For my assignment two, I have decided to use the website of San Francisco’s Museum of Modern Art. Nor-Cal pride aside, I really do think that SFMOMA is a great museum. The city of San Francisco itself is a very unique city. I’ve almost thought that it was like an east coast city on the west coast, which makes it that much better. San Francisco has a personality all it’s own, and this singularity is expressed in its modern art museum. It would only be appropriate for the SFMOMA to be as original as the city it’s in.
The SFMOMA’s website is also very unique. I love it and visit it frequently to see what’s new or to buy tickets for my next visit whenever I’m back home. There are a few specific elements of the site that make it stand out to me; its modernity and simplicity.
To me, modernity and simplicity go hand in hand. The interior designs, lighting, architecture, fashion collections, that look the most modern to me, are most often the designs that looks the most simple. There is something to be said about keeping things simple and minimal. Our lives are run by technology which is supposed to make our lives more simple and efficient. It seems as if that is what our lives center around. There is a simplicity to modern art as well. Although they can be very complex and have lots of depth, it can be said that some pieces look similar to finger paintings you did in preschool. In that sense, there is a level of simplicity, not necessarily in terms of technique, but in terms of the overall appearance of the final product.
SFMOMA’s homepage is decorated with orange rectangular blocks and few images of the highlighted exhibits. The design and layout is very simple and clean. There aren’t millions of links and nothing looks complicated. Yet the bright colors are visually stimulating and your eye is drawn to the three selected images of paintings featured in the Picasso and Brice Marden exhibits. Because there are only three pictures on the home page, you aren’t overwhelmed and can concentrate on what you see.
The layout of the site is also very simple. The links are located at the top, which makes it very easy to find what you are looking find. It’s even easy to casually work your way through the site even if you don’t know what you’re looking for! As you explore and look at different pages of the site, you’ll see the color design and layout change, yet the site maintains its overall theme; simplicity and modernity.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Just Something I Wrote
Eighteen
I sat at my vanity, surrounded by trinkets, music boxes and various pink, sparkly things that I had collected throughout my childhood. And now I looked in the mirror to see my reflection, not one of a little girl, but one of a full fledged adult. Adult. What a scary word, I thought to myself.
“Today, I am eighteen,” I said aloud to nobody in particular. I just wanted to test the words out and see how it felt. I let the sentence roll over in my mouth and my mind as I looked at myself in the mirror, wondering what made today so different than yesterday. What does it mean to be an adult? I still go to high school. I still live in my parent’s house. I still watch the Disney Channel, for God’s sake! Yet today, in the eyes of America, I am an adult fully able to buy cigarettes, pornography, and can be charged as an adult for any crime. I am not financially independent by any means, my Dad drives me to school every morning and yet, I can be legally tried as an adult.
I picked up a porcelain unicorn figurine on my vanity that my Mom bought for me when she was away in China on a business trip. She was always gone a lot. I knew she didn’t really have much of a choice, but I wish I saw her more often than I saw Jane. Jane has been with us since I was two or three and I guess that qualifies her as a family member by now. I hate how she comes into my room when I’m at school and straightens everything up. It almost looks too perfect, like nobody lives here. The white, smooth porcelain unicorn feels cool and hard in my hand but its smiling face somehow seems to soften the figurine. It wasn’t that long ago when I used to fall asleep with my old, stuffed unicorn. I called her “Moonbeam.” For some reason I have always associated unicorns with night time. When Mom brought me the stuffed unicorn back from her trip to Japan, Jane had already tucked me into bed. I was tired, but couldn’t sleep because I knew Mom was coming home that night. She always brought me something back from every trip. She liked to surprise me, but I always kind of expected it. Right before I was about to fall asleep, I saw my bedroom door slowly crack open and I knew that if she thought I was sleeping, she wouldn’t come in…it was a school night.
I said, “Hi Mom!” just loudly enough so she would know I was awake. She ran into my room and crawled into bed with me.
“Hi sweetheart, did you miss me?” she said as she gave me a big, long hug. She pulled the unicorn out of a plastic bag, it looked so beautiful and white in the darkness of my room. Its horn was silver and sparkly, and felt rough compared to rest of the plush body. “I brought her all the way home from Japan so you could take care of her,” She said, “What are you going to call her?” I looked at the unicorn who seemed to just shine in the moonlight coming in through my window. I knew right away what her name would be,
“Moonshine!” I said proudly. Mom laughed at me and I didn’t know why.
She said, “Why don’t we call her Moonbeam, honey?”
