When last we spoke, o mysterious readers, I was but a few weeks into a new job in a town where there’s not a gorge to be found, Ithaca College Radio (THE STATION FOR INNOVATION) is replaced by strange Springfield-based pop stations, and Wegmans is most decidedly not a thing.
In the month since, however, I’ve managed to give my first public gallery talk (complete with obligatory references to linguistics, cartography, and THE NATURAL HISTORY OF CATS), coordinate my first “family fun day” community outreach event (which taught me that the expert’s knowledge of panpipes that I gained for one of my final Cornell art history seminars did have a real-world application), and co-organize a new orientation program designed to introduce thirty-five first-years to the glories of the university art world.
I also enjoyed an inaugural hiking trek in the Mount Holyoke Range, gathered the proper materials to start teaching myself Nahuatl (though my textbooks, borrowed from my on-campus library’s massive holdings, look almost as old as the Pyramid of the Sun itself), and enjoyed the opportunity to spend rare moments of free time writing (and reliving the vintage delights of the original Star Trek series from its very beginning).
Still, what remains most thrilling throughout all of this is that so much of my job continues to be based on the constant acquisition of knowledge. As my graduation neared last spring, I started to worry that I had made a huge mistake by deciding to wait a few years before applying to an MFA or PHD program: I have such a passion for learning that it seemed foolish to pass on further opportunities for education! Yet my new position frequently requires me to educate myself on a variety of subjects–and from studying Joseph Cornell’s oeuvre to memorizing the several different stages of Moche pottery styles, I’ve certainly broadened my horizons significantly thus far.
Nothing better captures the high points of my job, of course, than this past Friday’s field trip to two phenomenal museums as part of the afore-mentioned freshman orientation program. Though I was slightly nervous about the pressure of managing the logistics of such a trip, I kept reminding myself that I was, in the end, getting paid to visit museums–what more could an art nerd ask for? In any case, the outing went very smoothly, and I was able to enjoy both the collections and the delight of witnessing the many excited and thoughtful reactions our students had to the various artworks they encountered.
First up was the Clark Art institute, where the recent completion of a variety of renovations resulted in what may in fact be the most architecturally gorgeous museum space I have ever encountered. (All apologies to the Johnson & I.M. Pei; I hope you will someday forgive my betrayal!)
I could’ve happily stayed in rapt contemplation next to the reflecting pool for the entire duration of our visit, but there was art to see and freshmen to guide through it! My two main priorities for my visit were a Turner seascape (which was tragically temporarily off view!) and the incredible Pollock known as Lavender Mist, on loan to the Clark from the National Gallery.
You may remember that at this time last year, I had just started ARTH 3605: US Art from FDR to Reagan, a class in which abstract expressionism played a major role–but the difference between viewing a Pollock or a Johns on a Powerpoint slide in a Goldwin Smith classroom and actually experiencing it in person is indescribable.
The next stop on our itinerary was Mass MOCA, an appropriately massive contemporary art museum housed in a series of ex-factory buildings in the charming town of North Adams. Mass MOCA introduced me to an entirely different museum experience–one in which works of art were not confined to the walls, but rather actively invaded the viewer’s space, scrutinizing the people just as much as the visitors studied them.
In the stunning Sol LeWitt (a.k.a. my new favorite artist of all time) retrospective, art covers massive floor-to-ceiling walls with universes of color and carefully designed shapes…
…while Teresita Fernandez’s exhibition As Above So Below featured pieces literally hanging from a massive warehouse ceiling like a strange aerial continent.
(As a kid, I always wondered why sci-fi was so obsessed with humanoid aliens: incidentally, if I were to describe what I think extraterrestrials might look like, I might cite the Fernandez piece pictured below as an example!)
Still more exciting were the exhibitions in which a single work of art consisted of an entire room. During my final semester at Cornell, I became very familiar with the work of Mark Dion, an American artist whose Trichechus manatus latirostris dominated the Johnson’s lecture lobby in the New Wing all spring. Every time I shared that skeletal manatee with a group of elementary or middle school students, I marvelled at Dion’s imagination and admired his interest in kunstkammer, or cabinets of curiosities–especially since I had unknowingly visited his own installation of a period-accurate cabinet of curiosities at the Musee Oceanographique de Monaco during my semester abroad!
With that in mind, it’s no wonder that I spent what felt like hours in Dion’s The Octagon Room at Mass MOCA, an installation which basically encapsulates all my wildest dreams for my future home. In this full-size, contemporary kunstkammer, books on a variety of subjects lie precariously on slanted shelves, drawers overflow with shells and specimens and sketches of dinosaurs, and viewers are invited to open every door and touch every object as they explore the space.
