Just as I was heading out the door this evening I realized I hadn't blown out a scented candle I had burning in a jar in my room. Before I snuffed it, though, I saw there was a ridge of unmelted wax around one side, and my OCD (undiagnosed, but...) I smush that ridge down so the whole thing would melt evenly. Using the end of a plastic spoon I angled around the flame and under the top of the jar to get to the ridge, pulling it down into the melted wax. Then the spoon slipped - I found myself with a hand- and face-full of (black) melted wax spatters. The first thought was 'I'm burning! No, not burning - is it going to burn? DON'T MOVE' followed by the discovery that while the wax had fortunately not been hot enough to burn, I was now covered in it, scarf, coat, and all. My next thought was to photographically document the moment and update my Facebook status.
Seriously.
There are a couple of surprises today - the main was was realizing just how trained we have become to sharing everything electronically. The refrain 'pictures or it didn't happen!' is practically reality - seemingly an actual reality for me, as I immediately took a picture of myself with my phone, getting a wax-covered hand into the shot with my face, and then went upstairs to present the incident to my father. He told whoever he was talking to on the phone that his daughter looked like a 'chocolate-chip cookie' for some reason.
Remember how when some embarrassing or silly accident happened you used to look around furtively and hope no one had seen you? And how you'd try to forget it had ever occurred until you suddenly remembered it months or years later when you were trying to win a 'Most Embarrassing Story' contest? I think that Facebook, with its voracious and insatiable appetite for updates and information, has bred that tendency out of us. Now nothing has happened unless there is photographic evidence and some kind of validation. I'm not quite sure if this is a good thing or not - we seem to be gradually growing less and less discretionary, but we might also be getting more and more relatably human. It's hard to stand in awe of someone who uploads a picture of themselves wearing wax splatters and a sheepish smirk; it's maybe easy to see yourself doing the same thing.
(In retrospect, I'm not sure I'll post my picture. Vanity may beat out a need for validation - or perhaps there's still a touch of discretionary embarrassment surviving still. Also...)
In other news, the next surprise of the day came when, after cleaning the wax off my hands (non-burning candle wax peels easily off skin, did you know?) I remembered I still hadn't blown out the candle. Seeing I hadn't actually finished pressing down the unmelted ridge, I reached for my spoon and went at it AGAIN - and AGAIN, the spoon slipped and I got a SECOND splatter. See the post title; what did I actually think would happen?
Pressing the wax out of the fabric of my scarf and coat with an iron between towels worked pretty well; we'll see tomorrow if the mark will come all the way out of my shirt.
I'm still picking bits of wax out of my hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes.
At least I smell good!
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Apropos of nothing other than the fact that I love it, THIS:
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Showing posts with label Day 6. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Day 6. Show all posts
January 30, 2013
August 16, 2011
Ten Things - Part 6
6
STYLE IS NOT TO BE TRUSTED.
I think this idea first occurred to me when I was looking at a marvellous etching of a bull by Picasso. It was an illustration for a story by Balzac called The Hidden Masterpiece. I am sure that you all know it. It is a bull that is expressed in 12 different styles going from very naturalistic version of a bull to an absolutely reductive single line abstraction and everything else along the way. What is clear just from looking at this single print is that style is irrelevant. In every one of these cases, from extreme abstraction to acute naturalism they are extraordinary regardless of the style. It’s absurd to be loyal to a style. It does not deserve your loyalty. I must say that for old design professionals it is a problem because the field is driven by economic consideration more than anything else. Style change is usually linked to economic factors, as all of you know who have read Marx. Also fatigue occurs when people see too much of the same thing too often. So every ten years or so there is a stylistic shift and things are made to look different. Typefaces go in and out of style and the visual system shifts a little bit. If you are around for a long time as a designer, you have an essential problem of what to do. I mean, after all, you have developed a vocabulary, a form that is your own. It is one of the ways that you distinguish yourself from your peers, and establish your identity in the field. How you maintain your own belief system and preferences becomes a real balancing act. The question of whether you pursue change or whether you maintain your own distinct form becomes difficult. We have all seen the work of illustrious practitioners that suddenly look old-fashioned or, more precisely, belonging to another moment in time. And there are sad stories such as the one about Cassandre, arguably the greatest graphic designer of the twentieth century, who couldn’t make a living at the end of his life and committed suicide.
STYLE IS NOT TO BE TRUSTED.
