tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28738066979662995922024-03-05T01:14:44.763-08:00A Month at the MetIn September 2010 I will visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art every day and write a poem.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-12219430176855426942011-05-21T07:04:00.000-07:002011-05-21T07:28:33.370-07:00UpdatesA Month at the Met is long over. I have returned to the museum often, but not to write. However the experiment has had a lasting effect on my writing in other ways, for example I now often write poems in a notebook instead of on my laptop.<br />
<br />
Seven of the poems originally written as part of the project, were revised and have been published since September. I have removed them from the blog, as part of that process. However links to many of my published poems can be found on my website, <a href="http://www.caitlinthomson.com/">www.caitlinthomson.com</a>. Also as the summer approaches, I am gearing up for a new project called a Month at MoMA. More details are available on the website and it will be continued to be updated over the next few months, so keep an eye out.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-54228914596465894482010-09-30T11:13:00.000-07:002011-05-21T07:23:09.483-07:00September 30th<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgZx9gpHFS5QuYS1vomwIY_P_UVWxnXf7opHKZGQCbVqz1BkJpu17v2iYPKI_3Zds4k00qJsWjoj_QDNE0JRbcHZE-5n9rjQH0hiooshJOAP1Cqu7nG12VeU0ckTFAPKdVP_LKYKTmfe0/s1600/1285854180812.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgZx9gpHFS5QuYS1vomwIY_P_UVWxnXf7opHKZGQCbVqz1BkJpu17v2iYPKI_3Zds4k00qJsWjoj_QDNE0JRbcHZE-5n9rjQH0hiooshJOAP1Cqu7nG12VeU0ckTFAPKdVP_LKYKTmfe0/s320/1285854180812.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br />
This is the last day. I am not ready for this to be over, and yet I am. Tonight I will attend a Gaslight Anthem concert, wake up leisurely in the morning, write in the afternoon at Four and Twenty Blackbirds (they have the most excellent pie) with Jacob and attend a New Yorker Festival panel involving Dave Eggers. Nowhere in that equation will I have to attend the Met, I will in no way be obligated to post anything on the internet. Although on Saturday I will be back at the Met with my friend Fawaz, who is visiting from California. I am going to be missing the Met already by then, I suspect.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Today was uneventful. I arrived early just as things were opening up. The Museum had very few visitors but there was a fair amount of staff moving and dusting pieces. I walked around a bit, spending most of my time in Arms and Armor (where there is no seating, unfortunately) before writing in the medieval section.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjki1OYGTTBdkmxJ3r80dmXU45bifhgAsVE5FYMCPyAf039TjZ40MWs8LqClKTn3w5igJ_PNbolIK27NyjO1z4M4ZixITA2DiupDHXB5CLcAdMwnrdOAviDcy6-WHucYMepsBLIccZbVfI/s1600/1285854442857.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjki1OYGTTBdkmxJ3r80dmXU45bifhgAsVE5FYMCPyAf039TjZ40MWs8LqClKTn3w5igJ_PNbolIK27NyjO1z4M4ZixITA2DiupDHXB5CLcAdMwnrdOAviDcy6-WHucYMepsBLIccZbVfI/s320/1285854442857.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">Sakura (<i>Prunus serrulata)</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">You laugh uptown. The man<br />
we only know about now,<br />
by your side with his American smile.<br />
The white of teeth from a mid-teen bleach.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">In photographs you are altered, </div><div style="text-align: left;">no longer my twin by sight,</div><div style="text-align: left;">in that bed, hair shaved. </div><div style="text-align: left;">eyes narrowed from lack of sleep.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Factors</span><br />
Day of the Week: Thursday<br />
Occupancy of the Museum: Empty<br />
Arrived at: 9:30<br />
Departed at: 10:45<br />
Read on Commute: Finished <i>Made to Stick</i> by Chip and Dan Heath which I recommend. <br />
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</div>Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-53384636066364160712010-09-29T20:21:00.000-07:002011-05-21T07:27:15.833-07:00Statistics<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhprQubTSgEsuzl8HozonxfHU3DLxqdiOTBGQfdGjv16MecH23gwU4aoN13-frboxMq8MObSqRuZlhYogn-8XiOp2resToq9f7a2qgix5FN8nB-Ep3WmSg8tDXdOIiAgwr7v-JTECbKbhA/s1600/book+and+seat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhprQubTSgEsuzl8HozonxfHU3DLxqdiOTBGQfdGjv16MecH23gwU4aoN13-frboxMq8MObSqRuZlhYogn-8XiOp2resToq9f7a2qgix5FN8nB-Ep3WmSg8tDXdOIiAgwr7v-JTECbKbhA/s320/book+and+seat.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Not to reduce a poetry project to numbers but here are some numbers that are relevant to this project. I had many readers from 12 different countries, 17 states, and 3 provinces. <br />
<br />
Notebooks: 3<br />
Average number of poems written per day: 4<br />
Percentage of time the first poem I wrote was the one I posted: 50% <br />
Average time spent on commute each day: 2 hours<br />
Guest Writers: 16<br />
Number of Met ticket/pins collected: 27<br />
Amount of time spent on writing the blog entry each day: 30 Minutes<br />
Average amount of time spent on this project each day: 5 hoursCaitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-11138941031990344882010-09-29T20:10:00.000-07:002011-05-21T07:32:24.666-07:00September 29th<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_mEbVDF0ygt3TfFg5nDAYBMSWSM-p59GJUNTA_pjn0FJAEQcWmNbzN1kBvV6eQBEAIyLZfgKccl83i7ka0jWeIRRpK2ZJ-rTXkKQDE1YhXDXElxiP0hnPT6TXtf1TkawLh_zDAHJ1Gq4/s1600/1285779967069.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_mEbVDF0ygt3TfFg5nDAYBMSWSM-p59GJUNTA_pjn0FJAEQcWmNbzN1kBvV6eQBEAIyLZfgKccl83i7ka0jWeIRRpK2ZJ-rTXkKQDE1YhXDXElxiP0hnPT6TXtf1TkawLh_zDAHJ1Gq4/s320/1285779967069.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Tomorrow is my last day at the Met. I will return there and write, I may even post those poems but I will never again visit the Met on a daily basis. As thrilled as I am to have some more free time and less of a commute I must say this saddens me. This experiment has been successful and far more enjoyable then I expected, due in part to creative blessings, the Met itself, and the many lovely guest writers. <br />
<br />
Today I went to the Japanese portion of the Asian wing. It was quiet, peaceful, and empty.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihEgkJOQ_jTcjIC9tOHAC10vjLIO-izzfHNQ9RSIvTVHeI6YVKes8GiuRLOqfTf5HAlwEswzBlgpx0JS3PZ5UUD4tP4BlubggyFQp5SsMTmwK3r8fhWC7nK8qV0mbjqkRfQiU6uzwbGQY/s1600/1285780029128.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihEgkJOQ_jTcjIC9tOHAC10vjLIO-izzfHNQ9RSIvTVHeI6YVKes8GiuRLOqfTf5HAlwEswzBlgpx0JS3PZ5UUD4tP4BlubggyFQp5SsMTmwK3r8fhWC7nK8qV0mbjqkRfQiU6uzwbGQY/s320/1285780029128.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
Five Miles to the Nearest Town<br />
<br />
It was not a devastation<br />
for us. No hammock vanishing husband,<br />
or mid lake misplacement of our sons. <br />
The house, bricks interconnected<br />
and standing, three stories tall. <br />
<br />
Of course we lost the stars,<br />
but we had this luxury of space,<br />
of still surrounding ourselves with my grandmothers<br />
books and his fathers hunting riffles.<br />
<br />
At first the boys left only for a day<br />
up river, some camping trips,<br />
normal for their age, this wild country.<br />
<br />
Then it was weeks and they'd come<br />
home uncomfortable in clothes,<br />
barefoot, dark, pleased by grime. <br />
<br />
Now, I sometimes hear footsteps<br />
on the floor above me, wish it to be them,<br />
but I see only the clothes, the book's,<br />
a quilt they left behind, a year ago now.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Factors</span><br />
Day of the Week: Wednesday<br />
Occupancy of the Museum: Moderately busy<br />
Arrived at: 12:30<br />
Departed at: 1:45<br />
Read on Commute: Rouges Gallery by <a class="new" href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1469347616" title="Rogues' Gallery: The Secret History of the Moguls and the Money That Made the Metropolitan Museum (page does not exist)"></a>Michael Gross, which is an unauthorized, controversial book on the history of the Met. So far I am not impressed.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-10748779092751489842010-09-28T14:14:00.000-07:002011-05-21T07:35:07.484-07:00September 28th<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDIwvgz_csX7z93WCQvilb3O-ZMVn1Usc_Hs7VsbZz8xcLE3TAZL8OP1E91D0VOGDpeYwPYubMfrdnYVJ2BilqhZqFIeI8uQPxmQ_gDxtWf0K3qZYBW1PZaeQ95og7_fZJv9oaSgzUrpY/s1600/1285682404180.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDIwvgz_csX7z93WCQvilb3O-ZMVn1Usc_Hs7VsbZz8xcLE3TAZL8OP1E91D0VOGDpeYwPYubMfrdnYVJ2BilqhZqFIeI8uQPxmQ_gDxtWf0K3qZYBW1PZaeQ95og7_fZJv9oaSgzUrpY/s320/1285682404180.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br />
On Friday Hossannah and I drifted into the Robert Lehman collection, a hodge podge of European decorative arts, Goya, El Greco, Botticelli Impressionism, post impressionism, enamels, and bronze. I had been there before, when part of the Atrium had been taken over for a special exhibit, however I had never ventured further in. I was a little surprised by the tone of the section, it is much less polished then the rest of the museum, and there really is no centralizing theme. After doing a little digging I discovered that the Lehman foundation donated close to 3,000 works of art to the museum and that his wing is supposed to feel like a museum within a museum. It is supposed to evoke the interior of Lehmans townhouse, and reflects his personal taste preferences. When it first opened the Lehman wing received mix reviews. <br />
<br />
I wrote on a sofa that would have seemed more at home in Starbucks and I must say it was a lot more comfortable then the standard issue Met bench. I could not help but notice that the vast majority of the visitors to this section were Eastern European tourists.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Ginkgo (<i>Ginkgo biloba)</i><br />
<br />
Next to the stone,<br />
<i> </i>a paper crane, gifted<br />
folds, indented finger prints,<br />
<br />
a signature felt by the palm of my hand,<br />
ledge of window, light<br />
touches objects, grants them<br />
a momentary gold.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Factors</span><br />
Day of the Week: Tuesday<br />
Occupancy of the Museum: Not very Busy<br />
Arrived at: 9:30<br />
Departed at: 11:00<br />