Although the moral of this post appears to be something along the lines of “Wow, Keely is really obsessed with museums and bad at concision,” there’s something more significant I want to share that’s been on my mind constantly during most of August.
While I have always loved visiting museums and enjoying art, the thought of majoring in art history hadn’t even occurred to me as I began my college search. Ultimately, it was my time at Cornell–specifically, my experiences as a docent and intern the Johnson–that set me on the path towards a career that is deeply satisfying and fulfilling for me in a way that I feared I would never experience in my professional life. As the semester begins and I start meeting my interns and the students participating in the docent program I’ll be coordinating this year, I can only hope to give back to the next generation of artsy college students by inspiring them in the same way that the Johnson’s education staff inspired me.
(And in the meantime, I am also considering giving back to the Johnson in other ways–the “Giving at Cornell” site suggests that the Johnson needs funds to secure better light bulbs, but I’m personally hoping for an endowment drive to give that poor museum an elevator that lacks the volatility of a supernova…)
As I begin my second official post as an post-grad blogger, I feel the need to make a very important confession. For the past three years, I’ve no doubt that all of my readers have been under the impression that I am, in fact, a normal, human college student–and I’d like to make it very clear to you that I’m actually a Tiktaalik, a Devonian era sort-of-fish-dude who rather embodies the evolutionary transition from marine to terrestrial life.
Or, at least, that’s how my first two weeks at my new job have made me feel!
You don’t intern at a museum for three years without getting extremely well acquainted with the quotidian goings-on of the average education office. During my time at the Johnson, I watched as my supervisors and co-workers planned outreach projects, coordinated massive public programs, and dealt with literal scores of visiting middle schoolers in a single day. Because of my internship, I was, of course, inevitably involved in all these events: but always as an eager assistant only.
Still, I didn’t expect starting my new career–as an educator at another university museum, in case you missed my most recent post–to involve so many moments of clarity and joyous astonishment. In the four years in which I played a role at the Johnson, I helped (in my own small way!) the staff members to implement programming and outreach that always had a positive impact on the community members it affected. When I received my first major event-planning assignment last week, I was surprised to find myself almost getting legitimate chills of excitement: I’m intern no more, and it’s amazing! Transforming from a student to a real educator who might just be able to effect some small but notable change in the museum world or local community is a feeling like nothing else in the world–with the exception, maybe, of sliding up on land for the first time and stretching out your soggy almost-tetrapod-leg fins.
Well, that really got away from me, didn’t it?
In the interest of preventing any more mawkish evolution metaphors, I’ll close with a few stray observations about the early stages of transitioning from big-college-student to small-college-staff-member:
- My greatest secret fear about starting work at a small liberal arts school was that I’d never see the inside of a “music library” again–yet I was delighted to discover that my new college does, in fact, boast a comprehensive collection of scores and recordings in addition to its more traditional library. (And if this music library can beat Cornell’s pitiful lack of panpipe scholarship, I may have to question my previously unshakeable loyalty to the Cox….)
- Unsurprisingly, everyone with whom I have the awkward small-talk duty of sharing my life’s story always reacts to my mention of Cornell with some stereotypical wailing about the weather: Ithaca’s legacy stretches far and wide, it seems.
- It takes approximately three or four minutes to walk from practically anywhere on campus into town–and although I appreciate the relative proximity of local restaurants, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t missing CTB and falafel from Aladdin’s like nobody’s business.
- Having a museum education job is like working as a university academic and a kindergarten teacher at the same time (and I wouldn’t have it any other way!)
- HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS WITHOUT THE CLOCK TOWER JUBILANTLY SOUNDING EVERY FIFTEEN MINUTES?
- Library Update #2: Apparently, staff members like me can check out books for a year at a time. This, to me, is a privilege equivalent to earning a six-figure salary. I have already assembled a massive collection of fabulist novels, typography books, and catalogues of Pre-Columbian Mesoamerican art and can’t believe that I can keep reading them
, adoring them, and rearranging them on my shelf while speaking to them in a Gollum voiceuntil 2015.
Finally, no matter how many ridiculous blazers and strings of pearls I wear (or boring, un-youthful character traits I embody), I am inevitably mistaken for a college sophomore or junior.
I guess evolution really does take time.