I think this idea first occurred to me when I was looking at a marvellous etching of a bull by Picasso. It was an illustration for a story by Balzac called The Hidden Masterpiece. I am sure that you all know it. It is a bull that is expressed in 12 different styles going from very naturalistic version of a bull to an absolutely reductive single line abstraction and everything else along the way. What is clear just from looking at this single print is that style is irrelevant. In every one of these cases, from extreme abstraction to acute naturalism they are extraordinary regardless of the style. It’s absurd to be loyal to a style. It does not deserve your loyalty. I must say that for old design professionals it is a problem because the field is driven by economic consideration more than anything else. Style change is usually linked to economic factors, as all of you know who have read Marx. Also fatigue occurs when people see too much of the same thing too often. So every ten years or so there is a stylistic shift and things are made to look different. Typefaces go in and out of style and the visual system shifts a little bit. If you are around for a long time as a designer, you have an essential problem of what to do. I mean, after all, you have developed a vocabulary, a form that is your own. It is one of the ways that you distinguish yourself from your peers, and establish your identity in the field. How you maintain your own belief system and preferences becomes a real balancing act. The question of whether you pursue change or whether you maintain your own distinct form becomes difficult. We have all seen the work of illustrious practitioners that suddenly look old-fashioned or, more precisely, belonging to another moment in time. And there are sad stories such as the one about Cassandre, arguably the greatest graphic designer of the twentieth century, who couldn’t make a living at the end of his life and committed suicide.
But the point is that anybody who is in this for the long haul has to decide how to respond to change in the zeitgeist. What is it that people now expect that they formerly didn’t want? And how to respond to that desire in a way that doesn’t change your sense of integrity and purpose.
Citation, you got it
August 27, 2010
Still Reeling
I understand from a reliable source that certain people don't know what to think about particular movies until I review them, so... *Ahem*
...
... if you were expecting some catchy title or big razzle-dazzle moment right there, I apologize. Drew a total blank - I got nothin'. Just, you know, gonna start talking about movies. In no particular order.
Inception: Yep. Go see it. You are smart enough, you are cool enough, and darn it - people like you. Also, they like the movie, and with good reason. Just go. And when you go a second time, call me - I need to see it again, too.
Salt: In my opinion, don't bother. It's every other spy movie you've seen and thought was cool/dark/stylish, only it's not any fun. Yay Angelina Jolie for being a female action star, but... could you pick up some Bond-like repartee, or Bourne-style sheepishness, or ANYTHING to make us actually care about your character? Thanks. Just sayin'. I'd rather watch Knight and Day.
Knight and Day: It's so sad when actors' personal lives invade their professional personas to the point that audiences stay away from their films. (1 - I, ironically, blame the media. 2 - That first sentence had some awesome alliteration. Zing!) Tom Cruise may have hijacked the Crazy Train and gotten himself elected mayor of CrazyTown, but this movie is what we all used to love about Tom Cruise. It's wry, tongue-in-cheek, deadpan-with-a-twinkle, and has chemistry and over-the-top (but not TOO over-the-top) action. Even Cameron Diaz works in this movie. I KNOW, right? I saw it twice in the theater (matinees, but still) and I wouldn't mind seeing it again. It's violent but not gory, comparatively clean and still funny, and has a couple of niiiiice kisses and no sex. I'll go for the DVD, and I'll buy it still shaking my head that the film didn't do better on screen.
(And now I'm DYING to get a couple more "p"-words into that initial sentence. Presuppose? Persistent? Preclude? Postulate? Argggh!)
Nanny McPhee Returns: Ah, Emma Thompson. How I love and respect you! How I admire and revere your work and talent! And how befuddled I am by what you may or may not have been trying to accomplish with your latest opus to warts, oversized teeth, and the sparkly, pound-y magic of stern, riddilistic (I totally just made that up!), standoffish loving care! Nanny McPhee (the 1st) is a jewel, truly. It's odd, quirky, and completely beautiful. NMcP Returns ("Small 'c', large 'P'" - Say what? Is that the new "I did knock"?) is odd, quirky, and has moments of beauty scattered throughout a highly uneven and unstable "plot". Maggie Gyllenhall is completely charming and adorable. Rhys Ifans is not. The children are thoroughly engaging and delightful. The "henchladies" are not. The CGI works, against your better judgement - it's not quite real, it's not quite magical, it's just a little "off", but you'll smile anyway. Weird. Two bonus features: Ewan McGregor's cameo is absolutely swoon-worthy (Ewan! Where have you BEEN!?!), and in no other movie this year will your kids learn how to dismantle a WWII-era UXB (UneXploded Bomb). So, there is that.