Read on Commute: <i> Cider House Rules </i>(better) by John Irving, and <i>Made to Stick</i> (good) by Chip and Dan HeathCaitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-31579116349126753792010-09-27T17:35:00.000-07:002011-05-21T07:37:25.621-07:00September 27th<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP6XSTJdcA630DfBZw0c0w6-hUJfd4XcMZ-vZSx_MzNpDQXBNS1OccAx9BvuEMSmVw0pR5xGIiNDnImdtfVFK4NHb1DGpYWyhv5pkSgk_DXGC2QRtHFkvnrXTJk6iAwkG-IhZtzexUo7Y/s1600/1285615052036.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP6XSTJdcA630DfBZw0c0w6-hUJfd4XcMZ-vZSx_MzNpDQXBNS1OccAx9BvuEMSmVw0pR5xGIiNDnImdtfVFK4NHb1DGpYWyhv5pkSgk_DXGC2QRtHFkvnrXTJk6iAwkG-IhZtzexUo7Y/s320/1285615052036.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Since I came up with this project in July, a certain friend has been saying that one of the Monday's at the Met better be rainy so that I would have to write outside underneath an umbrella. I teased back that if that happened he would have to come with me and hold the umbrella while I wrote. Today it rained. All day. However I did not carry through with my threat and I wrote outside on a wet bench all on my own. I checked an hourly forecast before I left and so had scheduled my writing period to coincide with what was supposed to be the least rain filled part of the day. It really wasn't that bad at first just a little drizzle, although by the time I left it had worsened.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE4MLaI_4995L6Hfg1nM5SxH0XobFJjyD_BpyfTq-Nt-i34D-EDXKWagiOxwKKPMisKhR6GKH1brsmICLR9UK5DYtz8S8hrdI0Vu8n7Wq2pwFi8EFXoI3wVgQSZ7p4TBX83M97AwJMJ9I/s1600/bench.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE4MLaI_4995L6Hfg1nM5SxH0XobFJjyD_BpyfTq-Nt-i34D-EDXKWagiOxwKKPMisKhR6GKH1brsmICLR9UK5DYtz8S8hrdI0Vu8n7Wq2pwFi8EFXoI3wVgQSZ7p4TBX83M97AwJMJ9I/s320/bench.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Kingdom Without a Monarch <br />
<br />
The Midtown fog<br />
has developed feelings<br />
for the Plaza, <br />
<br />
affection for the Central<br />
Park Zoo. Pigeons pass<br />
the Met, dip beaks into puddles.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
Ladies do not come out<br />
in the rain. Watch it<br />
through binocular's,<br />
order a cab.<br />
<br />
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<b>Factors</b><br />
Day of the Week: Monday<br />
Weather: Rainy <br />
Arrived at: 3:00<br />
Departed at: 4:00<br />
Read on Commute: <i> Cider House Rules</i> by John Irving (improving, maybe?)Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-84826101453988869602010-09-27T16:52:00.000-07:002010-09-27T16:52:58.663-07:00September 26: Lane Falcon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZreaYkcfajIPsy84JdJiuiaIDdh0g6rlcUGBb2DM-IhWdXMNwAasQgSXzAv6-J8_HFORmUQ8iwYIFxUbadu8UyjZRnVt46h3XAOxMJM5xyS6ISr02wdQBxxiGD3_4CrvnvBSy3-AdqiM/s1600/Lane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZreaYkcfajIPsy84JdJiuiaIDdh0g6rlcUGBb2DM-IhWdXMNwAasQgSXzAv6-J8_HFORmUQ8iwYIFxUbadu8UyjZRnVt46h3XAOxMJM5xyS6ISr02wdQBxxiGD3_4CrvnvBSy3-AdqiM/s320/Lane.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
My dear friend Lane Falcon is in her final year at Sarah Lawrence in poetry although she's managed to cover a fair amount of fiction as well. Her poem and observations follow.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;"><b><u>Jackson Pollack’s “Autumn Rhythm”</u></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">To him, to live </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">was to be entwined— to stand outside </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">that nest of rusted wire</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: small;">was to die. </span><br />
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<b>Observations</b><br />
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As usual, lovely to see Caitlin, with whom I can talk in tongues about art and poems and people. Going to The Met made me want to get fired from my job and collect unemployment for a few months, like my sister. If only we were allowed to drink coffee in there, it would be the perfect place to hibernate. I almost ran over a couple of little old ladies but that’s nothing new and luckily no one cursed me. Caitlin seems very at home among the sculptures and canvases and, at the same time, tentative, respectful. I’ve never been so close to a Pollack painting, I don’t think. Just prior to us sitting down, I’d been telling Caitlin how I never really thought of Pollack paintings as visceral, despite something I read recently that compared his painting to the poems of Sharon Olds. His stuff always seemed so abstract to me in comparison to Sharon Olds’ version of urgency. Sitting there, though, I kept thinking how art is a metaphor for the artist’s perception of the world (duh!) and how immediate and seething his painting is. Not every emotion has a perfectly carved image to represent it. I think, in poetry, this sort of effect can be likened to the use of diction, music as opposed to image. Music is as immediate as image, right, as far as plucking at the soul strings (pun intended, but only after realizing it was there)?<br />
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</span></div>Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-19630026687067316852010-09-27T08:22:00.000-07:002010-09-27T08:53:01.323-07:00September 24: Hossannah Asuncion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitfJEROM_zFQtwiL8r7Fft9AEcEqs_ehb9lE2u8P3KxX1V6vWbAOxIZXaRHv82c14gtACkhRdDWDYo_xNTB1E9ocScbw20li3iINHrAlsBO-Fw3cFWljDgeyrDJO7enBMe4EuYOauL70w/s1600/HOSS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitfJEROM_zFQtwiL8r7Fft9AEcEqs_ehb9lE2u8P3KxX1V6vWbAOxIZXaRHv82c14gtACkhRdDWDYo_xNTB1E9ocScbw20li3iINHrAlsBO-Fw3cFWljDgeyrDJO7enBMe4EuYOauL70w/s320/HOSS.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Hossannah Asuncion, brought a recorder with her when she went the Met. Hossannah interviewed various people about their relationship to specific pieces of art and she had some interesting perspective overlap, and developing trends. Not on the specific work of art but on people's interaction with art in general. She combined these interviews with photo's and the creative process to create the following images. Click on the images to make them larger. Her observations are included bellow.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoFzjZFUA1MqM2Q9SzAFVfbzVa564wjpwpINQ0QFip3e-5kxFDnWeMk6_6HQpO8Fh7yzBt-zSZ7nlrGqvxKSConj-tCnch6c9QaGW_NHnApfLA4mI5LtuhZgG2ASHC4ggJVg7rw-ll-Ok/s1600/Joan+of+Arc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoFzjZFUA1MqM2Q9SzAFVfbzVa564wjpwpINQ0QFip3e-5kxFDnWeMk6_6HQpO8Fh7yzBt-zSZ7nlrGqvxKSConj-tCnch6c9QaGW_NHnApfLA4mI5LtuhZgG2ASHC4ggJVg7rw-ll-Ok/s320/Joan+of+Arc.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaANbHPmRXBESKOOX8_DYldfxqECceyahH8hw_JjQtlZMSHhfT6u7TNUjr6fR7sPPuOcx0BEohVDW0R5PVe5v0Y-m8hIsYKCfr_vvQnuL4Or9m7Y3Mr4bqSGc654lN2foHSJbYiVw8mLI/s1600/different.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaANbHPmRXBESKOOX8_DYldfxqECceyahH8hw_JjQtlZMSHhfT6u7TNUjr6fR7sPPuOcx0BEohVDW0R5PVe5v0Y-m8hIsYKCfr_vvQnuL4Or9m7Y3Mr4bqSGc654lN2foHSJbYiVw8mLI/s320/different.jpg" width="320" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Observations:</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Going on Day 24 of this project made me feel the pressure of all the great work produced on the days before mine. What made me especially wary was the fact that I don't feel like I know how to write poetry right now--I'm reading and creating things with my hands, but not writing, per se. </div><br />
I decided to interview people at the MET. I thought I could ask what piece of art inspired someone to become an art lover...but consistently people could not identify a specific piece of art that started her love affair with art. Instead, a pattern arose (from a very small sample) of people engaging with art in very real ways, people spoke of the 'character' of a tapestry, or the 'personality' in the portrait. Art isn't just material or object; they are living things that make us feel real emotions.<br />
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</div><i>Hossannah Asuncion invites you to witness her <a href="http://notarie.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">tumbling</a>. </i>Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-16934088027151696742010-09-26T16:44:00.000-07:002011-05-21T07:39:04.599-07:00September 26<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj41gL7otYq7N6j9umGcJTp9H7r3LRvUNh0QeQaYs-IQNLowhvxuD8xFS35UbpKCLazwkYZ3JFUY60WrNF1aSGg27aDX6HKS8YIN79G8PaH4uVJz7F3Guc89ybNu3kPJtvSTRqFyWvRKwI/s1600/1285528988783.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj41gL7otYq7N6j9umGcJTp9H7r3LRvUNh0QeQaYs-IQNLowhvxuD8xFS35UbpKCLazwkYZ3JFUY60WrNF1aSGg27aDX6HKS8YIN79G8PaH4uVJz7F3Guc89ybNu3kPJtvSTRqFyWvRKwI/s320/1285528988783.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I met Lane Falcon a dear friend and Sarah Lawrence poet at the steps today. Tom Lux once said that Lane Falcon is the perfect name for a poet, and who am I to disagree?<br />
<br />
We had a lovely time wandering. Lane touched a sarcophagus and the guard was nice about it. We ended up in the Modern Art section, which was not too busy today, but I still somehow found it hard to write.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMZo9GietOP2wPJRzLZ3U8O4PXFO0GbRGhQqzb0KSk3cYzTdClK-UdFPsuDbSJrROK1h5E-kSST0yT7CLiBc51cH22CBEDpSK34YHU149Jkejqe3V8jo5ojJfGdVM2hKY5zHT1b2KVCUE/s1600/1285529009001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMZo9GietOP2wPJRzLZ3U8O4PXFO0GbRGhQqzb0KSk3cYzTdClK-UdFPsuDbSJrROK1h5E-kSST0yT7CLiBc51cH22CBEDpSK34YHU149Jkejqe3V8jo5ojJfGdVM2hKY5zHT1b2KVCUE/s320/1285529009001.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">We Lift </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">all these words to you</div><div class="MsoNormal">and still are left</div><div class="MsoNormal">wanting more seeds,</div><div class="MsoNormal">more rosemary, more cadmium.<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The garden grows zucchini<br />
into a jungle for squirrels,<br />
and I keep finding dirt clad children</div><div class="MsoNormal">digging for potatoes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>We need squash for soup,<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">for a winter of prayer, </div><div class="MsoNormal">of waiting. For others. </div>For order? The return of you?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP5_ijHC14y9RaKS4rMC9u_qdm12Pyjc4PYQv0umpXeShyphenhypheny_biqwLvUB1-thN4WpVAFrMzskKGp5JOXI9fKL2khWV4NxbKTnXm9cAXpQ7qHraBW6uCsz_3GxvUCij-8zpZCnHR1QTlU40/s1600/1285528974453.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP5_ijHC14y9RaKS4rMC9u_qdm12Pyjc4PYQv0umpXeShyphenhypheny_biqwLvUB1-thN4WpVAFrMzskKGp5JOXI9fKL2khWV4NxbKTnXm9cAXpQ7qHraBW6uCsz_3GxvUCij-8zpZCnHR1QTlU40/s320/1285528974453.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Factors</span><br />
Day of the Week: Sunday<br />
Occupancy of the Museum: Busy<br />
Arrived at: 2:30<br />
Departed at: 4:00<br />