(Yes, I’m terrible, but I promise next month’s post will be Tiktaalik-free! (Unlike TV’s Orphan Black, I do not intend on referencing Darwin with every update from here on out.) But in the spirit of delightful inhabitants of the Devonian, here’s a little song to play you off.)
“So what are you going to do for a living?”
A quick read through Sarr Above the Busy Humming’s archives will prove that this question–the words of well-meaning acquaintances and small-talking strangers–has been tormenting me since my freshman year. As graduation grew closer and closer and I remained unsure of my future, I was forced to develop a kind of generic elevator speech to appease the masses.
“Well, my ideal career would involve museum education,” I’d tell the dentist, the hairdresser at MasterCuts, or the strangely talkative weirdo sitting next to me on my flight back to the Islands, “but I’m also exploring the broader field of arts education and outreach until I find the perfect match.” As post-grad career blurbs go, it served its purpose well, and saved me from tired jokes about teachers’ woeful salaries and the way in which art history majors are doomed to work only at fast food restaurants.
About a month ago, however, everything changed. After years of hearing about the dismal job prospects in the art world and the impossibility of supporting one’s self on an educator’s salary, I was finally able to look the bellhop, the airport taxi driver, or the distant relative in the eye, smile, and boast that I’d accepted the job of my dreams.
For the next few years, I will be working as an educator at the on-campus museum of a small liberal arts college–in other words, the non-Ithaca equivalent of my beloved Johnson Museum. Just like I did during my Johnson internship, in fact, I’ll get to give tours, help coordinate class visits, and brainstorm new ways to reach out to the nearby community: and I’ll be able to do it all full time!
Of course, perhaps you’re reading this and thinking to yourself something along the lines of “Nice humble-brag, Keely, but why bother posting it? DIDN’T YOU GRADUATE? Hasn’t Sarr Above the Busy Humming faded quietly into the west already?”
Well, friend, I’m afraid this blog has a little more staying power than that.
(In other words: from the ashes a fire shall totally be woken.)
I’ve been invited to continue blogging as I transition from college student to college employee, allowing alumni, prospective students, and those Facebook “friends” who never speak to me (but still click on all the blog links I post?!?) to follow along on this particular Cornellian’s journey into the workforce. I’ll probably post monthly recaps of such adventures as adapting to life on a comparatively tiny campus (you mean there’s only one library?), navigating the hazards of driving in the snow for the first time (not everywhere’s as walkable as Ithaca!), and discovering how well Cornell’s curriculum prepared me for a museum career.
(Also, I get my own office, which I miiiight mention proudly from time to time.)
I realized recently that I neglected to post about graduation–in all honesty, the experience is such an indescribable whirlwind of crowds and noise and family happiness that I probably couldn’t really capture it in a few hundred words.
I will say this: in that moment when you enter Schoellkopf with your bizarre cap and borrowed, sweaty bat-robes, surrounded by a handful of friends and veritable thousands of people you’ve never met, it’s tempting to feel utterly inconsequential. Looking out at the genuine masses of people in the bleachers might make a graduate feel like the tiny “You are here!” dot on one of those maps of the universe that every curious kid had on his or her bedroom wall in the 90s.
Yet even if universe maps often lead me into states of existential angst, it’s ultimately amazing to get a sense of the scale of the world (or galaxy, or college community) around you (a sentiment that my ol’ buddies Fleet Foxes express even more eloquently in the first verse of one of my favorite songs of all time).
That drivel above is really supposed to suggest that while this blog is about my story, there’s a veritable cosmos of Cornellians out there who are embarking on their own different postgrad quests at the same time–and there’s something kind of fantastic about that. So to any ’14ers out there who might happen upon this blog, you’re in my thoughts: and please chime in if you wish!
To everyone else: stop by again in July to hear about my first day of not school!
Every time I visit New York City, I become convinced that I’d much rather (simply) walk into Mordor than make my way around NYC by myself. Combining the crowds and aggressive street hawkers of Waikiki with nightmarish traffic, a subway system that inevitably reminds me of the Morlocks from The Time Machine, and an inescapable industrial sprawl dominating the landscape, New York has a lot to terrify an introverted country girl who grew up in the middle of the Hawaiian rainforest.
Unlike the tourist traps in Waikiki (or Mordor, for that matter), though, New York City’s incredible museums will probably keep luring me back for years to come. Various Cornell departments often sponsor whirlwind trips to one particular NYC museum or attraction for the overwhelming cost of about ten bucks: I visited the MoMA through such a scheme as a freshman, and yesterday, I took part in a similar trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Though I signed up as an independent participant, the trip was really intended for students in specific classics/art history classes. Consequently, I was left on my own in the labyrinthine museum–which was, actually, the best situation imaginable. Like Mr. Incredible, I “work alone,” but while the suburban superhero probably would’ve spent all this time admiring the muscles on those classical statues, I had a lot of thesis research to get done.