And, in conclusion, a DVD review:
Date Night: I would happily watch Tina Fey and Steve Carrell rifff off of each other while reading the phone book (I was going to say "something dire like 'Canterbury Tales'" but then I imagined Carrell and Fey mucking with Chaucer and went a'quiver with delight) because, seriously, they make the perfect couple. The underlying thread of the story - their relationship - is really wonderful, and all the craziness that happens on top is outrageous, ridiculous, and very very funny. I'm not sure how all that escaped the critics. Good times right there, and all to be had for the price of a (free, if you know how to shop) Redbox rental (I know I have a coupon here somewhere).
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Honestly, I haven't been to very many movies lately, and not much out there looks all that interesting. I'll probably drag myself out to see Despicable Me (and enjoy it) before too long, but other than that I'm just waiting for the second half of Glee Season 1 on DVD, Easy A, Voyage of the DawnTreader, and Tron: Legacy. I will most likely also see Legend of the Guardians: Owls of Ga'hoole, but ONLY for the artistic aspects and because I can't get away from that 30 Seconds to Mars song. YOU KNOW THE ONE.
Happy movie watching! Let me know your favorites, and feel free to leave any suggestions that I should see and/or avoid!
P.S. Yes, I put that third "f" in "rifff" on purpose.
P.P.S. The title of this blog post is now one of my favorite content-appropriate puns ever. It will someday be the name of my column or TV show.
P.P.P.S. You're hearing that song in your head right now, aren't you? You totally are.
June 27, 2009
October 06, 2008
Day 6 - This One Time, in High School...
In which we shall see: A much longer post than I had originally intended (with TONS of commas!), and... well, that covers it. Oh, and a video, and a snake.
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By consensus (or, 2 out of 3) today's topic will be: My Worst Date Ever. (I originally typed "My Worst Dave Ever", and well, that could be a whole 'nother blog!)
When I was a senior in high school I was living in the era of the "creative date". You couldn't just call someone and say, "Um, so, hey, I was thinking that, uh, maybe you'd wanna, you know, like sorta maybe gotothedanceiwthme? Huh?" Oh, no, you had to fill a garbage can (25-gallon-plus size) with Hershey chocolates, decorate the outside attractively and include a punny message like, "It'll be buckets of HUGS and KISSES for you if you go to the dance with ME! Look inside for my name!" and then get some suitably anonymous friend to deliver the can to the invitee's house (preferably while they were not home, so as to plant the can in the middle of their bedroom). Said invitee would then either call over all their friends to help dump out the chocolate and carefully unwrap each one, saving the individual letters you re-wrapped into a few candies and attempting to unravel the mystery name, OR start eating the candy and calling everyone they could think of until someone would admit who it was that (started stalking them) asked them to the dance. Invitee would then respond with an equally-or-greater creative response, a creative meal (such as Dinner in the Middle of a Grocery Store After Blindfolding Your Date) would be planned, and you'd go to the dance to have pictures taken. (No. You can't see any of my dance pictures. OK, maybe later.)
Like much of my high-school career, this aspect of life in Utah was destined to fail me. (Ooh, did that sound bitter? Refer to post topic, please.) About two weeks before a girls' choice dance (the norm for asking was around a month in advance - seriously) a friend of mine was backstage bemoaning that since she'd recently broken up with her long-term boyfriend (4 months, give-or-take) he didn't have a date to the dance, and she'd already asked her new boyfriend, and it WAS HER TURN, and she just FELT SO BAD!!! (Obviously, we were drama students. ((For accuracy's sake, I had to go back and add a couple more exclamation marks.))) Normally, this kind of talking would make me hate the speaker, but this girl was one of those it was impossible to hate (I hate those kinds of girls) and I happened to know her ex-boyfriend a little, so... I told her I would ask him. She replied, "Great! He's out on the front of the stage!"
Here's where I made a couple of mistakes. 1) Assuming it would be no big deal, I walked around the curtain to ask him to the dance. Obviously I was an idiot for forgetting for even one second that EVERYTHING in high school is a Big Deal. 2) I asked him. Just asked him, no candy, no balloons, no covering his bedroom with glow-in-the-dark stars or his driveway with candles spelling out my punny message. SO UNCOOL! 3) I asked him, catching him off-guard, thus a) robbing him of the opportunity to find some creative way to turn me down or b) getting a friend to sheepishly tell me he'd "already been asked" or c) giving him the chance to collect his thoughts to figure out how to turn me down, since [see point Number 1] and it takes more than a few seconds for high-school boys to collect the few thoughts they have (swimming desperately as those thoughts are in a sea of hormones and sugar). I asked him to the dance, calmly and cheerfully - and the expression on his face was my first indication that this was NOT, after all, a good idea. He said yes [see point Number 3], and since I didn't yet have the savvy to get myself out of the situation, I said "OK" and walked away.