Read on Commute: <i> Cider House Rules</i> by John Irving, and <i>Made to Stick</i> by Chip and Dan HeathCaitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-22586018051955738562010-09-26T16:20:00.000-07:002010-09-26T16:21:25.895-07:00September 25: Jessica Ankeny<span style="font-size: 16pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jessica Ankeny is a gifted poet in her second year at Sarah Lawrence. Her poem and observations from her writing time in the Musical Instruments section of the Met are below. </span></span><br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">The Reason Sound-Makers Go Behind Glass and We Look at Them, No, We Just Walk Past</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It comes in bright </div><div class="MsoNormal">bright color sound, like curly, like desire for your body, </div><div class="MsoNormal">like my body, anybody </div><div class="MsoNormal">to play play play, smells like red, no, sounds like turquoise, don’t</div><div class="MsoNormal">know sound of horns on gourd, should thank</div><div class="MsoNormal">spiral, thank animal, thank reaching, horn? look ma! pulled</div><div class="MsoNormal">pipes from ‘neath the kitchen sink </div><div class="MsoNormal">please blow on it, I blow goat heads, I speak swollen, I envy</div><div class="MsoNormal">horny toad heart, I have </div><div class="MsoNormal">horny toad heart, I sing ragweed, I sound dragon,</div><div class="MsoNormal">I strung so tight my strings disintegrate, need to play need need</div><div class="MsoNormal">to sound like sound barrier, drum like whiskey, close your sing, no, close </div><div class="MsoNormal">your sing, no, sing metal, sing dust</div><div class="MsoNormal">removal, sing strung voice disintegration, smell no tune, no</div><div class="MsoNormal">tuning, how right note with no right tuning? push sound </div><div class="MsoNormal">with elbows, no, push the pep </div><div class="MsoNormal">pep mushing, no, open the carpet, pinch glass ‘till it screams—</div><div class="MsoNormal">there’s music inside, it’s there.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Observations</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> It was a great pleasure to see Caitlin for the first time since she graduated. There is something about the MET, about looking at things meticulously maintained under glass, which encourages a formality and a referential nature in conversation. I like that. I also liked how our conversation changed while we were in the subway. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> We went first to the textiles hall or basement or dungeon or whatever, but even the doorbell won’t get you in on Saturdays. I ended in the hall of Old World international instruments. Caitlin was in the room of near-modern western instruments. For a reason I can’t place there was <i>one</i> wicker chair in the middle of each hall. We respectively took the chairs. Caitlin’s room (I blame Ringo’s drum) was busier then mine. As I wrote I became more upset that these beautiful instruments, many of which were used in sacred rituals, were just sitting behind glass. What good is an instrument not played? Does a sacred object loose its sanctity if it’s not in use? If an object is not fulfilling the purpose of its creation is it really worth looking at? I don’t know. I am undecided if the information gleaned from viewing objects outside their context is even true. Sure, seeing a gourd with antelope horns coming out of it and strings wound tight between the horns is pretty cool. But saying something is cool without knowing what it sounds like, or what it was used for exactly, distorts any meaning it might have had. It lessens the sanctity of the object. Doesn’t it? I don’t know. Does it even matter? I think so, but even as I write this I make plans to go back and see those textiles.</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div>Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-14291545376516787202010-09-25T18:50:00.000-07:002011-05-21T07:40:10.412-07:00September 25th<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7TfedDEve-ZrawMIMPh56i5sXA4AhzKF-fdKZAYXLO7yUTSaxoiwxolpihBulPhQqMoHjAYGxh8Xpggw7vKuesW6VPKOpXZ-SLyKDLicZJVHpGXe9GHL4pqx1G8hgKYlYLlTQoF5TE5s/s1600/womenpiano.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7TfedDEve-ZrawMIMPh56i5sXA4AhzKF-fdKZAYXLO7yUTSaxoiwxolpihBulPhQqMoHjAYGxh8Xpggw7vKuesW6VPKOpXZ-SLyKDLicZJVHpGXe9GHL4pqx1G8hgKYlYLlTQoF5TE5s/s320/womenpiano.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Today I met the Jessica Ankeny on the steps of the Met. She is a charming poet and a Sarah Lawrence student.<br />
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She is also a frequent Met visitor and so we discussed various locations as we wandered. She initially wanted to write in the Medieval Weapons section but unfortunately it lacked benches. However we found our way to the rather peaceful Musical Instruments section which is currently home to a gold drum owned by Ringo Starr. The range of international instruments found in this section is extraordinary.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0aYi782GwjCxSEsISFm48nOSA47kd2otLpi39_mLmrsThupucskoiEyz6rVJTEXfJz6Hgbabb2L7zcMCZ9WV8mqqfVcQGotKbIY5hGwPtfGJbNtZa8bOXgw30tLDiiGEXmYZO6j6Jf-g/s1600/1285452052183.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0aYi782GwjCxSEsISFm48nOSA47kd2otLpi39_mLmrsThupucskoiEyz6rVJTEXfJz6Hgbabb2L7zcMCZ9WV8mqqfVcQGotKbIY5hGwPtfGJbNtZa8bOXgw30tLDiiGEXmYZO6j6Jf-g/s320/1285452052183.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br />
<br />
The Mistress of Vanishing<br />
<br />
I've always kept a key<br />
beneath my tongue,<br />
a lock pick<br />
spit glued to foot.<br />
My hair contains faint<br />
traces of cyanide. <br />
<br />
I traveled north<br />
after the flood,<br />
no Cathedral spires<br />
remained, just lonely<br />
office buildings.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<br />
I left for the memory of cities,<br />
Seattle, Tacoma, Vancouver.<br />
Surely there would be no<br />
blue uniformed guards sitting<br />
in booths at the border?<br />
Though now I find even<br />
the thought reassuring.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTtssSpkSB3hSVz8XD9ml-xwXCAb-Zd3c1BnLMVVYCmbm65wLVQ-qz4B7TU3W0PjCSJiFiVqHPOmVwhTwjMGY788BLJP2GVq0HkWBbt4GLF-1bGfNIUB5usAvIk2pnnUrwzKg7pz8_ju0/s1600/1285451808725.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTtssSpkSB3hSVz8XD9ml-xwXCAb-Zd3c1BnLMVVYCmbm65wLVQ-qz4B7TU3W0PjCSJiFiVqHPOmVwhTwjMGY788BLJP2GVq0HkWBbt4GLF-1bGfNIUB5usAvIk2pnnUrwzKg7pz8_ju0/s320/1285451808725.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Factors</span><br />
Day of the Week: Saturday<br />
Occupancy of the Museum: Very Busy<br />
Arrived at: 5:00<br />
Departed at: 7:20<br />
Read on Commute: <i> Cider House Rules</i> by John Irving (slow going today).Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-63226367134698239712010-09-25T09:24:00.000-07:002011-05-20T11:15:00.983-07:00September 24<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidfaoCIADCDry74DdJU_9KZgG2kGT3M_NiCQ6xGDuvm9WwYv75HQIP-UljEJv69u_fp5JmA6zNoGdR7g62uys-BdEVEDcATnn-GDhjrKx1yiUa9dpAcqmsRDQBqi3MCUI1a3__NCO2viw/s1600/-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidfaoCIADCDry74DdJU_9KZgG2kGT3M_NiCQ6xGDuvm9WwYv75HQIP-UljEJv69u_fp5JmA6zNoGdR7g62uys-BdEVEDcATnn-GDhjrKx1yiUa9dpAcqmsRDQBqi3MCUI1a3__NCO2viw/s320/-5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigts6fi_mF9CEh_BBFk6lXe_YpAXrsJB90IUwMu8LxtpHYliWbsA3u5BkRcd3CFgVC90F11QDIxzJ4Ethdq9eZ7p6NhPj63OZtg2T-WPNdXa2XcahOs0e5h-pF4j7FJ4KRSeLC2K9-48E/s1600/bigbambuhoss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigts6fi_mF9CEh_BBFk6lXe_YpAXrsJB90IUwMu8LxtpHYliWbsA3u5BkRcd3CFgVC90F11QDIxzJ4Ethdq9eZ7p6NhPj63OZtg2T-WPNdXa2XcahOs0e5h-pF4j7FJ4KRSeLC2K9-48E/s320/bigbambuhoss.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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For the first time since this project began I actually have taken advantage of the 24 hour rule. I didn't leave the Met till 7:15 last night and chose, instead of rushing home and posting, that a nice quiet evening could be had.<br />
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I met the well dressed Hossannah Asuncion on the steps near a food cart named Cake&Shake. <br />
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We wandered around European Sculpture Court, paintings, the Kahn special exhibit, ending with Big Bambu. Hossannah was interviewing people, which was one of the reasons we traveled so much. It was such a great idea, she brought a recorder and asked questions about art, and connection to it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgndKnt8i_TI31F3v60ll6-6ctOT3T-3ILbbSZ1kyHAX3-BJPc81NovZWtGo56z8SzxGCX905P89ZD23RtQNw7l-vCuEsTtzReHBeBZYR0ee5uhgAEmJNVcf1Kv4hauqCOUA7l9Si5m9U4/s1600/1285367864850.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgndKnt8i_TI31F3v60ll6-6ctOT3T-3ILbbSZ1kyHAX3-BJPc81NovZWtGo56z8SzxGCX905P89ZD23RtQNw7l-vCuEsTtzReHBeBZYR0ee5uhgAEmJNVcf1Kv4hauqCOUA7l9Si5m9U4/s320/1285367864850.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<b>Edited to Remove Poem: A revised version of this poem has since been published elsewhere. I apologize for the inconvenience. </b><br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">Factors</span><br />
Day of the Week: Friday<br />
Occupancy of the Museum: Packed<br />
Arrived at: 4:40<br />
Departed at: 7:10<br />
Read on Commute: I finished<i> The Structure of Magic </i>(which was an excellent examining of language and therapy) by Richard Bandler and John Grinder, and <i>A Week at the Airport </i>by Alain De Botton (very disappointing). I just started<i> Cider House Rules</i> by John Irving (a favorite author of mine), it is pretty good so far.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-19160091514777094892010-09-25T06:56:00.000-07:002010-09-25T06:57:16.391-07:00September 21st: Aldina Vazao Kennedy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirNQdwwOHT_VedASwgsI76xlrYnZjfgyzPDz97DBnpYy4gHsQSycTv3jVp-0DYPkrEqBrtDsRkayudXFlDVdYDKj-tpWALRjmQwAshc5BXZxjxXhypJLNLUc_NfL22faYn2VcvORbP_6g/s1600/AVK.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirNQdwwOHT_VedASwgsI76xlrYnZjfgyzPDz97DBnpYy4gHsQSycTv3jVp-0DYPkrEqBrtDsRkayudXFlDVdYDKj-tpWALRjmQwAshc5BXZxjxXhypJLNLUc_NfL22faYn2VcvORbP_6g/s320/AVK.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Aldina Vazao Kennedy, is a fellow Sarah Lawrence graduate, a non fiction writer who devoloped an interest in and talent for poetry. Her poem follows. <br />
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<div style="margin: 1ex;"><div><div align="center"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Afterlife Accounting at the Met</span><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">My people are North Atlantic but my magnet</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">spins South. I taste oranges, almonds, pungent</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">olive oils, and cheese squeezed from goats.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Egypt is Mediterranean too. Before Romans cut </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">roads through my home, pharaohs stored pots, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">faceted rocks, and godly symbols. They traveled heavy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">At the Met, all I see means death</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">and how to survive. Afghani lapis lazuli chains </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">enclose necks, fingers, and arms--fit for Kings’ men.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">When guards look away, I touch something sacred.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Who carves himself</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">into temples? Dendur, Tikal. Theocharis 1899. Kheper 1936.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">“Dung beetles push the sun into being.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Afraid I’ll forget, I take pictures.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">In Antigua, I heard <i>campesinos </i> and <i>señoras</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">thank the Virgin and pay</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">promises, and hoard prayers and humiliations suffered.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Faith alone won’t save us.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Languages are invented for accounting. Linear scripts.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Grandmother notes 66 bible pages read.