The last time I visited the Met, I was really into Asian art, so I don’t think I even stopped by its pre-Columbian Latin American galleries. On yesterday’s trip, then, my first priority was a visit to the “Arts of Africa, Oceania, and the Americas,” a surprisingly popular museological category wherein the artistic traditions of three continents, countless islands, and thousands of years are often flung together behind glass cases in dimly-lit galleries.
At least, that’s what pop culture studies scholar Keely Sarr, Honors Candidate in the History of Art would say. Normal art fan Keely was too busy marvelling over the fact that Maya stelae and Peruvian goldwork were right in front of her to get too hung up on issues of coloniality.
From a curatorial perspective, the most visually stunning gallery in this whole section is the Jan Mitchell Treasury. The name’s not just an attempt at pretension: entering this space is like walking into the hoard of some exceptionally meticulous dragon.
The weird thing about these one-day trips, of course, is that they strangely involve spending about eight hours at the institution in question. I may be one of the most museum-crazy people out there, but even I encounter the dreaded “museum fatigue” after hours of staring at objects and trying to figure out why I keep going in circles through the European decorative arts gallery: seriously, it seems like all roads lead to rococo down there on the first floor.
(Also, does anyone even really like the opulence of seventeenth-century furniture and tapestries? If you do, let me know so I can try my best to ensure that we are never roommates.)
Since my research ended up taking all of about an hour and a half (most of which, let’s be honest, was spent trying and failing to take a decent selfie with the Met’s version of the Kunz Axe), I had ample time to explore galleries unrelated to my thesis as well. After spending so much time lost amid Savonnerie carpets, I decided to change things up in the Islamic wing. Eat your heart out, Doris Duke!
All of this, however, was merely an attempt to delay my inevitable emotional encounter with 19th-century landscape paintings. As readers of this blog likely already know, the “Western canon” of art has never been of much interest to me. I delight in studying everything from Southeast Asian shadow puppetry to Peruvian featherwork, but you’ll never find me excited about an ancient Greek amphora or a Tiepolo.
The only thing in the Eurocentric art tradition that brings me a kind of transcendental joy, however, is Hudson River School and British Romantic landscape painting. The average museum-goer could probably see every object in the Met at least thrice by the time I tired of staring at a single well-crafted landscape. Such transportative works make me want to fall to my knees and weep like I were a pilgrim viewing a Byzantine relic instead of an overdramatic college student staring at some mountains or whatever.
(As an example, here’s a Catskills scene by William Guy Wall that’s probably my favorite piece at the Honolulu Museum of Art (second only to the indescribable “Young Boy With Whip“).)
Alas, how Fortune frowns upon landscape fans! As of yesterday, the entire American wing is apparently closed for reasons unknown. Each potential entrance to the wing featured a sign commanding visitors to try the other two entrances, leading me to draw the conclusion that the agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (spoiler alert: or Hydra?!?!) must have been conducting an investigation of Civil War portraiture.
When I attempted to mend my broken heart by tracking down some British Romanticism, I stumbled through ceaseless rooms of neck ruffs and tackily-painted crucifixion scenes for what felt like hours before finally calming down with the bright colors of the modern and contemporary galleries.
I hopped back on the charted Cornell bus literally twelve hours after I had first boarded it in Ithaca, and anticipated arriving back on campus around ten. Unfortunately, a motion sickness incident on board delayed us by approximately two hours, resulting in an unprecedented late-night drop-off. Any apprehension I had about walking back home after midnight was assuaged by the sheer power of my lingering disappointment: anyone who dared interfere with my journey would soon find that I was a being of pure rage, driven only by the dissatisfaction of missing a chance to view such masterpieces as Frederic Edwin Church’s The Heart of the Andes.
In the end, I made it home without incident, and found peace by remembering that I managed to nab one of my favorite books, Stealing the Mystic Lamb, in the Met’s gift shop for ten bucks.
And it’s a good thing I did, too–had I not found the book, I may have given in to my desire to purchase some extravagant reproduction of the Hudson River School painting of my choice. But it’s probably wiser to save up such money for the real thing, no?
Someday, readers. Someday.