I got back with the system and planned a Creative Dinner, and my date (oh, let's call him "Jeff") immediately began exhibiting a very Bad Attitude. It was stupid, and did he have to, and could this be any more lame, and would I please stop making him trip over things since he couldn't see with the dumb blindfold on! I was ready for the date to be over before we even made it into the grocery store. (Shut up.) We ate and headed over to the dance to meet up with the rest of our group (all high-school dances were attended in parties of 12 - 6 couples - or more). "Jeff" ran off to greet some friends while I waited in the line for pictures. Occasionally some couple or other from the group would trade out of the line so they could go dance for a song or two (right, did I mention this was a HUGE very-slow-moving line?) but my date never returned. Someone finally tracked him down just as we made it to the head of the line, and he started complaining loudly about having a headache. Pictures taken (they WERE, in fact, stupid - thanks, "Jeff") we realized we had been at the dance for an hour and a half and were ready to leave. (Not one song did he dance with me. Not ONE.) I was completely and utterly fed up, and just wanted to get to the ice cream.
This being a Creative Date, we girls had naturally planned an After-Dance Activity (as always, involving ice cream). The twelve or so of us headed out the front of the school to where we'd parked just off the long driveway that curved past the main doors. As we reached this driveway a car approached and the group split to let it pass. I was closest to the car, and as it drove by me I heard someone laugh - and I looked up just in time to get a water balloon in the face. Now, let me draw your attention to the fact that an object thrown from a moving vehicle does tend to pick up a fair amount of force... that balloon and the subsequent explosion HURT. I stood there dripping, half my head and the left side of my shirt soaked, face throbbing, and thought, "Huh."
My group figured out something had happened, and hustled me to a car - I sat in the front, "Jeff" sat in the back, and at one point I remember him saying, "How was I supposed to know she'd get hit with a water balloon?" as if someone was accusing him of it being his fault, or even actually caring that he was there. We arrived at my house, the site of the After-Dance Activity; I turned the group loose on the fooseball table (really), dried off a little (fortunately, thanks to my date, I no longer cared how I looked), and got "Jeff" some aspirin and water (in a cup) for his headache. He was extremely solicitous about how I was feeling - I really couldn't have cared less about his efforts at that point. Things broke up shortly and I drove him home, and it was the first and only time I did not get out of the car to give a date a hug or a handshake or walk him to the door or ANYTHING. I never spoke to him
again, not even when I gave him his copies of the (lame) dance pictures. I also promised myself I would never go out with a friend's ex again, and I haven't. Lesson learned! (I'm also a little gun-shy about water balloons - the video above gives me the willies!)
* * * * * *
By consensus (or, 2 out of 3) today's topic will be: My Worst Date Ever. (I originally typed "My Worst Dave Ever", and well, that could be a whole 'nother blog!)
When I was a senior in high school I was living in the era of the "creative date". You couldn't just call someone and say, "Um, so, hey, I was thinking that, uh, maybe you'd wanna, you know, like sorta maybe gotothedanceiwthme? Huh?" Oh, no, you had to fill a garbage can (25-gallon-plus size) with Hershey chocolates, decorate the outside attractively and include a punny message like, "It'll be buckets of HUGS and KISSES for you if you go to the dance with ME! Look inside for my name!" and then get some suitably anonymous friend to deliver the can to the invitee's house (preferably while they were not home, so as to plant the can in the middle of their bedroom). Said invitee would then either call over all their friends to help dump out the chocolate and carefully unwrap each one, saving the individual letters you re-wrapped into a few candies and attempting to unravel the mystery name, OR start eating the candy and calling everyone they could think of until someone would admit who it was that (started stalking them) asked them to the dance. Invitee would then respond with an equally-or-greater creative response, a creative meal (such as Dinner in the Middle of a Grocery Store After Blindfolding Your Date) would be planned, and you'd go to the dance to have pictures taken. (No. You can't see any of my dance pictures. OK, maybe later.)