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Mother contracts salvation with tear-dropped coins.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">They hang scapulars from their necks.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Forty years of hard spousal service earns</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">how many coupon-books for Heaven?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Father doesn’t talk sense.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Plaques tangle neural pathways.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">He doesn’t remember tomorrows</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">and stores rocks to cobble our driveway.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">He records with marble and white stone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Ellis 56. The rest he lays with asphalt and tar.</span></div></div>Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-51652832762987122912010-09-23T12:05:00.000-07:002011-03-06T10:55:44.201-08:00Sepember 23<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgofCtaXND1IBYoyrWkuLGDtYPVCRaoVc9tJmmN9_PjomdsA7EikGKrXyUJo3Lt5vCuTSRg8pH8D36KVmPWrSTZZFLaPOHbS-iqH7dt4HfAObPhCgEtstL_4rzqin_gTolti1vWg6DslPI/s1600/1285249657750.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgofCtaXND1IBYoyrWkuLGDtYPVCRaoVc9tJmmN9_PjomdsA7EikGKrXyUJo3Lt5vCuTSRg8pH8D36KVmPWrSTZZFLaPOHbS-iqH7dt4HfAObPhCgEtstL_4rzqin_gTolti1vWg6DslPI/s320/1285249657750.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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Today I visited the special exhibit, The World of Khubilai Khan, currently open only for a members preview. Khubilai was the grandson of Chinggis (better known in the west as Ghenghis) Kahn.<br />
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The Met does not usually allow photographs in Special exhibits but I did not see any signs up when I went in so I took one photo, and no one complained. While I was taking the second photo one guard (apparently a senior one) asked if photos were allowed, very loudly and apparently rhetorically. Another replied that during the members preview it should be fine.<br />
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I immediately put away my cell phone, nod in their direction to acknowledge that I had heard them. One of the guards nodded back. As I walked into the next room, the senior guard said to me across the room "no photos in the special exhibit." In response, I said "I'm sorry."<br />
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I started writing in the next room on a bench. The light was poor but I was right in front of a beautiful wooden Arhats (a guardian). The senior guard entered the room and loudly informed the female guard that photos were not allowed, and then shot a scowl in my direction.<br />
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The guard in the room had a wonderful smile and read all the descriptions of the artifacts. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjWnYauEgxytySo5cpKjosCsyN62MujqbpbeMiUXpis65kYyZtbi3C8L_PaRrcI8vGdt73-wHvha7Ha_bl7pH7V7plI2TkxtiSzxEFyyOK10wLnFMzPj1jlBl1AD3QF7dAJbbhmdISSfE/s1600/1285249476393.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjWnYauEgxytySo5cpKjosCsyN62MujqbpbeMiUXpis65kYyZtbi3C8L_PaRrcI8vGdt73-wHvha7Ha_bl7pH7V7plI2TkxtiSzxEFyyOK10wLnFMzPj1jlBl1AD3QF7dAJbbhmdISSfE/s320/1285249476393.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>(Apologies: Poem removed due to publication elsewhere) </b><br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">Factors</span><br />
Day of the Week: Wednesday<br />
Occupancy of the Museum: Empty<br />
Arrived at: 9:30<br />
Departed at: 10:40<br />
Read on Commute: <i>The Structure of Magic </i>by Richard Bandler and John Grinder, and <i>A Week at the Airport </i>(about being the writer in residence at the Heathrow Airport) by Alain De Botton.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-82215195825899780332010-09-23T11:12:00.000-07:002010-09-23T11:12:15.389-07:00September 22: Mellisa McCarter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyus3ORS7wfjv7rp5Mh4qpiXYSTzhBude90uAGwDr04PJAS8ZrM-3czjotMz-ynF96rBjHoN7pRyaG8RYbXsV-ySOhzQQ_ype90Dyy1HrxQtswJ51vWsHgkLLEtN0c-IBjvPsv3stZvZE/s1600/1285166427162.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyus3ORS7wfjv7rp5Mh4qpiXYSTzhBude90uAGwDr04PJAS8ZrM-3czjotMz-ynF96rBjHoN7pRyaG8RYbXsV-ySOhzQQ_ype90Dyy1HrxQtswJ51vWsHgkLLEtN0c-IBjvPsv3stZvZE/s320/1285166427162.jpg" /></a></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">Mellisa a fellow Sarah Lawrence poetry graduate, was a pleasure to write with and I very much enjoyed her ideas about various pieces throughout the museum. Her poem and observations are below. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNuSoRNeJMoRP0dJfZROCvYrB9Z0Z96RjSTo6WGWdBwlhvQfQjM8xttfHiPgz7uZoAu2HPZ4wOzv3FxPfepRF0cmRUS4xnuRk18YyGYX0UnpT-DqVTZOA-2aPoSWstuTqnAPKj3IBKAis/s320/10046b.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Credit due to the John Singer Sargent Gallery</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNuSoRNeJMoRP0dJfZROCvYrB9Z0Z96RjSTo6WGWdBwlhvQfQjM8xttfHiPgz7uZoAu2HPZ4wOzv3FxPfepRF0cmRUS4xnuRk18YyGYX0UnpT-DqVTZOA-2aPoSWstuTqnAPKj3IBKAis/s1600/10046b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br />
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<div style="margin: 1ex;"> <div> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">The Wyndham Sisters, 1899</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> (A Portrait by John Singer Sargent)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">We always have flowers at hand </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">to make company more pleasant,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">removed before they die</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">at the first sign of browning.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">So why is Mother in the background </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">if not to remind us of our own mortality?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">The painter saw only what he meant to see,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">blanched the peonies and compared us to gardenias</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">by applying his salve to our complexions.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Pamela didn’t trust him to overlook her maternal waist,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">not with the evidence behind us on the wall.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Madeleine, impatient and a little bored,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">the shadows were left on her face.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">I saw opportunity right away, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">gave the canvas all of my youth </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">with a look that said beneath this skirt</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">are legs that could strangle a man.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Though, looking back I’m not so sure</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">if we weren’t a portrait of death to be</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">rising from a chiffon vapor.</span><br />
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</div>Observations:<br />
<div style="margin: 1ex;"> <div> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Trying to explain to a friend a quote by E. L. Doctorow, “Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia,” I found it difficult to explain the voices that creep into the writer’s head without sounding like a lunatic myself. But, anyone who has written while viewing art will understand exactly what this means. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">I find that one of the best tricks to jumpstart these voices is to go to an art museum and write. There’s something about seeking out a narrative that’s not your own or an image that breaks you out of a daily pattern and puts you into the realm of the unordinary. It frees the voice within—or gives you a borrowed voice with which to stir the pen. Even an empty room at The Met teems with voices and characters from the imagination. Just as yoga releases energy from stretching the body, art releases the dormant mind. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">The Met was a wonderful place to start writing as it houses more than paintings. I found that it was easy to write once I sat down. Moving about, my eyes preferred to sponge up everything for later. I chose to write an ekphrasis rather than just free-writing, eager at the moment to explore the mysteries of detail in “The Wyndham Sisters” by John Singer Sargent. I found a lot going on in the portrait just by their expressions alone.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">Thirty days is about what you need to really appreciate everything that the Met has to offer. I tried to take in as many rooms as I could just before I left mid afternoon. I could imagine how odd I looked bouncing from room to room, pausing here and there and scribbling a note or two for future poems, but otherwise scanning as much as I could take in before my departure. Brilliant idea, Caitlin. Thanks for the great time.</span><br />
</div></div>Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-71482193274993312072010-09-22T12:26:00.000-07:002010-09-24T08:10:27.163-07:00September 22<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9tZVgUhGn6_xEx3M6oT913mOBVB4R6gUqS0IqTRiYT1ikOWrjaP8zLr7UqA7FvpWxUUQgivZxJsAgWK6RDxNXh1L9Tty16DXAaMBlzbc10OSTKJbBOuE-4fuKun7h0RqdXJAd4ZQW4dY/s1600/1285166627521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9tZVgUhGn6_xEx3M6oT913mOBVB4R6gUqS0IqTRiYT1ikOWrjaP8zLr7UqA7FvpWxUUQgivZxJsAgWK6RDxNXh1L9Tty16DXAaMBlzbc10OSTKJbBOuE-4fuKun7h0RqdXJAd4ZQW4dY/s320/1285166627521.jpg" /></a></div><br />
The first day of fall was rather warm and sunny, but the trees are starting to hint at the season. I met Mellisa McCarter on the steps. She and I have been friends since sharing a class together in our first year at Sarah Lawrence, she is both a gifted poet and a kind person.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgahdbauw9SfQPoVoqjjMDN8Sl2XoyvhQ0ShsqnTWdYPAfwmh1qyabpTBjD9wi3pjAEwjnC_nbAN55iIbIUD_t6pK557cQxWtn1iBfksy5qk-El2r-k3hAF_d9_80YrgQGOkKQMzhg98GM/s1600/1285166695335.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgahdbauw9SfQPoVoqjjMDN8Sl2XoyvhQ0ShsqnTWdYPAfwmh1qyabpTBjD9wi3pjAEwjnC_nbAN55iIbIUD_t6pK557cQxWtn1iBfksy5qk-El2r-k3hAF_d9_80YrgQGOkKQMzhg98GM/s320/1285166695335.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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We entered and wandered until we found a comfy looking circular couch in the Henry J. Heinzil Galleries. We were surrounded by lovely paintings. It got distractingly crowded around 11:30. I could not help but notice everyone's shoes. One woman was wearing a pair of high heel sneakers. An Asian couple photographed themselves having a fake nap on the couch one room over. <br />
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Today I wrote a number of poems but the only one I am pleased with is a monstich (a one line poem)<br />
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Still Life with Octopus<br />