With a mere twenty-eight days left between me and graduation, I’ve started to imagine life outside of a university context in earnest. There’s a lot I’ll miss about the oft-taxing yet occasionally rewarding world of secondary academia: how will I, for example, live without Olin’s extensive “New Reads” section, the comprehensive collection of scores in the Music Library, or the almost sickening power granted to users of Borrow Direct?
(Seriously, if there’s one ultimate message you should take away from my three years’ worth of blog posts, it’s that Cornell’s libraries are phenomenal and undoubtedly the best part of studying on the Hill.)
Strangest of all is the idea of an environment in which a cappella music is not the primary form of entertainment/social hierarchy. Back in 2011, a few friends and I founded our beloved <3 because we wanted to perform a type of eclectic niche music which, surprisingly enough, was not reflected in the repertoire of Cornell’s pre-existing 14+ a cappella ensembles. Most importantly, though, we sought to depart from the stereotypical cutthroat collegiate a cappella world humorously portrayed in last year’s musical blockbuster Pitch Perfect.
While the fictional Barton Bellas hoped to devise technically perfect routines with which to smash their competition, <3 is essentially a bunch of friends who use our love of music, geek culture, and theatricality to make people laugh. As tunefully as possible, of course.
Three years after <3–then merely four members strong–first performed, the group has grown to a twelve-woman ensemble featuring students from a variety of graduating classes (we even have a grad student!) and majors. Based on the fantastic number of new members we’ve gained over the years, I’m confident that <3 will continue to have a presence on campus after its founders graduate: but even with the promise of a bright future, I’m still sad that my last <3 concert ever has now come and gone.
Look, I’ve done theatre, speech, and an assortment of more traditional choirs, but nothing beats the pressure of preparing for an a cappella concert. Since I’m also serving as <3′s musical director this semester, our spring concert made me more aware of the challenges of preparing an ensemble for performance than ever before: in addition to learning notes/rhythm/dynamics/other useful musical things, there’s choreography to master, vowel sounds to improve, and props to coordinate!
And, weirdly enough, it’s all over in a flash. After rehearsing late into the night (well, by my early-bird standards, at least) for weeks, my last <3 concert felt like it barely lasted five minutes. As soon as we processed onto the Risley stage (singing “Vuelie” from Frozen, in case you were wondering), I was instantly completely engaged in the performance, experiencing a kind of euphoria that I hadn’t felt in months. I love singing more than basically anything (with the possible exception of Lord of the Rings and frozen yogurt), but sometimes the difficulties of drilling in rehearsal makes it easy to forget how much of a fundamentally joyful act vocal performance is.
It’s unlikely that I’ll start my postgrad life in a town or city with a strong a cappella culture, but regardless of where I end up, I know I’ll be singing somehow–even if I have to start a group of my own. Hey, it’s not like I haven’t pulled it off before!
I’ve heard a lot of unusual things in the sixth-floor conference room at the Johnson Museum.
During my very first year as an intern, I was recruited to help with a “deep listening” workshop with composer Pauline Oliveros (and, strangely enough, totally forgot about the experience until we studied Oliveros in my experimental music class and I wondered why her name sounded so familiar). Surrounded by Ithaca community members, some museum staff, and probably the entire Cornell Music faculty, I revelled in the “silence,” becoming incredibly aware of the weird melodies created by the Johnson’s notoriously volatile elevator.
I would later recreate a similar “silence” every time I found myself alone in the conference room (usually whilst performing the glamorous task of stocking the sinister metallic super-fridge with countless liters of soda for an upcoming event). Being by yourself up there is both eerie and meditative: the wide windows show off miles of blue lake, the wind wails out Meredith Monk-like vocalizations, and any lone intern/guard/staff member who dares enter will undoubtedly feel lost in a space outside of time, where all the activity of the lower 7+ floors is no longer relevant.
Where better, then, to stage a performance of John Cage’s Song Books?
I can safely say that this performance of some of Cage’s short vocal solos and moments of “theater” was unlike anything I had ever experienced before–and not because it reached a level of weirdness that I’m unused to seeing or hearing at a concert. In fact, what was most remarkable about New York ensemble ne(x)tworks was the contagious playfulness with which they approached their performance.
Although part of such lightheartedness was probably due to presence of a typewriter, playing cards and dominoes, glass, garage-sale price stickers, and performers who frequently fell asleep on the floor (when the score dictates, or so I’m told), the greatest energy came from the childlike creativity present in the manner that the ensemble interacted with the unique environment of the sixth floor. ne(x)tworks members dashed back and forth in the tight, enclosed space, sometimes disappearing into the sixth floor’s hidden side rooms: including the very kitchen into which I so frequently stumble with a cart full of Wegmans iced tea!