Like much of my high-school career, this aspect of life in Utah was destined to fail me. (Ooh, did that sound bitter? Refer to post topic, please.) About two weeks before a girls' choice dance (the norm for asking was around a month in advance - seriously) a friend of mine was backstage bemoaning that since she'd recently broken up with her long-term boyfriend (4 months, give-or-take) he didn't have a date to the dance, and she'd already asked her new boyfriend, and it WAS HER TURN, and she just FELT SO BAD!!! (Obviously, we were drama students. ((For accuracy's sake, I had to go back and add a couple more exclamation marks.))) Normally, this kind of talking would make me hate the speaker, but this girl was one of those it was impossible to hate (I hate those kinds of girls) and I happened to know her ex-boyfriend a little, so... I told her I would ask him. She replied, "Great! He's out on the front of the stage!"
Here's where I made a couple of mistakes. 1) Assuming it would be no big deal, I walked around the curtain to ask him to the dance. Obviously I was an idiot for forgetting for even one second that EVERYTHING in high school is a Big Deal. 2) I asked him. Just asked him, no candy, no balloons, no covering his bedroom with glow-in-the-dark stars or his driveway with candles spelling out my punny message. SO UNCOOL! 3) I asked him, catching him off-guard, thus a) robbing him of the opportunity to find some creative way to turn me down or b) getting a friend to sheepishly tell me he'd "already been asked" or c) giving him the chance to collect his thoughts to figure out how to turn me down, since [see point Number 1] and it takes more than a few seconds for high-school boys to collect the few thoughts they have (swimming desperately as those thoughts are in a sea of hormones and sugar). I asked him to the dance, calmly and cheerfully - and the expression on his face was my first indication that this was NOT, after all, a good idea. He said yes [see point Number 3], and since I didn't yet have the savvy to get myself out of the situation, I said "OK" and walked away.
I got back with the system and planned a Creative Dinner, and my date (oh, let's call him "Jeff") immediately began exhibiting a very Bad Attitude. It was stupid, and did he have to, and could this be any more lame, and would I please stop making him trip over things since he couldn't see with the dumb blindfold on! I was ready for the date to be over before we even made it into the grocery store. (Shut up.) We ate and headed over to the dance to meet up with the rest of our group (all high-school dances were attended in parties of 12 - 6 couples - or more). "Jeff" ran off to greet some friends while I waited in the line for pictures. Occasionally some couple or other from the group would trade out of the line so they could go dance for a song or two (right, did I mention this was a HUGE very-slow-moving line?) but my date never returned. Someone finally tracked him down just as we made it to the head of the line, and he started complaining loudly about having a headache. Pictures taken (they WERE, in fact, stupid - thanks, "Jeff") we realized we had been at the dance for an hour and a half and were ready to leave. (Not one song did he dance with me. Not ONE.) I was completely and utterly fed up, and just wanted to get to the ice cream.
This being a Creative Date, we girls had naturally planned an After-Dance Activity (as always, involving ice cream). The twelve or so of us headed out the front of the school to where we'd parked just off the long driveway that curved past the main doors. As we reached this driveway a car approached and the group split to let it pass. I was closest to the car, and as it drove by me I heard someone laugh - and I looked up just in time to get a water balloon in the face. Now, let me draw your attention to the fact that an object thrown from a moving vehicle does tend to pick up a fair amount of force... that balloon and the subsequent explosion HURT. I stood there dripping, half my head and the left side of my shirt soaked, face throbbing, and thought, "Huh."
My group figured out something had happened, and hustled me to a car - I sat in the front, "Jeff" sat in the back, and at one point I remember him saying, "How was I supposed to know she'd get hit with a water balloon?" as if someone was accusing him of it being his fault, or even actually caring that he was there. We arrived at my house, the site of the After-Dance Activity; I turned the group loose on the fooseball table (really), dried off a little (fortunately, thanks to my date, I no longer cared how I looked), and got "Jeff" some aspirin and water (in a cup) for his headache. He was extremely solicitous about how I was feeling - I really couldn't have cared less about his efforts at that point. Things broke up shortly and I drove him home, and it was the first and only time I did not get out of the car to give a date a hug or a handshake or walk him to the door or ANYTHING. I never spoke to him
again, not even when I gave him his copies of the (lame) dance pictures. I also promised myself I would never go out with a friend's ex again, and I haven't. Lesson learned! (I'm also a little gun-shy about water balloons - the video above gives me the willies!)This picture is because the dance was jungle-themed, and also because it kind of reminds me of "Jeff". My friend's breakup makes sense, eh?
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