the lives of these nameless people. In one window, I'm drawn to a man, who could probably make a lot of money working as Santa Claus during the holiday season, sitting under his desk, tangled up in a pile of cords. (Where are the elves to help him with this mess, I wonder.) In another building, "grown-ups" wearing expensive suits play a round of mini golf. (I wonder if their bosses know that they've constructed Pebble Beach in their conference room.) Around the corner, a woman slumps in front of her computer, holding her head in her hands. (I'm worried about her, and wonder what has upset her.) Wolf's pieces pull the onlooker into moments we were never meant to be apart of. As I walk from print to print, the feeling that I've unintentionally become a peeping-tom has set in, but it doesn't stop me from looking. I am now a detective/psychologist/creeper, in search of another person to observe, study, and probably make erroneous, but entertaining, assumptions about.

Wolf uses a zoom lens to flatten out the space in his pieces. He chooses not to have a skyline; and instead his work is focused on the geometry/layout of the buildings, which seem to just pile up on top of one another. Most shots appear to be taken in the evening hours, so that the building structures serve as large frames for the countless lit-up windows. Because of this, the light generally used is artificial, giving the prints a stale, generic vibe.

If you are curious what that lady you just saw walking down the street does when she goes home after work, you would enjoy this show. If working in felt-covered cubicle is your current reality, it might be nice to see that you are not the only one playing Tetris on your laptop, while you should be making a spreadsheet.

"The Transparent City" will be at the Museum of Contemporary Photography in Chicago from November 14, 2008 - January 31, 2009.

I wanna have...a Dave Chappelle "Block Party"

It’s not just a documentary that follows Dave Chappelle from his hometown of Dayton, Ohio to the urban streets of Brooklyn, New York. It’s not just a film about a concert that he organized. It’s about who came—audience and performers—how they got there, what they offered, and what they learned.

For viewers (like me) who sat down to watch this Block-umentary, expecting to be entertained by the same Chappelle who had us tossing our heads back with guilty laughter while watching hilarious skits that mocked racial issues in America on the Chappelle Show, we are not greeted by the same Dave. While his comedic talents are sprinkled throughout “Block Party,” Chappelle’s main goal in this project was not to get a laugh. Instead, this concert was about togetherness, about uniting people that would probably never, without Chappelle, have experienced a free rap, hip-hop and soul concert on a rainy NYC day.

While the artist performances are scattered throughout the film, I realized that I was just as eager to watch the stage, as I was to see the crowds bopping their heads to the beat, or the rehearsal footage, and backstage conversations. As Duane Dudek, from the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel Review, admits, “the mix of interviews, performances and shtick may make for a loosey-goosey movie, but its ‘wish-you-had-been-there; quotient is of f the chart.” From the beginning of the film, when Chappelle meanders down ho-hum streets in Dayton, Ohio handing out his Block Party golden tickets to anyone –old ladies on the street, a college marching band—the viewer senses that feel-good, let’s-all-get-together-for-a-positive-experience vibe. And the viewer…wants one of those golden tickets.

For viewers (like me) who have sometimes been put off by rap music that can seem to be centered on not-so-admirable language or topics like “everybody in the club getting’ tipsy” or having “99 problems but a bitch ain’t one,” Block Party will remind us of a part of that genre that aims to inspire, create hope, and preach l-o-v-e. A well-known critic of race and popular culture, Michael Dyson says, that “had more support been given to so-called positive hip-hoppers and to revolutionary rappers who detested body bags and beer bottles; who encouraged black men to ‘be a father to your child’; who advocated love and respect for black women; who sought black communities; the gangsta rap tide might have been stemmed.” In “Block Party,” Chappelle supports and is in awe of artists who want to educate their audiences with music that serves as a messages of compassion, respect, making smart choices, and even, sometimes, religious ideals. The crowds at Chappelle’s block party sang along with choruses of unity and strength, not bitterness and hate.

