fancy

I've rather taken a fancy to (AKA I am obsessed with):

 

 English school children,

 

astronauts at St. Paul's,

 

 statues! 

(this one was sculpted by Victoria's daughter!)

Honestly, they're incredibly endearing!!

Along with...

Visiting my art idols (like Millais and Turner) W H E N E V E R I W A N TTTTTTTTTT.

And this new husband phenomenon. 

Really, it's remarkable. When I'm in class he makes me lunch. When my feet are frozen he sacrifices his crevasses to be a human feet warmers. When I vow to never eat another carbohydrate he takes away the rolls at dinner and only gives in after my third or fourth cry of outrage.

And he's really very cute.

Sometimes we feel like we never get out and about around the city, especially compared to all of our busy bee little students. How they manage to make so many shopping trips and frozen yogurt stops and attend class and finish their assignments I'll never understand. But the heavy weight of our respective dissertation/ thesis ever confines us to our computers, and the bitter, bone-biting cold outside makes our darling little hearth into a sleepyannamagnet. WHAT DO WE DO? It's London outside and our fiscal futures/ corporeal warmness inside. And it's London outside. Like, THE London. Like, the one in England.

Ah, well. Any wisdom?

Stay warm if you can. 

(And pray for my toes-- deplorable circulation, you know).

Banana

Time flies with strings attached.

Just discovered Duy Huynh

It's just sweeping me away and I'm not sure if I have much control over where I'm going.

Where am I going?

Stone and Glass and Why We Should Look at Them (and climb so many stairs)




Daddy and me (and Nip the cat, the first of way too many Beanie Babies) atop L'Arc de Triomphe

On my last trip to Paris it was 1998 and I distinctly recall my parents trying to drag me into La Conciergerie to see Marie Antoinette's cell, and me protesting firmly that I had to finish Captain Underpants instead. This trip I arrived a ravenous Humanities major, albeit with some "personal issues" to sort through. As Brookie (an endlessly perceptive and profound best friend) wrote me as I left, "Nan, things are tough and rough and I think you feel like a tumble weed, it'll be nice to see old fashioned things that have lasted through time, maybe they'll teach you their secrets and things."

So I set out to look at some old things because I love art and history and because, perhaps, in some way they might teach me a thing or two about perserverance.
At once I met with some hard blows to my idealism. I guess I never wanted to pay attention to the fact that most of what we want to see of medieval Paris has been restored, lost, changed,  and/or destroyed and/or plundered during the revolution (aka "These are not François I's bed curtains. I want to see François I's bed curtains").
The original stuff is crumbily, dirty, and graffitied, and of course I'm broadly generalizing and simplifying to make a point.

My point is this:

The beauty of Paris' rich architectural and cultural past isn't determined by how "original" the upholstery or whether the handrail was replaced in the nineties.

It lies in the fact that century after century people have worked, reigned, prayed, fought, and lived in this city, adding their own contributions with a nod, always, to those of the past. The result is a marvelous jumble of layer upon layer of stone (and now also FNACS) that coexist with the new and give little whispers of the past while reminding you that what you (I, really) need to do is think about your (my) future.

And for the record, I did't think the Conciergerie was that great this time either, but maybe mostly because I didn't find Charles Darnay on the list of the imprisoned. But then again, I've always had a hard time separating reality and Charles Dickens (or Captain Underpants).

The Sleeper {deuxième projet}

This is my second project for my photography class. Enjoy!

Sophie Calle invited strangers off the street to sleep in her bed. She was fascinated by the intimacy 8 hours of watching and documenting an unconscious fellow Parisian lent her.
  Now, say what you'd like about Sophie (she was crazy, creepy, etc.), but I've decided I like her. I like her sense of adventure and complete disregard for the words "shocking," "embarrassing," or "normal." I like her definition of "art." 
      So for my little ode to Sophie, I decided to conduct an experiment of my own.

