Feb. 13th, 2004

sidewalksparkle: (Default)
I started out the day with candy grams (delivered in 1st Hour) from Daniel, Kristen, and Colin Firth (Molly). And I've been happy since. Another factor in the happiness may be that I've also eaten chocolate today. And tonight I'm going to see Molly in "A Chorus Line." And I talked to Daniel about not going to next weekend's dance and we decided to do something cheaper (and probably more fun) instead, like dinner and a movie or dinner and a video or a movie without dinner or something.

I love Friday the 13th!

The most awkward part of today (there's always an awkward part) came when our painting sub--the same sub I didn't like when he subbed for Madame E. a few times--started talking to me about my painting. It wasn't a horrible conversation, but as a person with an art degree (or maybe as a person with strange curiosity, or as a person with a natural tendency to be obnoxious) got really excited about the potential symbolism. (Woman in crazy pink coat leaning in a door frame in the foreground, with man sitting in chair in the background, sharply smaller than the woman.) He attempted to interpret, in fact, after telling me "Now, don't try to tell me there isn't any symbolism going on here!" He asked me if I knew of Frida Kahlo and then guessed that the symbolism was a mother-daughter relationship. I said no and explained that the unpainted figure in the background is male, or will be when I paint him. Then he said "Freud would have a field day with this one!" and I was slightly embarrassed. It's not that any of this was so awful, but I have such bad feelings about this man after the stupid days in French class. What was I supposed to say "Ah, yes, Sigmund Freud, who felt all things were motivated by sexuality! Surely this painting stems back to strange childhood events that would probably reveal themselves in extensive psychoanalysis!" I am in week four or five of learning about Psychology and have a very limited knowledge of Freud, but whether this is correct or not, it's especially weird because the model for the woman in the painting is Molly, and she's just, well, Molly.

Even so, I don't deny that I'm not trying for some symbolic meaning as I paint. Who could deny that? I think very few paintings are simply paint slapped on a canvas without thought. Even free form abstractions are a response to something. In this case, I'm thinking that the woman is looking at a person outside the image (the viewer, or a person in the room into which she peers) and is completely overjoyed to see him or her. And somehow the man in the chair feels left out. I was going to paint everything drab except for Molly's pink coat, but I decided to paint everything vibrant and bright except for the man and the rug his chair rests upon. Instead of making the woman the out-of-place character (the typically depicted attempt to spread one's wings within the confines of a domestic hell), I'm making the whole room her place and the man is the one who seems shadowy and lost. In all honesty, the reason I did this is because I painted the wall bright yellow on a whim and decided I wanted to keep it.

Last night I read through a couple of my paper journals, the ones I filled in 2002 and 2003. I was sort of surprised to discover that I while I am still very much the same person I was then, I've undergone a lot of changes. The main reason this surprised me was that I took a very controlled, reasonable response to a lot of really insane, mood-swingy happiness, especially during last winter. I was absolutely aware of what effect various events were going to have on the future; I was living an evaluating at the same time. For example, in one entry I mentioned that I was beginning to listen to Radiohead's Kid A very frequently and that it made me sad, not so much because of the music itself but because I knew I would associate it with many memories that would someday seem melancholy. There were also a lot of things I had forgotten about completely that came rushing predictibly back. For example, because Brent is doing so well, I hadn't thought in a long time about how I cried in the church bathroom during the 30-Hour-Famine lock-in because we'd just found out about his heart attack and I wasn't comfortable enough around any of the people there to freak out in their midst. I now remember frantically washing my face and attempting to calm down so people wouldn't start to knock on the door. I also remember that I took cranberry juice home from that event and that Kristen and I went to see The Hours the next day and somehow it made me feel a lot better and I was barely hungry during the whole 30 hours of not eating and that a few weeks later, Brent and Suzanne came to church and this summer I went to their house a few times to sit for Quinn and Lucas and everything was okay. I'm really glad about that.

It's so wonderful that it is another weekend. I'm reading Orlando by Virginia Woolf (probably for the term paper) and so far, I love it.

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