With all the goodness that this film promotes, some spectators might so closed-off to anything but classic Chappelle shtick, that they will miss the deeper meaning of “Block Party.” Kevin Carr from 7(M) Pictures whines, “ultimately, if you’re a fan of the bands featured in ‘Block Party,’ you’ll like the movie. It’s really more about them than anything else. However, if you were hoping for some laughs and clever bits from a funny guy, you’d be better off renting an old DVD of ‘Chappelle’s Show’.” Perhaps the diverse crowd that Chappelle assembled was also anticipating a typical stand-up routine from the famous comedian when they arrived on Quincy Street in Brooklyn, but when they realized Chappelle had put together a different kind of concert, they stayed because unlike Kevin Carr, they knew it was something special. However, even though Carr didn’t get a one hour and fifty minute stand-up routine, “Block Party” is not at all devoid of humor. For example, Chappelle’s wit is effortless when describing the run-down house that the concert stage will be constructed in front of, and the house’s hippy owners. He admits, “because they bought it, it kind of has some sort of meaning – but, if I was a location scout, and we needed a crack house…I might refer that place.” “Block Party’s” intent might not be to solely keep us in stitches, but it is surely not a too-heavy, feel-bad-about-the world film.

In “Block Party,” I found Chappelle more honest and relatable than I had ever imagined him before. While touring the run-down neighborhood where the concert takes place, he stops in a Salvation Army. After attempting to play the piano, he explains, “Every comic wants to be a musician. Every musician thinks they're funny. It's a very strange relationship that we have. Some musicians are funny. Some comedians can play. I'll give you an example: Mos Def - funny guy; Jamie Foxx - good singer and piano player. So you never know, you never know what kind of talent a person has. I am mediocre at both, but I've managed to talk my way into a fortune. Life, is a funny and unpredictable thing!” Viewers will appreciate his humble, optimistic outlook on life’s experiences—good and bad. Sometimes we get lucky, and sometimes things work out, but we’re all in this together, and we can all learn from each other. Dave’s random encounters and conversations with interesting, strange, endearing strangers who are united through the block party event is captivating. While the artist performances are inspiring, the footage of their rehearsals, casual dialogue, joking around, and hopeful attitudes about society make them the viewer wish they were our friends. Though “Block Party” is a departure from the type of entertainment Chappelle is known for, it proves to be his best, most impactful work yet.

You smell nice...now step away from me.

I was once...an Axe Body Spray girl. At Walmart. For five days. The longest 5 days of my entire life. Armed with my black, logo-clad tote (which I was instructed, in detail, how to properly carry and open), I dragged my feet through the more rude, dirtier version of Target, asking pimply teenage boys if they wanted to be an "Axe guy." Did they want me to mist their entire clothed bodies with this enticing deodorant/body refresher? And would they like the $1-off coupon so they could purchase this cute girl magnet, and use it at home every day? I handed out 2 coupons in 5 days...and one of them was to my brother, who had stopped by to bring me my wallet, and make fun of me.

After hundreds of laps around Walmart, in between thoughts of "Okay, I'm getting $15/hour...don't run out the front door yet," I started to wonder why anyone buys Axe, or deodorant in general, for that matter. Anti-perspirant, I get. The super overweight guy by the Xbox games needs something to stop his pit stains from reaching his belt. I don't want my shirt to be completely soaked after soccer practice. But, deodorant, what's the point? The entire Axe spiel that I was required to blurt out (but never could actually say from start to finish), was centered on the idea that with this new spray, you, shy boy, will no longer have to stare at girls from a distance. You will smell so amazing, women will attach themselves to you. But, if this were actually the case, I think arrests would be involved, or perhaps, mental evaluations of the previously mentioned "attachers." When I pass by a person who doesn't stink in the store, do I stop and say, "Goodness. You smell nice, may I follow you or stand next to you for a bit?" No, because that would be creepy. If a decent-scented person walks past me, I let him keep walking. If an unpleasant odor pushes past me, I let him keep walking too. So. Does it really matter what anyone smells like? Respecting one's personal space in America is a very important issue (or so I was told in 10 grade health class), so why does it matter if he smells like a "morning forest" or she smells like "cucumbers and aloe"? No matter what anyone smells like...I want the man that just crashed into me the shampoo isle to apologize and move away from me. Or, I might have to use my 50+ bottles of Axe as pepper spray.