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If only it would stop juggling the plums.<br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">Factors</span><br />
Day of the Week: Wednesday<br />
Occupancy of the Museum: Not too bad when we entered but crowded by the time I left. <br />
Arrived at: 10:00<br />
Departed at: 12:15<br />
Read on Commute: I finished <i>I am the Messenge</i>r by Markus Zusack (OK) and Thunderstruck by Larson (also mediocre).Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-11061754551581174912010-09-21T14:06:00.000-07:002010-09-24T08:14:37.500-07:00September 21st<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNrj2Vp-4aeu0yleDFuS2kj2ldiB596HEVNTeWP2x81TUy8BnD_J7ddXGjMoNIoTErqB0fVts6VM2hkRYMNrH6m9n_wK1i51Q-pxRZlLqJVVnCmqUMyI6TDocBptqucUCAk77MhFUPGuQ/s1600/garden2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNrj2Vp-4aeu0yleDFuS2kj2ldiB596HEVNTeWP2x81TUy8BnD_J7ddXGjMoNIoTErqB0fVts6VM2hkRYMNrH6m9n_wK1i51Q-pxRZlLqJVVnCmqUMyI6TDocBptqucUCAk77MhFUPGuQ/s400/garden2.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br />
Today I had two guest writers, Aldina Vazao Kennedy who holds her MFA in non-fiction but dabbles well in poetry, and Melanie Olson a fiction writer working on a novel about Mormons.<br />
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Melanie and I both brought laptops which caused my second run-in with MET security. This time we both needed passes (a yellow ticket with words scribbled on it) for our laptops. I did not know that this was necessary since this is the first time I brought my laptop. You also cannot coat check bags with laptops. <br />
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The Temple of Dendur was our destination. Yesterday through the windows Jacob and I had seen them setting up something. We had presumed that this was for some sort of celebration that night. Today the temple was off limits. You could only view it from a distance and it was clear that they were setting something up for tonight. <br />
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We ventured upstairs to the Chinese Garden to write in some natural light. Melanie was the first project participant to write on her laptop.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFtRsCmZKVt0Qo27rDvuLRnTdpnE_GUvJCG44aeJcsHtXCRQxVXQwe0jovkDA5wzdmLf89_6Kls_m8Ywht1ti6BkDsp0pMRSHikmaJZB1oHDkQ8Uda1SX8BGHrLwiXSQFyxZQ_7HfTsjA/s1600/Garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFtRsCmZKVt0Qo27rDvuLRnTdpnE_GUvJCG44aeJcsHtXCRQxVXQwe0jovkDA5wzdmLf89_6Kls_m8Ywht1ti6BkDsp0pMRSHikmaJZB1oHDkQ8Uda1SX8BGHrLwiXSQFyxZQ_7HfTsjA/s400/Garden.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Waiting<br />
<br />
Unknowing twins<br />
in purple, a flash<br />
of crow above us,<br />
<br />
shadow through glass<br />
on the living<br />
room floor.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Factors</span><br />
Day of the Week: Tuesday<br />
Occupancy of the Museum: Moderately busy.<br />
Arrived at: 12:30<br />
Departed at: 2:40<br />
Read on Commute: <i>I am the Messenge</i>r by Markus ZusackCaitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-47683610432342981622010-09-20T20:25:00.000-07:002010-09-20T20:28:47.977-07:00September 19th: Stephen Pause: EssayStephen Pause, a non fiction SLC graduate student and friend wrote the following essay and observations, and I am so glad he did. He also posted this on his excellent blog <a href="http://ulyssesmcqueen.blogspot.com/">Teratology</a>, he has more photo's included in his version. I had a few formatting issues. The essay is titled <i>Never My Madam</i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghb6D6bntWuCMjxTK0DnYNlQe09nYGG5fvEGPU-XgmumWTzLUHv-PEB8Ymtk4YLdXwu4zRagk3uCrJuEW9hme1U9d85LCfC0n8OEoaV6KWHqA66SdnoGb_m3h4LcodZGQGo7BflvDnqOw/s1600/DT91.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghb6D6bntWuCMjxTK0DnYNlQe09nYGG5fvEGPU-XgmumWTzLUHv-PEB8Ymtk4YLdXwu4zRagk3uCrJuEW9hme1U9d85LCfC0n8OEoaV6KWHqA66SdnoGb_m3h4LcodZGQGo7BflvDnqOw/s320/DT91.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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Photo courtesy: metmuseum.org (all others by S. Pause)<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;"><br />
First she was just a figure moving toward me in the distance, among a great many others doing the same thing. A second later she was a girl. Then she became a pretty girl, exquisitely dressed. Next a responsive girl, whose eyes said “Are you lonely?,” whose shade of a smile said, “Then speak.” And by that time we had reached and were almost passing one another…<br />
-- Cornell Woolrich, Manhattan Love Song </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQVGinB8A-pLKHTTHqi3usuTEadMnyNKpFNrTsJ7c9XzPSqhAvzF7YtovymaZwQ3FttGTKI-AuQUZNE6HyPj_NAz8MG9ZNW1fzf8eyNGzry0Kv8DtHlczUlb3QKyNY6ylkkFa9LIlwm4E/s1600/DSC_0134a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQVGinB8A-pLKHTTHqi3usuTEadMnyNKpFNrTsJ7c9XzPSqhAvzF7YtovymaZwQ3FttGTKI-AuQUZNE6HyPj_NAz8MG9ZNW1fzf8eyNGzry0Kv8DtHlczUlb3QKyNY6ylkkFa9LIlwm4E/s320/DSC_0134a.jpg" /></a></div><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">I went to see war.</span> </b>I went for the ugliness of the world; I had no use of for the beautiful things. I wanted death as my muse. I wanted to see <i>George Washington Crossing the Delaware River</i>, on his way into glorious battle. I wanted to contemplate history made through bloodshed, to ponder world changing loss of life. I had a satchel full of history books, war tactics and personal accounts of ensuing skirmishes, and I planned to write about how much the artist got wrong, how disparate his art was from reality. And I would have been content with this day-long meditation on how art just could not compare to the actuality of the harsh world. But unbeknownst to me, fate had conspired otherwise. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Washington’s river crossing was mysteriously absent, nowhere to be seen. It had been hidden away in some darkened vault beneath my feet, stowed in an ark to be shown to someone else at some later time. It wasn’t meant for my eyes. But what else was there to see in such a place if not the pinnacle of military strategy, a defining battle in a nation’s history? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">The question was left to foment while I began to wander aimlessly in search of some new, insufficient substitute for inspiration. I didn’t even have the motivation to move to another wing, so I meandered through America, slowly contenting myself with the notion that I would accomplish nothing, the idea of failure festering into a desire to abandon that forlorn place forever. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYeRb6mprU9Agd_zoGoL-NtbZw2C0_xVvGGcDCZigme73LMLA8WdptKxz0Tj4aK74QB4NKI8y9GJn1wBRABpck30e4YcQUIQwdXTqYEzGlZC1lNVxybL5j6Ju0V7asLrhgCZBAxXxpRC4/s1600/DSC_0095a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYeRb6mprU9Agd_zoGoL-NtbZw2C0_xVvGGcDCZigme73LMLA8WdptKxz0Tj4aK74QB4NKI8y9GJn1wBRABpck30e4YcQUIQwdXTqYEzGlZC1lNVxybL5j6Ju0V7asLrhgCZBAxXxpRC4/s320/DSC_0095a.jpg" width="320" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"> But then, lost amidst the forgotten faces on a quiet floor reserved only for storage, an epiphany. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">She appeared to me in all her radiance. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">The inward curve of her waist, the sweep of her hips, those petite lips rouged to life against a snow white complexion and a dress so starkly black. And that delicate neckline. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">That seducingly long and delicate neckline. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">What was she doing there, mingling with former presidents amongst the Tiffany glass and antique furniture? Had she retreated to the storage room to seek refuge from prying eyes? If so, she had largely succeeded. As I stood there in awe, an entire group of people, more than twenty strong, committed the crime of simply passing her by, only one or two stopping for even a cursory glance. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">An “Oh my,” from a woman who didn’t even break stride, prompting a question from her bespeckled and graying husband, who himself continued a slow amble past. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Somebody you know?” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">A moment later I could hear the echo of their guide from a distant corner of the hall.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">…And that neckline – her hair pulled as high as it will go, revealing every possibly inch of that majestically contoured nape. The subtlety of the pose – her right hand reaching to the back of the Empire table to keep her steady – naturally accentuating her most feminine attributes, extending effortlessly the line of succession from irresistible neck to slightly dipping and wholly exposed shoulder to smoothly bent arm to slender thumb pressed against dark wood, and all with a skin so pure a complexion that she barely seems alive. Pure as the driven snow, indeed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Truly a modern woman by any standards: deeply sophisticated in expression yet simply elegant in dress. That dress, the bodice tapering her inconceivably lithe waist, her hips boldly flaring out, all at once showing her as petite and imposing. The abysmal blackness of it, swallowing the features of her lower half, her legs lost amid the velvety softness of the elegant garment whose own features appear only faintly. They don’t matter. Neither do her shoes, or whatever is in her hand. Is that a fan that blends in so perfectly, or do her delicate fingers simply cling to her dress below the waist? She is either pulling it up alluringly, or perhaps practically, to keep her feet from becoming entangled in the flowing fabric. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">And what to make of that expression? Is she turning her cheek away from a lover, spurning his desperate advance? Is it a devilishly scornful disaffection of a kiss not wanted, or a melancholy sadness that there is no one there to kiss? Perhaps she is gazing at the three-paneled Tiffany dressing curtain in the adjacent display case, an oddity to her as it won’t be produced until thirty years into her future. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Perhaps her look is disguised – a glance away – a bashfulness to prevent blushing caused by the stoic timepieces staring at her from across the aisle. The six grandfather clocks are fragile old men; by the time she comes into the world they are already eighty years old. Yet each one knows beauty when they see it. Each has stopped at the exact same moment, their faces – the hands of time – frozen in her presence, acknowledging her beauty the only way they know how. Their lunar cycles too are not simply frozen, but shaken out of their synchronicity; the old face from Reading, Pennsylvania, has thrust its moon into mid-sky while the smirking orb from Norwich, Connecticut, is just beginning to rise from its corner of the clockface. Her pull is strong enough to shift the tides. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDAQhW60u4J5hRVbRmV2ZVg9jcKVlLTL5P2s8e4CdnFl8gTj51Fu3IphoRaBYnidOUXAivRcI8tJVdzMYqklf5BDIJQmPNGRjR3_oU2jO3wxT080vZ_C8CWUEhDGr8uxdrrUHbjXKsgWA/s1600/DSC_0147a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDAQhW60u4J5hRVbRmV2ZVg9jcKVlLTL5P2s8e4CdnFl8gTj51Fu3IphoRaBYnidOUXAivRcI8tJVdzMYqklf5BDIJQmPNGRjR3_oU2jO3wxT080vZ_C8CWUEhDGr8uxdrrUHbjXKsgWA/s320/DSC_0147a.jpg" width="320" /> </a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Another group of people stops briefly a few feet away and breaks the silence. The guide mentions a name – Eakins – as the greatest painter to come out of America. Suddenly the Madame appears to look away with distaste – she banishes such a thought. She knows John Singer Sargent is the greatest. The look on her face is more than enough to convince me. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">As the group passes, again ignorant to the beauty they are dismissing, one of them stops, only to thrust a barb tinged with malice at the nameless Madame. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">The old woman’s mumbling trails off from beneath her hunched back as she passes. She stresses the final two words, slowly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">“This is very famous. <i>Terrible scandal</i>…”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">The Madame barely acknowledges the comment, looking away as if to mockingly ignore the old woman. The ill-mannered quip falls on a deaf ear – a perfectly sketched lobe on a woman too dignified to pay the comment any mind. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"> All of this and yet she stands naked – no frame to give her comfort – the scene incomplete. Perhaps that is why her expression is one that borders on fretting. The woman next to her, the <i>Lady with the Rose</i>, displays a beautifully ornamented frame, a cornucopia of fruits and vegetables, gilded gold in a subconscious display of fertility. The<i> Lady with the Rose</i> is also fetching to the eye, but with a youthful nonchalance, a childish air. She daintily holds her rose like a cup of tea, with thumb and index fingers, while her other hand lazily rests on the back of her hip. She is aloof, uncaring, and ultimately alluring standing next to the Madame. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaxtII5LaUizcdhkuRsgVUPkuFbA8WEx_f2IMt4s-QvzdaeJqKny_-DKZqcyuP_Gf0yqjyZ_pXxCu1F4F5J1DB3ShkOM7D9rzDmeEM78yDGZbAaWGEJcKuStbdZvwXq2LP41N8F22Nvrs/s1600/DSC_0152a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaxtII5LaUizcdhkuRsgVUPkuFbA8WEx_f2IMt4s-QvzdaeJqKny_-DKZqcyuP_Gf0yqjyZ_pXxCu1F4F5J1DB3ShkOM7D9rzDmeEM78yDGZbAaWGEJcKuStbdZvwXq2LP41N8F22Nvrs/s320/DSC_0152a.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">My Madame needs no rose to add beauty to her perfection. She is so enchanting that she needs no accessories. There is only the slightest hint of a jewel in her hair, a small dash of light that could just as soon be the sprouting of a halo as it might be a jeweled pin keeping her hair aloft. She us unadorned except for one thing. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">One very tiny piece of jewelry. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Ever so faintly – the wedding band on her left ring finger. Not even an imposing diamond encrusted treasure, but a simple gold band. With only a quick stroke of a small brush dabbed with the saddest speck of white did Sargent include what he had to. How painful must that dab of paint have been for him? How long did he wait to include that one, ever-so-necessary, ever-so-heartbreaking touch to his masterpiece? How long did it consume him? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div></div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPzXfD2os3hvIlIPJYs5rrp2VAYH3l0Y-fGq5Tm0BPvWxHgXm8Qih9W7bnVffROz56c-R9b80A2h4Jizja9aO36i7G7-lntTVwy7wiFG7UJ-9cBTgPdEGoAfNa77d0R0LIEDzocbcQzXg/s1600/DSC_0134a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPzXfD2os3hvIlIPJYs5rrp2VAYH3l0Y-fGq5Tm0BPvWxHgXm8Qih9W7bnVffROz56c-R9b80A2h4Jizja9aO36i7G7-lntTVwy7wiFG7UJ-9cBTgPdEGoAfNa77d0R0LIEDzocbcQzXg/s320/DSC_0134a.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">How could Sargent not look on her and simply weep? He was charged not only with passing this beauty on through the centuries, but along with it the essential idea of the heartbreak that he must have felt. The idea that such a treasure could never be possessed. He shows this beauty, at the cost of hope, at the cost of inner peace. How much did this weigh on him as he plied his trade, day in and day out, knowing that with the beauty he was giving, he was taking away the hope that something so perfect that could ever be his.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">That was the heartbreak that he had poisoned me with. How swiftly she had gone from My Madame to once again Madame X. Sargent had brought me ever so close to perfection, only to remind me with the most miniscule detail that she is not mine. She was never mine, and she will never be mine. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">This realization came quickly to me, and once the poison was in the wound it was impossible to stop. But how long did Sargent deny himself this undeniable fact? Was this why he spent so long struggling to find the right pose, wasting through countless sketches and rough drafts? Not a striving for perfection but an attempt to delay the inevitable goodbye that had to accompany the completion of such a masterpiece. Perhaps it explains the signature in the bottom right-hand corner, which begins with a deeply bold stroke but quickly fades from life, becoming barely visible at the conclusion, as if his courage to complete the work vanished the closer he got to finishing. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpkX4qzbEjG1wQ6QnFJ1YHWkI1FmlDdcx29PdPx9dwmWT0jxypdzPMZVvaDsHTy41Z-BjpQxrl9pFuUIUmFNFrBodEq3RwAA8HcTo7vYnEVbwYYeZY0T79GfNRbLQAmnmCVqa-Ad3Cd4U/s1600/DSC_0151a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpkX4qzbEjG1wQ6QnFJ1YHWkI1FmlDdcx29PdPx9dwmWT0jxypdzPMZVvaDsHTy41Z-BjpQxrl9pFuUIUmFNFrBodEq3RwAA8HcTo7vYnEVbwYYeZY0T79GfNRbLQAmnmCVqa-Ad3Cd4U/s320/DSC_0151a.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">I knew what Sargent was feeling, because I too found myself simply unable to walk away from her. How could I turn my back on her? Wherever I had come from, I couldn’t ever go back. I just couldn’t make myself step back onto those towering stone steps and into the cold world outside, not without feeling the emptiness of the world enveloping me, the grotesque buildings of the metropolitan world weighing me down, crushing whatever she had left behind of my shattered heart. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">She was inside that vault; she would forever be inside. And she belongs in a museum with the treasures of a thousand kingdoms. She belongs with the relics that defined nations, if for nothing else than to show that while the stones of power crumble into dust, she endures. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">As for me, I will keep her locked inside my own vault, the delicate memory of an impossible perfection. I eventually ventured outside, only to make that slow sojourn back to my cold home, alone, to think about her. I rode the subway out to the final stop, the whole car abandoning me before then, reinforcing the loneliness that dominated the day. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">I went there to write of war, of bitter fighting, of blood and battles and death – the ugly things of the world – and instead I witnessed a beauty that I never would have known existed in this too cold world. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">I went to write of war and I left thinking only of her. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Madame X. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Forever my Madame. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Never my Madame. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmn5Eaa4VmkfCVVqbvpGSizTgierH8A0IjU8-kItuGeFq-aMBId3YMg2QvkJNgumjqJMiTgdzFa2w6bng2effNUHUWVIxa62YZtTdB39zTtWfaIUu6R0UQNNv-cVW3THzqNnhKxRmN1Mw/s1600/DSC_0128a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmn5Eaa4VmkfCVVqbvpGSizTgierH8A0IjU8-kItuGeFq-aMBId3YMg2QvkJNgumjqJMiTgdzFa2w6bng2effNUHUWVIxa62YZtTdB39zTtWfaIUu6R0UQNNv-cVW3THzqNnhKxRmN1Mw/s400/DSC_0128a.jpg" width="335" /></a> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"></div> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7rlQosSejrj7-51wNNR6gl0MDfjrj8gdWzq2iHl3eR-srwXBZC9ywl0kvN7Vi-39-IB7fZSIEIUIYTuoSAKRvt3tsMIyk9JV78J9VBEJLdxTAzUNrVCvjw4jkh68fDpg_XubtznbaczQ/s1600/DSC_0157a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7rlQosSejrj7-51wNNR6gl0MDfjrj8gdWzq2iHl3eR-srwXBZC9ywl0kvN7Vi-39-IB7fZSIEIUIYTuoSAKRvt3tsMIyk9JV78J9VBEJLdxTAzUNrVCvjw4jkh68fDpg_XubtznbaczQ/s400/DSC_0157a.jpg" width="333" /></a><br />
<b>Observations:</b><br />
<br />
I always have trouble being creative in heavily trafficked areas. Fo<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixoEjF2zmtbqjbLHMFxL5tRFvNTbDcXTJfF0xrXjoBSBUMPjWUUFv5J8L5LJXPHW8iz616jTKeCFkwcRStIGtQEZ2vg2FL0NtqHuOV_4yZrmyd5eeTs8bbFj6P6W2l7CopGP5fug2SdCI/s1600/DSC_0106a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>r every insightful thing I overhear that I include in an essay, I hear at least one inane or outright mentally retarded comment that grates me. The storage area of the Met is no different. I just happened to be lucky enough to stumble upon a work so engaging that I was able to mostly tune out noise, like the young boy in the orange polo shirt who every few minutes would fly by me and yell at his parents in Spanish from sixty feet away.<br />
<br />
It was an exercise in patience and self-control, and I really appreciated the opportunity. I have only written about a painting once before, and that was a poor attempt six years ago. I hadn’t tried since. In the same way that Caitlin enjoys going there with people who have never been, I enjoyed having an experienced patron show me her favorite spots. I have a tendency to get intimidated in the face of daunting tasks, and emerging from the caverns of 84th street to be confronted with a quarter-mile long museum was most definitely an anxious moment for me. Having a guide like Caitlin really made it easy though, and I can’t thank her enough for that. It’s just too bad that I’m going to have to keep going back there until they pull from storage the painting I went to see in the first place. And to see the one that I fell in love with.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-39461119482589667392010-09-20T18:52:00.000-07:002010-09-20T19:07:06.522-07:00September 19th: Stephen PauseStephen Pause took great pictures at the Met, some of them I have uploaded here but the majority of them are at his excellent blog <a href="http://ulyssesmcqueen.blogspot.com">Teratology</a>. He also has captions/details there.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkaoHu1RaSveEDQZHdj6FSfibMua2vCHLnmlncwrT9p2mdIgAMNpSqRxcMkjc9e14PSjsXjRCn6kf8NdD1xWFreZ4CXl-Ray9uZtPv2TDVQC210oSpoTnexjwrnKi_3J8Gw-baaoSGwPI/s1600/DSC_0002aCROP.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkaoHu1RaSveEDQZHdj6FSfibMua2vCHLnmlncwrT9p2mdIgAMNpSqRxcMkjc9e14PSjsXjRCn6kf8NdD1xWFreZ4CXl-Ray9uZtPv2TDVQC210oSpoTnexjwrnKi_3J8Gw-baaoSGwPI/s400/DSC_0002aCROP.