“Okay,” I said. I always knew my Mom was right. From there on out, I called my unicorn Moonbeam and slept with it every night. It reminded me of her. But now the days of playgrounds, barbies, and dress up were over. I guess they were over a long time ago. My whole life adults have always seemed to comment on how ‘grown up’ I was, or how I was ‘so mature for my age.’ At the time I was always weirded out after receiving those comments, but in retrospect it makes sense. I grew up an only child, always alone, Jane was there, but she was a little to old to make a good play mate. My Dad was there, at times, and never the crucial ones. He worked a lot too, and always had those unavoidable international conference calls scheduled at the exact same time as my soccer games, ballet recitals, and student award assemblies. But at least he was in the same country. That’s more than my Mom could say. I guess you could say that I am one of those kids who raised themselves.
I looked in the mirror one last time, hating what I saw. My eyes were swollen from a lack of sleep the night before and I hated this dress that I was forced to buy at the last minute. It didn’t look like anything that belonged in my closet. It’s too grown up, too sophisticated, too black. She would have hated this dress too, it feels almost inappropriate to be wearing this today. While looking at the reflection of myself, my eye is drawn to a glimmer of white, boldly standing out from my consumingly black outfit. I realize I am still holding onto the white, porcelain unicorn.
I put it back down on the table, and couldn’t help but feel a little sad. I thought I might cry. I hadn’t cried yet. To me, my mother was always like a unicorn, some kind of mythical creature that only existed in photographs and family fairy tales. I knew she was my Mother, but it never really felt that way. The business trips, and long vacations really took their toll. So when I received the phone call from Jane that my Mother had been killed in a car accident in New York, I didn’t know what to do. When most teenagers hear the news of a parents death, they cry and can’t fathom a life without their mom or dad. But I was already living a life without my parents.
Getting ready for the funeral was the most difficult part of this whole experience. Putting on this dress, and knowing that my family and friends will be watching, waiting for some kind of reaction, all the while making confused comments about how unfortunate it is that the funeral happened to fall on my birthday. My eighteenth birthday. “What a smooth transition into adulthood,” I thought to myself. “A true test of poise, composure and maturity….holding yourself together at your own mother’s funeral.”
I sat at my vanity, surrounded by trinkets, music boxes and various pink, sparkly things that I had collected throughout my childhood. And now I looked in the mirror to see my reflection, not one of a little girl, but one of a full fledged adult. Adult. What a scary word, I thought to myself.
“Today, I am eighteen,” I said aloud to nobody in particular. I just wanted to test the words out and see how it felt. I let the sentence roll over in my mouth and my mind as I looked at myself in the mirror, wondering what made today so different than yesterday. What does it mean to be an adult? I still go to high school. I still live in my parent’s house. I still watch the Disney Channel, for God’s sake! Yet today, in the eyes of America, I am an adult fully able to buy cigarettes, pornography, and can be charged as an adult for any crime. I am not financially independent by any means, my Dad drives me to school every morning and yet, I can be legally tried as an adult.
I picked up a porcelain unicorn figurine on my vanity that my Mom bought for me when she was away in China on a business trip. She was always gone a lot. I knew she didn’t really have much of a choice, but I wish I saw her more often than I saw Jane. Jane has been with us since I was two or three and I guess that qualifies her as a family member by now. I hate how she comes into my room when I’m at school and straightens everything up. It almost looks too perfect, like nobody lives here. The white, smooth porcelain unicorn feels cool and hard in my hand but its smiling face somehow seems to soften the figurine. It wasn’t that long ago when I used to fall asleep with my old, stuffed unicorn. I called her “Moonbeam.” For some reason I have always associated unicorns with night time. When Mom brought me the stuffed unicorn back from her trip to Japan, Jane had already tucked me into bed. I was tired, but couldn’t sleep because I knew Mom was coming home that night. She always brought me something back from every trip. She liked to surprise me, but I always kind of expected it. Right before I was about to fall asleep, I saw my bedroom door slowly crack open and I knew that if she thought I was sleeping, she wouldn’t come in…it was a school night.
I said, “Hi Mom!” just loudly enough so she would know I was awake. She ran into my room and crawled into bed with me.
“Hi sweetheart, did you miss me?” she said as she gave me a big, long hug. She pulled the unicorn out of a plastic bag, it looked so beautiful and white in the darkness of my room. Its horn was silver and sparkly, and felt rough compared to rest of the plush body. “I brought her all the way home from Japan so you could take care of her,” She said, “What are you going to call her?” I looked at the unicorn who seemed to just shine in the moonlight coming in through my window. I knew right away what her name would be,
“Moonshine!” I said proudly. Mom laughed at me and I didn’t know why.
She said, “Why don’t we call her Moonbeam, honey?”