You smell nice...now step away from me.

a

b

Stilettos Coming Out of My Eyeballs?

The over-sized, cushy chair that I had just plopped down in, is much harder to get out of when I see that my hairstylist is nodding along to her earlier appointment's life story, and I decide I should find something to read as I wait. An assortment of old People magazines, or Cosmopolitan? I choose Cosmo. While my 20ish-year-old self will probably not be as captivated by its pages as when I was sneakily buying it with my friends when I was 13, I'm still within its target age group, so, it should have something to offer. I open the cover, and am introduced to a 2-page spread on Maybelline's new "Lash Stiletto" mascara. Stilettos...stiletto heels? The super high, pointy shoes that go on my feet? They make them for my eyelashes now? That seems dangerous.

Actually, Maybelline isn't quite trying to convince me that they manufacture teeny tiny heels for my apparently insufficient lashes, but they do promise to have the "only mascara that does for lashes what stilettos do for legs." My lashes will look "leaner" they gush. I'm immediately irritated by this comment. Our society is obsessed with telling women that they consistently need their legs to be skinnier, their stomach to be flatter, their arms to be firmer...and now we should latch on to products that make our eyelashes seem "leaner"? Unfortunately for Maybelline, their hope to strike a nerve with any insecure, "maybe I could lose 5 lbs?" body image concerns that I might have, is failing. I've just never thought, "Ugh, my eyelashes are having a 'fat day', I can't go out." Sorry, Maybelline.

Later, Maybelline exclaims, with "the hottest thing your lashes will ever wear" (read: basic, black mascara that is almost identical to every other budget lash coating) I can have "unlawfully" long lashes. I'm thinking back and the evil state trooper in Wisconsin that I've had the pleasure of meeting twice on the side of the road, has never asked me, "Excuse me, Miss., could I please see your license, registration, and eyelashes?" I am positive my eyelashes will never be the reason I get a ticket on I-94 (even with Lash Stiletto gopped on), and Maybelline's over-the-top wordage is just silly.

The imagery Maybelline has chosen for this ad seems to suggest that this is the perfect mascara for you...if you aspire to be a skank. Shiny, black patent tights are glued on to a model's long, kicked-up in the air legs that stretch out across the ad's 2 pages. Written over the legs, we are reminded again, that...what were they selling? Oh yes, mascara, can give your lashes a "provocative length." In the midst of a glittery red background, we see the model's face. Her mouth is parted a bit, but her eyes look tired. If the photographer wanted us to think she was pondering how she was going to handle her newly attained seductress status, thanks to Stiletto Lashes, he failed. The model needs to wash her face, and take a nap.

If you're a tween, and your mom won't let you buy real stilettos yet, maybe you could curb your desire with Stiletto Lashes, but I doubt it. Or, if you're an occasionally clumsy 20-something, who tends to tip over while wearing pointy heels that get stuck in sidewalk holes, maybe you'll be happy trading the ridiculous shoes for a ridiculously-named mascara, but, again, I doubt it. Personally, I don't want these stilettos coming out of my eyeballs.

In case you have really low lash-esteem...click here.

Hey Elmo...hip, dancing, Chris Brown-befriending Elmo.

Three days each week, I spend time building train stations under furniture, and filling up my pockets with dirty Kleenexes that aren't mine. But, no, I don't have a secret "choo-choo" world underneath my bed, and I rarely walk around insisting strangers blow into a tissue and then hand it over. I do, however, follow a runny-nosed 2-year-old around every week when I go to his house to babysit him. While Brady is the cutest, silliest, perfect-ist toddler I've ever watched, he wakes up from his nap every day each day, and precedes to have a mini-temper-tantrum until we watch a few minutes of his favorite furry red puppet...Elmo. Unfortunately, as much as I wish it were possible, Elmo can't be on the TV at any given moment of the day - he's pretty busy - so, when I hear post-nap Brady down the hall, I turn on the computer for a little YouTube Elmo. Brady's current obsession: a music video Elmo did with (pre-girlfriend beating) Chris Brown called "Signs."