While I was rather enamoured of him at first, I would ultimately say that Cage and his music are not the coolest things I’ve encountered in my experimental music class this semester (that honor goes to Gavin Bryars’ “Sinking of the Titanic,” everything by Eliane Radigue, and Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells (which was only name-dropped in class once but still changed my life forever)). Still, experiencing an actual performance of the types of music we’ve been studying gave me a new understanding of its incredible complexity. Listening to last night’s concert without the visual/experiential component might have been interesting enough, but I would have missed so much of the piece’s theatricality and the spatial interactions between the performers.
Plus, there’s also nothing more delightful than watching the listeners at an experimental music performance. From the laid-back laughers who smile appreciatively at every clever motif to the Serious Listeners, who rest their heads on their fists and wrinkle their foreheads as though the entire experience was as mentally challenging as a Sunday crossword puzzle, there’s always something interesting to see amongst one’s fellow audience members.
(And which variety of listener am I? Well, if you ever happen to see me at some future experimental music event, be sure to let me know!)
Exactly a year ago, I was struggling to make a very difficult decision: would rose- or Smurf-flavored gelato be the better choice for my last dessert in Nice?
Warp ahead to 2014, however, and I’m spending the afternoon of April 12 serving Cornell Dairy ice cream to the masses attending a public event at the Johnson themed around the beyond earth art exhibition. (Such are the ever-surprising and strangely fulfilling duties of an education intern.)
It’s been more than a year since my semester abroad, and I still find myself looking to the past and comparing this spring to 2013. While my few months in Edinburgh were volatile, challenging, and marked by a distinct lack of tofu, living in the States again sometimes makes me yearn for the days when breakfast meant Tesco-brand Greek yogurt, sultana scones, and blackcurrant tea; the indescribably exhilarating landscape paintings at the National Gallery were always just fifteen minutes away; and a sunny afternoon necessitated a writing/hiking trip to Arthur’s Seat.
Naturally, this inescapable nostalgia ensures that my need for abroad-related activities is basically insatiable: ergo, I was absolutely delighted to hear that one of my Scotland pictures had been accepted into CU Abroad’s photography exhibition.
You’d normally never catch me traveling to Willard Straight in the afternoon. Ho Plaza is constantly aswarm with quarter-carders, and I prefer to walk without having tiny, wasteful scraps of paper thrown in my general direction by poor souls who probably have to publicize their concert/protest/auto-da-fe in order to stay on their clubs’ E-boards and keep that resume looking right fit.
But let’s save my anti-quarter-card rants for another post, shall we? In any case, I plotted a course designed to minimize potential Ho Plaza encounters and attempted to enjoy the rare and lovely sunshine on the trek over.
The exhibition is currently up in Willard Straight Art gallery, located on the far side of the building near the bathrooms that probably predate the Ishtar Gate.
Really, it’s just a conference room like any other, but I appreciate the attempt to legitimize its gallery status by including a sign (though they would do well to consider redesigning the lettering with Comic Neue).
Students were invited to submit photographs back in the fall: and since we sent in digital copies instead of mounted images or something, I wondered how they were going to display the photos. Surely just printing them out and sticking them on construction paper would be too simple?
The no-frills presentation was actually all right, though, because the pictures themselves were glorious. The photos were sorted into a number of travel-appropriate categories (e.g. Animals, Culture, Exceptionally Sketchy Hostels), and I was surprised to find my name in the Architecture section. The email from CU Abroad merely informed me (“Dear Student“) that “one of [my] photo(s)” had been selected for the exhibition, so I assumed they picked one of my brighter, happier landscapes. Or, you know, a shot of a Highland cow or something.
Still, it was this ominous Princes Street scene that finally made it in, and I do have to admit that even my least favorite castle looks pretty cool from this angle.
Ultimately, I was surprised to discover that looking at my peers’ photographs provided a surprisingly good cure for my nostalgia. Now, of course, I’m wishing that I could travel to Patagonia and the coasts of Ireland and Morocco instead of spending so much time dreaming about Edinburgh.
How much longer ’til graduation again?
(P.S. I usually don’t like unnecessarily explaining the references in my post titles, but if “Pictures at an exhibition” means nothing to you, give this a listen. If you prefer classical sounds, Mussorgsky’s original might be more your style, but I personally feel that the ELP version is genuinely life-changing.)