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519181603385212642" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAc2gK0tDvOwg1uFQ-Z7u_qQG5bI0tYn_pF-ipbqPCG_0aQIk43H3IKzNDrBSpPfyeab0TESNJ0z6yPtObVWplSFyCGA5yiOMRxUu9bq6A2Pvm3vsqe5hEquKbDDnaT86NOnkiz_Qlgqw/s1600/DSC_0008a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAc2gK0tDvOwg1uFQ-Z7u_qQG5bI0tYn_pF-ipbqPCG_0aQIk43H3IKzNDrBSpPfyeab0TESNJ0z6yPtObVWplSFyCGA5yiOMRxUu9bq6A2Pvm3vsqe5hEquKbDDnaT86NOnkiz_Qlgqw/s400/DSC_0008a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519181595028043074" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWGN4oH_VCzyhqPA_nc1XmjMLW2rhevqlvdk3JVJ8BgMiMNPFcbPigSezqSN5SLAIXCf7_0nmUguFba0eD4y7hPqfc32OG6OiSIBujMfvYYPVegcgAnkjcox87H-7iErbQ-9vm8EMhz9c/s1600/DSC_0038a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 208px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWGN4oH_VCzyhqPA_nc1XmjMLW2rhevqlvdk3JVJ8BgMiMNPFcbPigSezqSN5SLAIXCf7_0nmUguFba0eD4y7hPqfc32OG6OiSIBujMfvYYPVegcgAnkjcox87H-7iErbQ-9vm8EMhz9c/s400/DSC_0038a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519181585194629442" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY17s15lXUD6h88YFenvaULy2oL39y3JyKCHzt56W4emcx_0SeJdVAi9v_VAJ_plJsTQxfmqupw9nYttaWzZBJNEnQL7N5gva_g-E3ndVpzM5nbwBOhZn3vQsUaHnBz0W1WU1PYYrEaIE/s1600/DSC_0040a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY17s15lXUD6h88YFenvaULy2oL39y3JyKCHzt56W4emcx_0SeJdVAi9v_VAJ_plJsTQxfmqupw9nYttaWzZBJNEnQL7N5gva_g-E3ndVpzM5nbwBOhZn3vQsUaHnBz0W1WU1PYYrEaIE/s400/DSC_0040a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519181569825855538" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqzb19oFq6OPVJ09f8GCLerjlU3f-jeKUDnJFB2-u-FjR0mmU0HG51Yy9sLWwCbVpoPRYbUMORFv3w7E0nn4HawIYxuDViK4lTbG1YWN8BGHm4IcgD7-5cPUbs2uSNs_EF-TIOfP44GA/s1600/DSC_0045a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqzb19oFq6OPVJ09f8GCLerjlU3f-jeKUDnJFB2-u-FjR0mmU0HG51Yy9sLWwCbVpoPRYbUMORFv3w7E0nn4HawIYxuDViK4lTbG1YWN8BGHm4IcgD7-5cPUbs2uSNs_EF-TIOfP44GA/s400/DSC_0045a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519181563111207394" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmYq-xon2V58iGyLlvmG_gNF6SUrUBT3u8-sTU0D70XX_ly3kXTmj-cGBfjVA8zWRjHMxFzNAFmIxMA8W4VcQo6LxkzIRzrKCI-YauJAsRDY3fphwfEEE3jdn-FrrPFPL_2RDnGu4MMnM/s1600/DSC_0055a.jpg"><img style="display:block; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhew53wRzvSLr4jupFAYI1HfVU73moqVU3St7zki9VUdzc7qxVBGv-ltoL_6tTqrcGqTU6mXyOV5pFpHFkcCpdhuyI5b_qfZWix3Tye0V39aUKQHIcjadmhhw-G3H-fct3_JC1DDCzrBho/s400/DSC_0093a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519180259930037042" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG47AZyKrhiD1NuXlJewrPCeOR0Uw-OC63vj69lJDy7sZoI2ZMARPgDAJDw4my6tZ2HQ2DVcbt-jxUirBMdKHR5uGpCHCmFtNdmQ299uCMAjIWNNie9dUDpiM105QSwvh_YlFG9XbU4II/s1600/DSC_0107a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG47AZyKrhiD1NuXlJewrPCeOR0Uw-OC63vj69lJDy7sZoI2ZMARPgDAJDw4my6tZ2HQ2DVcbt-jxUirBMdKHR5uGpCHCmFtNdmQ299uCMAjIWNNie9dUDpiM105QSwvh_YlFG9XbU4II/s400/DSC_0107a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519180247010621154" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW8V18KkO5IGDjgy7ly4-djcOoMMmDpthwjOJL9I_oqPwwZeC5HsXeoaOvrS_mGbpzopzSAvH799y2n__rMaRwPsVJr5woAbZetSYfKMvRwRQ7qmjcEK12wt0YFoS940cT6mXG5LM2aOA/s1600/DSC_0112aCROP.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW8V18KkO5IGDjgy7ly4-djcOoMMmDpthwjOJL9I_oqPwwZeC5HsXeoaOvrS_mGbpzopzSAvH799y2n__rMaRwPsVJr5woAbZetSYfKMvRwRQ7qmjcEK12wt0YFoS940cT6mXG5LM2aOA/s400/DSC_0112aCROP.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519180230047275858" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeOwFrlBkSK2NthcYlX71FUoYYAoVnOfb7_CLSG8I7aO3kGIRHlE-c9pJ_mt6_n16oY3lSKWHORN05boXDOXV_p3mz9qw7I2gloq9daszjfSmckyL2Oj5vti5OyigHwb4BkgzsuKo2LGA/s1600/DSC_0119a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeOwFrlBkSK2NthcYlX71FUoYYAoVnOfb7_CLSG8I7aO3kGIRHlE-c9pJ_mt6_n16oY3lSKWHORN05boXDOXV_p3mz9qw7I2gloq9daszjfSmckyL2Oj5vti5OyigHwb4BkgzsuKo2LGA/s400/DSC_0119a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519180226752067554" /></a>Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-84415588676353799872010-09-20T13:01:00.000-07:002010-09-20T13:04:40.878-07:00September 17th: Guest Writer Jean Hartig<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRJQHKCWgdC1I1trkRaw6bj-efgO8Na147d6AOgWM24qaZkCddfDN9PXWxadIZYyuY27TyDmsA0ec4WkuooMMhgYP5SzL-g9jICRLzagK9SQYlfNE9V3E_FU9NA9RLdnYoT_sm9eFyxRY/s1600/Jean.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRJQHKCWgdC1I1trkRaw6bj-efgO8Na147d6AOgWM24qaZkCddfDN9PXWxadIZYyuY27TyDmsA0ec4WkuooMMhgYP5SzL-g9jICRLzagK9SQYlfNE9V3E_FU9NA9RLdnYoT_sm9eFyxRY/s400/Jean.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519089086982621538" /></a><br /> Jean Hartig is a gifted poet who graduated a few years before I did from Sarah Lawrence. Her poem and bio are below. <br /><br /> The American Wing<br /><br /> Primitive economy of these trees<br /> resembling the knees of a man dropped<br /> blushing beneath a girl--oh<br /> but the light then shifted.<br /><br /> An insect shudders inside a wall.<br /><br /> The next decision would be migration.<br /> Elevated tracks and the arch of the aqueduct<br /> passing technologies. Our automobile<br /> cleaved to a rail beside a river.<br /><br /> The story of the land's unsealing from its mothers<br /> turns to mineral, our teeth caving, turns to stone.<br /><br /> He did not want to resemble the monument's<br /> perforations, a steed crawling<br /> flush before him. He did not want<br /> to see his hand beginning another's name<br /> in the water combing over the alloy.<br /><br /> The lie of that field more quick,<br /> more keen. The roof is letting<br /> something in that isn't light.<br /><br /> Unfaced.<br /><br /> A signal appeared on vees of glass, noting the number to call.<br /><br /> The man caught in it, panicked, and some of his fingers<br /> uncorked their leaves.<br /><br /> We do not believe the other<br /> in the scene. Only no mother conceiving<br /> from her conjoined seas of concern,<br /> the green-flied animal not falling from her skirts.<br /><br /> A fog-eyed train drew above us a catalog<br /> of possible apogees. On its back, the reduced queen, her limestone eye<br /> proving the canyon unmanning a purchase of steam.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Bio:</span> Jean Hartig lives in Brooklyn, New York. Her chapbook is Ave, Materia (Poetry Society of America, 2009).Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-22324386866137581892010-09-20T12:22:00.000-07:002010-09-24T08:21:36.762-07:00September 20th<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNrJg6oVmk-n17NAGzuTkawnHfoJlFB948WvMRNKMwMZntXozzadCcWMfJXv2NpywtOcPrqOeyOkbB8XYOPBmICvU4Mby94fsCgEnByT3Djd7mQoRF_MdYZmKudp5SEPPN13xYQqsz9Vk/s1600/1285002773584.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519086891423002274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNrJg6oVmk-n17NAGzuTkawnHfoJlFB948WvMRNKMwMZntXozzadCcWMfJXv2NpywtOcPrqOeyOkbB8XYOPBmICvU4Mby94fsCgEnByT3Djd7mQoRF_MdYZmKudp5SEPPN13xYQqsz9Vk/s400/1285002773584.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 266px;" /></a><br />
<br />
Ten more days! Two thirds of the way through and a beautiful Monday to spend outdoors. Jacob and I brought delicious sandwiches and ate before I wrote. Today he was accompanying to enjoy the park, not to write. We went for a walk afterwords and saw turtles and lots of nannies and private school kids. <br />
<br />
I wrote on the grass outside the Sackler wing also known as the home of the Temple of Dendur. They were setting up for an event inside. All sorts of white table cloths and sound equipment. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsonaan7DOJf74i4P5ZMQZChoTi5_naldktDImUAzxDa-Jbd2aRD-xpuP8fbi6WBNhOqE45CNYepC8Mp3vSSaDCji9rVelwhRF8ZtnQKODx9A1WX_f7UrXUkU8bnDc7V-V3mavQazTTE4/s1600/1285004776997.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519086909367386210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsonaan7DOJf74i4P5ZMQZChoTi5_naldktDImUAzxDa-Jbd2aRD-xpuP8fbi6WBNhOqE45CNYepC8Mp3vSSaDCji9rVelwhRF8ZtnQKODx9A1WX_f7UrXUkU8bnDc7V-V3mavQazTTE4/s400/1285004776997.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<br />
The World Burns a Brighter Blue<br />
<br />
I meant to share the smoked salmon,<br />
but I could not sacrifice<br />
the quiet porch. Others busy <br />
with trays on steps, salting tomatoes.<br />
That night the ocean tossed up<br />
florescent jellyfish. <br />
Grandmother, a day before eighty,<br />
cupped one in her hands. A greenish<br />
glow visible between fingers.<br />
In the light of a fire and twenty candles<br />
we sang Happy Birthday. My brother<br />
smelling of charcoal, of beef,<br />
arm around my waist. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwVh1qCv8E06CuSb3F-6kJqzX4ZWpRsgvI5n9P2Y3VNDhVyZ9wVFplDzA8JsFl03ZFlUW7dyhL3xKmob1aN8y50gz2jTBa5gGD7ZQIRuennegF79zOFPYZoL2hWd0mt_q_cn60VDfuOCs/s1600/1285002759334.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519086883545486786" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwVh1qCv8E06CuSb3F-6kJqzX4ZWpRsgvI5n9P2Y3VNDhVyZ9wVFplDzA8JsFl03ZFlUW7dyhL3xKmob1aN8y50gz2jTBa5gGD7ZQIRuennegF79zOFPYZoL2hWd0mt_q_cn60VDfuOCs/s400/1285002759334.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 266px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Factors</span><br />
Day of the Week: Monday<br />
Weather: Sunny, cool in shade, breezy.<br />
Arrived at: 12:40<br />
Departed at: 2:15<br />
Read on Commute: Thunderstruck by Eric Larson (still disappointing me).Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-52862507071542405262010-09-19T17:53:00.000-07:002010-09-24T08:27:17.548-07:00September 19th<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2VZGykJRnjFkKp-ONYiQ6mbDRUSb-OaP0vf6nfKb2gy1uibpI7V2Q_1qNsbvF9kGrf-I7FMBEVlhdNZBkSWjJxiEaB9nUID1sAT6Ir6tbzOpg8Bec4blZ74TciJhpPLtEd53oVtUCCJk/s1600/1284915306980.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518802761091617378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2VZGykJRnjFkKp-ONYiQ6mbDRUSb-OaP0vf6nfKb2gy1uibpI7V2Q_1qNsbvF9kGrf-I7FMBEVlhdNZBkSWjJxiEaB9nUID1sAT6Ir6tbzOpg8Bec4blZ74TciJhpPLtEd53oVtUCCJk/s400/1284915306980.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<br />
I was running late today due to the subway's weekend slowdown/scheduled repairs. I met Stephen Pause, the guest writer, on the steps of the museum. Stephen and I both went to Sarah Lawrence, where he was known by some "as the dead presidents guy." He has his MFA in creative nonfiction. Stephen had never been to the Met before. I love going to the Met with someone who has yet to experience it. <br />
<br />
Since the Met is actually composed of 26 different 'structures' (most not visible from the outside) to get to different areas you sometimes have to go through the main entrance hall which connects to all three sections. You exit through guards and then after crossing the hall and passing ticket booths, you enter a new section past different guards. We visited the Egyptian wing first and were halted by a guard because Stephen had a tripod. He was informed that he could not wear it on his back and must carry it. He complied, and managed to take some good photos at the Temple of Dendur. Proceeding to the American wing we passed another set of guards. He was stopped again and informed that Stephen needed to get a free pass from the security desk to bring the tripod in. We went to the desk only to be informed that he must put his tripod in coat check because one was only allowed to have a tripod on Wednesday, Friday, or Saturday. Confusing. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6iZVqlU9mVQyn82Zd2McGkmlsA5bxTZAgHR0gA9SeL4bvW2qXKs0-c8c_jgii62S_uyd8YSRq47ZoxEFF1IsvkZj2LMUaEGvZZy2goixwXCj3moEZ0D0ePUHS4fY5-pdE_Hj-3Pf3zrI/s1600/1284915816764.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518802757858098162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6iZVqlU9mVQyn82Zd2McGkmlsA5bxTZAgHR0gA9SeL4bvW2qXKs0-c8c_jgii62S_uyd8YSRq47ZoxEFF1IsvkZj2LMUaEGvZZy2goixwXCj3moEZ0D0ePUHS4fY5-pdE_Hj-3Pf3zrI/s400/1284915816764.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<br />