Like lots of music that originates or uses characters from Sesame Street, "Signs" is intended to teach the excited, bouncing toddler something. In this case, "Signs" is about just that, signs. While Elmo and Brown take a be-bopping stroll down a fantasy city street, signs overwhelm them. Mail, market, house and school...and repeat. Brown even puzzlingly questions Elmo, "Did you ever see so many signs!?" When I'm not singing along or dancing with the cat, as Brady hops up and down next to me, I notice the very urban world that Elmo is walking around in, and realize that he's not exactly singing to those of us that grew up (or are growing up) in the 'burbs. Did I ever ever go to a laundromat with my mom? Nope. But Brady, who lives in a bustling downtown neighborhood does. Did I ever go to a corner market? Maybe a few times, but I mostly remember being pushed in a cart through a giant Rainbow Foods. However, Brady and his parents walk down to the local food co-op every weekend. The reoccurring city-scapes are meant to appeal to the kids that are constantly surrounded by these towering buildings, not for the sheltered kids in suburbia who are shuttled to generally not-impressively-tall buildings in a mini-van.

I'm equally thankful and impressed that "Signs" cures Brady's wake-up crabbiness, but also taught him to shout "Mail!" when we walk by a blue box on the sidewalk.

test 3

seriously

"The Transparent City"

Michael Wolf’s exhibit “The Transparent City” is a zoomed-in look into the cubicles and apartments that make up so much of our city. From the vantage point at which the photographs are taken, either looking straight-across or occasionally looking down from a distance, it is almost as if the viewer is a spy into the lives of these nameless people. The zoom lens that Wolf uses flattens out the space in his pieces. He chooses not to have a skyline; and instead his work is focused on the geometry/layout of the buildings, which seem to just pile up on top of one another. Most shots appear to be taken in the evening hours, so that the building structures serve as large frames for the countless lit-up windows. Because of this, the light generally used is artificial, giving the prints a stale, generic vibe. There seems to be attention to the color blue in Wolf’s prints, at least when looking at the buildings themselves, which again, frame the bright, cold, harsher indoor light from inside the windows. The color in Wolf’s work makes me feel very uneasy. It is not warm, it is not inviting.

The subject of his work is entirely my worst nightmare: generic, bored people living their lives in generic, boring cubicles. This exhibit is impersonal because he is photographing countless strangers who all seem to be stuck in the same life. Yet, his work is personal because each individual in his prints is, in fact, unique, even if he/she is living/working in a similar environment as a bunch of other people. This exhibit reminds me of a Beatles’ lyric, “Oh, look at all the lonely people…”. There are simply so many people in our city, and in the world, and so many of them are unsatisfied with their lives. It is probably not the case that everyone in these prints hates theirs lives, but especially in the single, pixilated portraits of people looking concerned, and cupping their face in their hands, etc., the isolation of their expressions, their grief, their feeling of being overworked and tired is just very sad. The vibe of this set of prints is not happy; no one is giggling or smiling. The people in these prints are simply going through the motions in their life, without any loving interaction or relief from the monotony.

Macaroni Grill - Madison, WI ...boo. :(

Ew. If slurping mushrooms in soggy noodle water, and having to ignore the floating violinist who keeps not-so-subtly stopping in front of your table DO NOT seem like happy highlights of a first date, drive past the Macaroni Grill. Hit up it's posh next door neighbor, the Amoco gas station, for a better selection/experience. (Or not, but don't go to the Macaroni Grill, please!)

"Holidays On Ice" by David Sedaris ...weee! :)

David Sedaris' writing is unexpected and fresh. "Holidays On Ice" is honestly one of few books (the rest being Sedaris' other works) that I can laugh outloud to, while sitting on my bed, trying to ignore my roommate, who is having a screaming match (round 276) with her boyfriend in the other room. With quotes like, "Everyone looks retarded once you set your mind to it!", the reader wishes David Sedaris was her constant people watching, or unavoidable-roommate-eavesdropping, companion.