As I type this post, a pair of dragon candlesticks stand merely inches away from my Mac. Although I’ve since expanded my personal style from “trying-too-hard sorceress chic,” I can promise you that at least 70% of the clothes and jewelry I wore as a middle-schooler were decorated with some kind of mystical serpent. For preteen Keely (and, let’s be honest, present-day Keely too), dragons were the coolest because they embodied the strength of wisdom and the persistence of imagination.
(Plus they had wings and any number of desirable elemental powers.)
And yet even with such a proud history of obsessing over dragons, today marked the first–and, sadly, last–Dragon Day I’ve experienced during my four years at Cornell.
Since Dragon Day is typically held on the Friday before spring break begins, it’s easy to see how many people end up inadvertently skipping the event each year. As a freshman, I spent Dragon Day bussing to Canada for the CU Chorus’ spring tour; sophomore year found me hopping the Greyhound to New York City, and last year I was, well, kind of in London.
Consequently, this March was my final opportunity to catch a sight of an on-campus dragon: and my inner thirteen-year-old was going crazy trying to imagine what the creature could possibly look like.
Well, “something designed by Donald Judd (or any other Minimalist artist)” was not my first guess, and I would’ve preferred a dragon that wasn’t composed of metallic geometric shapes, but hey–it’s still better than Peter Jackson’s disappointingly bland interpretation of Smaug.
The beast began slouching towards its inevitable demise near Rand and Milstein. Unnerved by the costumed revellers (particularly those bearing large effigies of various controversial popular figures–wouldn’t you run away from the disembodied head of Paula Deen taped to a stick?), I perched on an adjacent hillside near the Physical Sciences Building to observe the proceedings from a manageable distance.
Traditional rivals to the dragon usually only include the Theatre, Film, & Dance knight and the engineers’ phoenix. This year’s festivities were also graced by the presence of an admirably purple and pinata-esque unicorn: the brainchild, I believe, of physics majors who decided to prove that the engineers and the architects aren’t the only folks on campus who know how to build things.
Though the vacant eyes of this My Enormous Pony were a bit uncanny, I did appreciate the flash of color competing with the dragon’s silvery skin (which looked a little too much like the many lost Mylar balloons of my childhood).
Although this picture makes the phoenix appear to fall into the “robot chicken” category, I can assure you that it was much more impressive in person–the eyes even glowed brighter than the bizarrely pink lights on the inside of a night-running TCAT bus.
I guess that means I’m Team Phoenix?
As much as minimalism is not my cup of tea, however, I should emphasize that I don’t mean to disparage the dragon’s design in any way. The abstract serpent won my representationalist heart when it boldly flapped its wings for the first time in front of Willard Straight.
In fact, by the time it reached its entirely symbolic funeral pyre on the Arts Quad (since the days of actual dragon-burning have been banned in this glorious modern era), I was almost a little sad to see the guy go. Still screaming nonsensical syllables occasionally punctuated with the cry of “DRAGON!,” the architects climbed their creation as though it were a particularly lengthy set of monkey bars and tore every last scrap of Mylar skin from its skeleton. After running about in a whirling, maddening, and completely inexplicable dance, the celebrants retreated back to Rand, leaving first-timers like me breathless and utterly confused by the somewhat Dada ceremony that had just taken place.
Inscrutable as the festivities were, however, Dragon Day exceeded my expectations immensely. I’d been told that the dragon-filled afternoon was a kind of “slightly less drunk Slope Day.” To my surprise, the crowd wasn’t that enormous and the clientele was (mostly) well-behaved. Families brought children (in costumes!), Real Non-College People came with their adorable dogs and big-lens cameras, and the entire experience had that kind of delightfully quaint esotericism usually found only in well-planned Renaissance fairs and vaguely ritualistic small-town festivals.
Now that I’ve enjoyed one essential Cornell tradition, of course, am I finally going to give Slope Day a try this year? Sorry, Matt & Kim and Ludacris–you’d need to have the Moody Blues, Colin Meloy, and a magically resurrected John Cage as your opening acts in order to get me on the Slope on that fatal day in May.
One of the most exciting aspects of Cornell is the way in which it’s constantly growing and changing (distinctly unlike the current season of Once Upon a Time). Forgive me if I’ve mentioned this before, but during my time here, I’ve seen the rise of Milstein Hall and the new Physical Sciences Building, a complete redevelopment of the Law School, and, of course, the addition of a spacious wing (with great acoustics and a beautiful Japanese garden!) to the Johnson Museum.
The flip side of this thrilling state of flux? Construction.