“Okay,” I said. I always knew my Mom was right. From there on out, I called my unicorn Moonbeam and slept with it every night. It reminded me of her. But now the days of playgrounds, barbies, and dress up were over. I guess they were over a long time ago. My whole life adults have always seemed to comment on how ‘grown up’ I was, or how I was ‘so mature for my age.’ At the time I was always weirded out after receiving those comments, but in retrospect it makes sense. I grew up an only child, always alone, Jane was there, but she was a little to old to make a good play mate. My Dad was there, at times, and never the crucial ones. He worked a lot too, and always had those unavoidable international conference calls scheduled at the exact same time as my soccer games, ballet recitals, and student award assemblies. But at least he was in the same country. That’s more than my Mom could say. I guess you could say that I am one of those kids who raised themselves.
I looked in the mirror one last time, hating what I saw. My eyes were swollen from a lack of sleep the night before and I hated this dress that I was forced to buy at the last minute. It didn’t look like anything that belonged in my closet. It’s too grown up, too sophisticated, too black. She would have hated this dress too, it feels almost inappropriate to be wearing this today. While looking at the reflection of myself, my eye is drawn to a glimmer of white, boldly standing out from my consumingly black outfit. I realize I am still holding onto the white, porcelain unicorn.
I put it back down on the table, and couldn’t help but feel a little sad. I thought I might cry. I hadn’t cried yet. To me, my mother was always like a unicorn, some kind of mythical creature that only existed in photographs and family fairy tales. I knew she was my Mother, but it never really felt that way. The business trips, and long vacations really took their toll. So when I received the phone call from Jane that my Mother had been killed in a car accident in New York, I didn’t know what to do. When most teenagers hear the news of a parents death, they cry and can’t fathom a life without their mom or dad. But I was already living a life without my parents.
Getting ready for the funeral was the most difficult part of this whole experience. Putting on this dress, and knowing that my family and friends will be watching, waiting for some kind of reaction, all the while making confused comments about how unfortunate it is that the funeral happened to fall on my birthday. My eighteenth birthday. “What a smooth transition into adulthood,” I thought to myself. “A true test of poise, composure and maturity….holding yourself together at your own mother’s funeral.”
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
What Men Do Wrong
My most recent project, and the FIRST that will be published and sold is....
"what guys do wrong"
It's a book, created by a friend of mine, John Piermarini, and it's basically written from the a female perspective addressing the four timeless questions that some men supposedly can't figure out.
1) What do guys do wrong when approaching girls?
2) What should they be doing?
3) What do guys do wrong in relationships?
4) What should they be doing to make it last?
In this book, I answer these questions and give examples on things that are good idas and things that are definitely bad ideas!
It should be coming out within the next couple of weeks...look out for it.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
Blog 1- Avant Garde
This summer I had the opportunity to live in Paris where I studied avant garde theater. One of the highlights was that we actually got to read Cocteau's "Wedding on the Eiffel Tower" in front of the Tour Eiffel itself. It was an incredible experience, especially because France is the birthplace of surreal theater, in my opinion.
Before living in France, I had very little experience with surreal, dada or avant garde theater so reading these plays was, at first, absolutely jarring. The work of artists like Artaud and Breton left me feeling uncreative to say the least. However, after I became used to the strange words, characters, actions and staging, I became very compelled by this kind of theater.
One specific concept I found very compelling was Artaud's idea of "Theater of cruelty." For lack of a better way to explain this, let me quote wikipedia;
"The Theatre of Cruelty is a concept in Antonin Artaud's book Theatre and its Double. By cruelty, he meant not sadism or causing pain, but rather a violent, physical determination to shatter the false reality which, he said, lies like a shroud over our perceptions. He believed that text had been a tyrant over meaning, and advocated, instead, for a theatre made up of a unique language halfway-between thought and gesture. Antonin Artaud described the spiritual in physical terms, and believed that all expression is physical expression in space."
Artaud was looking for meaning that transcended words and he achieved this by shocking his audience, and making bold choices that caused them to react and think, therefore becoming part of the experience themselves.
Although I had studied this concept I never really actualized it until I went to Avignon for the annual avant garde theater festival.
There I saw "Asobu," an hour long dance piece performed by Japanese dancers and choreographed by Josef Nadj. This performance was one of the most jarring, strange and captivating experiences I have ever had and I must admit I felt like I was part of it.
The piece was performed in the courtyard of what was once a palace. The dancers looked tiny in the middle of three huge walls. Images, mostly of horses were projected on to the walls which became a canvas and background. The dancers were spastic and I couldn't believe they could move that way for the amount of time that they did. There were parts where they jumped on one leg over and over as if hey were crippled. I can't even explain half of the things that they did, or my experience of watching it because it feels like a blur. I remember when I used to perform on stage and dance for a long set. When I finally found myself in the wings again, people who ask me how I felt about my performance and I couldn't remember anything although I was on the stage minutes ago. This is exactly how I felt after watching Asobu.
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