We went to the American Wing in search of W<span style="font-style: italic;">ashington Crossing the Delaware</span>. However the room was under repair but we were informed that several pictures of Washington resided on floor 2A. Floor 2A ended up being Visible Storage, which I have not visited before. Visible Storage is composed of items that are not currently on display elsewhere, including; candlestick elephants, chairs, baseball cards, empty frames, A work desk from Tiffany and Jonathan Singer Sargent paintings. Everything is displayed in glass display cases, hung on these rippled metal white dividers. Because of the light and glass my photo's didn't turn out well but hopefully they will give you a bit of an idea. I really enjoyed Visible Storage, partially because it felt more honest and behind the scenes than other parts of the museum and also because some of the things they decided to display where wonderful while others could be found in your neighbors trash. I wrote while wandering between cases. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhiGIQMgMjrcdxomMbfmqBJ8dDJ6J8JTtHbP73mBHooSjkHdC9AKFRXWnF11BggN7G6us1RgYrzUHgMRRD7KrWN34MsJKWC3WpXzxO3Q1II0EQn7NrlyebZrD5Ipid04rsi-YGMiLPUGY/s1600/1284915901806.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518802752287527442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhiGIQMgMjrcdxomMbfmqBJ8dDJ6J8JTtHbP73mBHooSjkHdC9AKFRXWnF11BggN7G6us1RgYrzUHgMRRD7KrWN34MsJKWC3WpXzxO3Q1II0EQn7NrlyebZrD5Ipid04rsi-YGMiLPUGY/s400/1284915901806.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<br />
Tulip Poplar (<span style="font-style: italic;">Liriodendron tulipifera)</span><br />
<br />
So clear this evening,<br />
a new dusk. My body foreign<br />
<br />
in a mirror. Cautious field <br />
of skin, aware of Marie <br />
<br />
one room over, my father listening<br />
to the radio announcer describe<br />
<br />
Mantle hitting a foul. <br />
The door unlocked. <br />
<br />
Anytime they could enter, <br />
interrupt my changed form. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqjmEvuEzUpaGz2OpqwMFv-O2uu-QTM0gzoq701vxoycx0_jR0gEDYyKU1VE5BpCD7DNBSepXCFVRJY_DF0zaTPqmFe9boLMFVqtUjhdxsiJ5pU_0FldrE9nc_RJ4GRBCmezyEqw1O7RY/s1600/1284915982726.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518802741341064162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqjmEvuEzUpaGz2OpqwMFv-O2uu-QTM0gzoq701vxoycx0_jR0gEDYyKU1VE5BpCD7DNBSepXCFVRJY_DF0zaTPqmFe9boLMFVqtUjhdxsiJ5pU_0FldrE9nc_RJ4GRBCmezyEqw1O7RY/s400/1284915982726.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />
Factors</span><br />
Day of the Week: Sunday<br />
Occupancy of Museum: Crowded<br />
Arrived at: 12:15<br />
Departed at: 2:00<br />
Read on Commute: I finished Provenance by Laney Salisbury and Aly Sujo, and I am nearing the end of Thunderstruck by Eric Larson (slow going at the moment).Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-62277554660321337762010-09-18T10:23:00.000-07:002010-09-18T11:17:24.281-07:00September 18th<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5QdvdmZ-YCY2XTCM8c6rglR84ehrCXLjxhx_HIlB3eBO_XxPW22O2WxV39Q3cyQwazEhuD_dCbVGHgdTbxGhvmPySH8s0Kmpt0i1MFyze8ahICUE8glYp5pNte6K6o0WpQXCdfgl3xn0/s1600/Two+statues.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5QdvdmZ-YCY2XTCM8c6rglR84ehrCXLjxhx_HIlB3eBO_XxPW22O2WxV39Q3cyQwazEhuD_dCbVGHgdTbxGhvmPySH8s0Kmpt0i1MFyze8ahICUE8glYp5pNte6K6o0WpQXCdfgl3xn0/s400/Two+statues.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518306575015135954" /></a><br /><br />I wrote in the rather peculiar dining room of the Louis Downe house which was constructed in London in the mid 1970's. This room is part of the extensive Anne Laurie Aitken Galleries. There is nowhere in the galleries to sit (that isn't roped off) so I wrote standing today. The whole time I was there only one other person entered the room. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPWIlzz70nWGfg9D-eXP5kYovkSUSEvLhGBdJ57iQ1Yu7rVgrV5_qYXbDpn8qlK1eW3qteZbzYs_b67IpJzgm6eVqenVnyI3mDEmxmro_MOME9hUXO-SG2w_Pc6SqJ2ahX9DmYALP3-s8/s1600/dining+room.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPWIlzz70nWGfg9D-eXP5kYovkSUSEvLhGBdJ57iQ1Yu7rVgrV5_qYXbDpn8qlK1eW3qteZbzYs_b67IpJzgm6eVqenVnyI3mDEmxmro_MOME9hUXO-SG2w_Pc6SqJ2ahX9DmYALP3-s8/s400/dining+room.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518306558979318002" /></a><br /><br />The Dinner Party<br /><br />To be surrounded by statuary, <br />the false armor of men,<br />pedestal heightened,<br /><br />and at the dinner table,<br />green beans and steak<br />are on your plate,<br /><br />the smallest sherry glass <br />in your hand. The nude <br />statues have fig leaves.<br /><br />The shadow they cast less noticeable <br />underneath the chandelier, <br />false candles refracted. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyMqL7NaXPmppTOHEO5TiEF-Vf91CwdZ7aUYUOG1lSRw4XnGLzmI__euJvCkFpy97BnaKj3KIE9TZRjpJ2yKuEW0WfQjz5gcz80cSCgXqiJMzzJQ8_au-rYNksu5LQN5_iomJNLhEvEFA/s1600/solder.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyMqL7NaXPmppTOHEO5TiEF-Vf91CwdZ7aUYUOG1lSRw4XnGLzmI__euJvCkFpy97BnaKj3KIE9TZRjpJ2yKuEW0WfQjz5gcz80cSCgXqiJMzzJQ8_au-rYNksu5LQN5_iomJNLhEvEFA/s400/solder.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518306614555918530" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Factors</span><br />Day of the Week: Saturday<br />Occupancy of Museum: Crowded at the entrances, empty elsewhere.<br />Arrived at: 9:30<br />Departed at: 10:30<br />Read on Commute: Provenance by Laney Salisbury and Aly Sujo, which is a little uneven at the moment.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-49825211692188536042010-09-17T12:33:00.000-07:002011-05-20T11:12:13.824-07:00September 17th<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicNwymAnyHam86M9dMvoaUSaF_B39om4i_nzTKCmG3KQD1PUl9VyJlhuO_yZBFYAHFikvkr1BDUKIhuKci5ST318KIPvmUYP5Otp8f4Tt_QSLq63rgMqPj81ePNxYqOcJTYCiX66xP3wo/s1600/1284732568415.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517971177373700066" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicNwymAnyHam86M9dMvoaUSaF_B39om4i_nzTKCmG3KQD1PUl9VyJlhuO_yZBFYAHFikvkr1BDUKIhuKci5ST318KIPvmUYP5Otp8f4Tt_QSLq63rgMqPj81ePNxYqOcJTYCiX66xP3wo/s400/1284732568415.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 266px;" /></a><br />
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My guest writer today was the lovely Jean Hartig, who had been for a run around the storm stricken Prospect Park before meeting me on the way to the subway. It was nice to have someone to share the commute with, due to the storm the commute was considerably longer today then it normally is. All the trains were running late.<br />
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Jean chose the American Wing and it was very nice to be back there. Even though there is something cold and formal about the room I enjoy writing there because of the light. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZDVr1VNrXtHMTXMoDEoqGwx69036ZY-a_a5G7wXrnpMul-itoGsCvxFQHwhCplt78MRt4L6UpoBMnZCKS-vcOeOnjCgMIv2OR57QtZ-Yd267L9IhT8qLJ2vSdUhNW4TgjKgHgMH0d6Q/s1600/1284732599501.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517971156642743506" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZDVr1VNrXtHMTXMoDEoqGwx69036ZY-a_a5G7wXrnpMul-itoGsCvxFQHwhCplt78MRt4L6UpoBMnZCKS-vcOeOnjCgMIv2OR57QtZ-Yd267L9IhT8qLJ2vSdUhNW4TgjKgHgMH0d6Q/s400/1284732599501.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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E<b>dited to Remove Poem: An edited version of this poem has since been published. </b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitQjY_w20NC4RmsFxTXgqVhH5UPwWluamIRfWXXR-B6meKU0N4Q-k_sF9tY71L0SHO-Qww7l1jn_7xoEa464xydFwiJDQ-HDYIePwh09aDotR1J9Q9zXtfus1vet7i4RFilVqkiNYlTJQ/s1600/1284732687080.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517971134384169346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitQjY_w20NC4RmsFxTXgqVhH5UPwWluamIRfWXXR-B6meKU0N4Q-k_sF9tY71L0SHO-Qww7l1jn_7xoEa464xydFwiJDQ-HDYIePwh09aDotR1J9Q9zXtfus1vet7i4RFilVqkiNYlTJQ/s400/1284732687080.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 266px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">Factors</span><br />
Day of the Week: Friday<br />
Occupancy of Museum: Empty<br />
Arrived at: 9:45<br />
Departed at: 11:00<br />
Read on Commute: On the way there I talked and on the return trip I read a little more of <span style="font-style: italic;">Provenance</span> by Laney Salisbury and Aly Sujo.Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2873806697966299592.post-24143804984741022882010-09-17T12:28:00.000-07:002010-09-17T12:33:52.036-07:00September 14th: Shannon Elizabeth Hardwick (Photo's)Shannon's wonderful photographs from outside and inside the met are shown below. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-jcJ6NtBbjW1NqTZN6t1u-H3tmpLGC5zbqmuiJJBqfSKkgsM0SkN-FlorDYpBzszecs1UQP0JVmp8MT2t7X0KMaahFIxwKjEjzxb4fkL2si1MrHzZNHP3QI8xYmedQjKrx_QySwVeSRg/s1600/62961_654952717524_18302918_37337710_6917245_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-jcJ6NtBbjW1NqTZN6t1u-H3tmpLGC5zbqmuiJJBqfSKkgsM0SkN-FlorDYpBzszecs1UQP0JVmp8MT2t7X0KMaahFIxwKjEjzxb4fkL2si1MrHzZNHP3QI8xYmedQjKrx_QySwVeSRg/s400/62961_654952717524_18302918_37337710_6917245_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517967815699007010" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQo9-42SAu179T5a0ikbqu0SBDmQJMbRO5jhSb4CsQua6Nz-SQjd9MKDLBIrQam2fUXg1foJjZaVdBVP9ghnvmYvL6G6iVEFWro6PsELyceCEXKJg9sE_rGgJZooRZ5ply4q5raPZnSoY/s1600/61722_654953011934_18302918_37337718_8214936_n-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQo9-42SAu179T5a0ikbqu0SBDmQJMbRO5jhSb4CsQua6Nz-SQjd9MKDLBIrQam2fUXg1foJjZaVdBVP9ghnvmYvL6G6iVEFWro6PsELyceCEXKJg9sE_rGgJZooRZ5ply4q5raPZnSoY/s400/61722_654953011934_18302918_37337718_8214936_n-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517967808116808930" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjImreaRXtTHcdpCXad-_-gsqsmOj1yCAewU0KFE_cjmP3LPGkqijlpqq2QWjq2wVLPpxZytdTkLnAObypoTvGJJBgKTZ5Pbtl_xq2a67HFnxVZCHzIRGApWmBtlksoZUDH-pIgoa5LFU4/s1600/59573_654953101754_18302918_37337720_1442842_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjImreaRXtTHcdpCXad-_-gsqsmOj1yCAewU0KFE_cjmP3LPGkqijlpqq2QWjq2wVLPpxZytdTkLnAObypoTvGJJBgKTZ5Pbtl_xq2a67HFnxVZCHzIRGApWmBtlksoZUDH-pIgoa5LFU4/s400/59573_654953101754_18302918_37337720_1442842_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517967800519206994" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-SN_0hKpwRKva6K3rGRNc3YN3tb9FJHv46UUIRPuZ2yoS5ASRCT58SpKG1HwWwYNQtMx0nxaOIYaRQkVnx7pr9PJNaiPoBWo21QVIkk0qNKudQ294EQgquggj-8BkGqVvpf28dEO8hZo/s1600/58555_654952897164_18302918_37337712_7780434_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-SN_0hKpwRKva6K3rGRNc3YN3tb9FJHv46UUIRPuZ2yoS5ASRCT58SpKG1HwWwYNQtMx0nxaOIYaRQkVnx7pr9PJNaiPoBWo21QVIkk0qNKudQ294EQgquggj-8BkGqVvpf28dEO8hZo/s400/58555_654952897164_18302918_37337712_7780434_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517967792672285922" /></a>Caitlinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02718549544553447977noreply@blogger.com0