In case you’ve never been cursed with the misery of experiencing class in a room with boarded-up windows and the constant sound of machinery thumping about outside, the following figures from various pieces in the Western art historical canon (including the masterwork I’ve nicknamed “Simone Martini’s Cranky Pre-Teen Christ”) are here to help summarize my feelings on the subject.
Here’s the thing you have to understand about studying the humanities at this institution–it’s highly likely that almost all of your classes will be in Goldwin Smith Hall. Now, I’m certainly not complaining about that: GWS was designed to serve as a kind of “temple to knowledge,” and its gorgeous architecture and prominent display of pieces from Cornell’s plaster cast collection sure beats a more austere design.
This semester, however, my initial joy at having multiple classes in a row in Goldwin Smith has been replaced with a sort of quiet fury, and it’s all thanks to the Klarman Hall construction project.
In the abstract, I am undoubtedly in favor of the new humanities building (slated to open in 2015), and I’m glad Cornell is showing their commitment to more sustainable building initiatives by seeking to make Klarman LEED Platinum Certified. The sleek modern design is a little too 2001: A Space Odyssey for my old-fashioned tastes, but I’m confident that the completion of Klarman will vastly improve the academic environment for Arts & Sciences students.
If only I were going to be around to see it finished!
For the time being, though, the embryonic Klarman is manifest only in windowless GWS rooms and, on occasion inescapable pounding sounds drowning out any student or professor who dares to use class time as an opportunity to, you know, speak. (Can you tell that two of my classes are held in the single classroom that is perhaps closest to the construction of all the Goldwin Smith spaces, and that noise has been an issue for the past few days?)
On a more positive note, perhaps the inevitable sonic consequences of construction are offering a rare opportunity to apply what I’ve learned in my Experimental Music class to a real-world situation! Instead of groaning and plugging my ears the next time a hammer or whatnot drowns out my learning experience, perhaps I should break out my equipment and make a field recording…
I am absolutely convinced that there’s money to be made in “Mainland winter tours” catered to visitors from Hawai’i (or, honestly, anyone from a warmer clime with no seasons besides “warm and rainy” and “warm and dry”). I’m not even talking about skiing trips, or snowboarding, or any other traditional winter activity typically unknown to those of us from vaguely tropical areas. As much as I’d love to someday unlock the mysteries of cold-weather sports, I would be perfectly happy just to spend a brief holiday marvelling at the weird stuff that happens to the world when things get cold–and, of course, when everything starts to warm up in the spring.
A few months ago, I posted a photo-journey of my walk around campus during a fresh December snowfall: and I’m sure I documented the veritable Himalayas that grow in the RPPC parking lot as soon as Facilities clears the roads. Well, in case you’ve been anxiously awaiting an update on the Cornell Alps, here’s what happens to these fascinating mountains in meltier circumstances.
On this particular day, there was hardly a speck of snow to be found anywhere except on these manmade mountains. Even at 45 degrees, I could plant my flag on the top of this dude and secede from the United States and still have ample space to fortify my one-person nation.
(At least until we hit the 50s and 60s, naturally.)
This obligatory shot of the falls near Beebe Lake, on the other hand, demonstrates one aspect of spring that I despise: dirty snow.
See those hideous ashen streaks spoiling this frozen cascade? Dear Mainlanders, how and why does this happen? In any case, whenever I see masses of grey snow mottling the campus, I feel like I’m in Mordor instead of upstate New York.
Although Beebe Lake is often my favorite place for a meditative walk, it’s certainly not the only lake in Ithaca. Normally, I do literally remain “far above Cayuga’s waters,” but since visiting family provided me with access to a car last weekend (o wonder of wonders!), I was able to see frozen Cayuga Lake up close for the first time in my years at Cornell.
Standing on a dock overlooking a flat expanse of ice that stretches as far as the eye can see is an uncanny but somehow transcendental experience for someone as unfamiliar with winter as I am. Iced-over Cayuga Lake will never compare to the feeling of standing at the top ridge of Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh and catching a glimpse of the seemingly infinite Highland mountains that appear to be from another polar dimension: but I’ll take what I can get.
(Since I’ve had Antarctica on my mind a lot recently (what, haven’t you?), I’ve also found myself using “glacial” to describe the musical qualities of a couple of songs I’ve been listening to–so here’s one to play you off! Last week I had to complete a Wiki entry on electronic musician Eliane Radigue for my Experimental Music class, and I can’t think of anything that better epitomizes my newly invented genre of “polar music” than the haunting drones of her ARP 2500 synthesizer.)