 Now, just for the record, I hate being photographed. I usually refuse to pose for pictures because it makes me feel fake and uncomfortable, and I'd much rather point a camera at someone else than have one pointed at me.

    So this project is a stretch for me. But Sophie was often the subject of her own experiments, and in hommage to her I made myself become 
"The Sleeper." 
In my Parisian bed, I recorded the events immediately preceeding, during, and following my sleeps and had Alyssa take pictures of me whenever she came to wake me up. 

The intimate view of myself that follows is difficult for me to share and uncomfortable for me to view. The pictures are not my own and the compositional elements and lighting are weak. 
But there's a hint, a glimpse, a peek into the very nature of photography itself. If I feel fake when I pose, isn't being asleep the most sincere I can possibly be? What, then, am I forfeiting here, 

and what do I usually keep hidden?
   

5/11 6:50 pm 

I get home, say "hey" to Emmanuel as I pass his room, put on deodorant, and sink into bed like a dead girl.

 Last thing I remember thinking: I wonder if people thought Sabrina's name was funny when she came to Paris.

 

 I dream about: A bunch of people making serious critiques on my flikr account like I'm a real photographer and exhibit my photos there. But I try vainly to explain that I just load everything online because I don't have a flash drive.

 8:31 pm I wake up for dîner with "La Vie en Rose" in my head.

5/11 10:45 pm

After eating seven (very small) pancakes and drinking a smoothie under the sparkly lights at La Tour Eiffel, I take my medicine and crawl into bed with a blinding headache.

I fall asleep in my clothes.

Last thing I remember thinking: That will suck if I die of a brain aneurysm. But at least I'd be in Paris. Poor Alyssa... when she comes to take a picture, she'll have a picture of me dead. Not sleeping. Spooky.

 

I dream about: A Nintendo 64 Café where I try to beat Yoshi's story with my little brother, and a letter from the First Presidency warning that Study Abroad students aren't going to church.

7:51 am I wake up with "Girls and Boys" by Good Charlotte in my head.

5/12 5:15 pm

I accidentally fall asleep reading after the class picnic.

No dreams I can remember.

5/13 12:50 am

After a spectacular movie and a really unsatisfying meal, I go to sleep.

Last thing I remember thinking: I really should say my prayers.

I dream about: My best friend coming home from her mission and screaming at me because of the person I've become, and my roommates not being excited when I get back from Europe.
9:02 am I start to wake up while the picture is being taken, with "On the Open Road" from the Goofy Movie in my head.

5/14 12:36 am
I write for a long time and try to decide what to do with my life before bed.
Last thing I remember thinking: 21 really isn't that old... Ugh. Ryan. 

I dream about: My aunt and uncle coming to Paris and trying to watch Water for Elephants, but instead we have to navigate our car over a giant tidal wave, and it's hard (and really scary) to steer. Alyssa and I get lost, then I roller blade through a high school and lose the tests I was supposed to be grading for my Humanities 202 class.
9:45 am I wake up with "In the Dark of the Night" from Anastasia in my head.

Is any of this connected?  Does it matter?  Maybe all it proves is that I'm an erradic and heavy sleeper.

Or maybe all I am is just as crazy as Sophie Calle. 
And, in that case, am I an artist?

Oh dear

I'm paying so much money to earn a degree in thinking myself better and smarter than everyone else, and then not being able to do anything with it.

And I love it.
Oh dear.

The Barmaid at the Folies-Bergères

I've never been bored.
not ever.
At least, I've never been this bored.
I've not ever been this bored before.

What I mean to say, of course, is that I love my job.
As a child, I prided myself in the fact that I could play alone for, well, ever, with almost no stimuli but...myself. I had enough fuel (actually, fuel brings up something of a sore spot right now, as I ran out of gas on a dark rainy highway last night and the man at the gas station [that I had to walk to in the cold, rainy darkness] was so unaccommodating. bother.) in my over-active imagination to last me until bedtime. Or at least until my sister got home so I could terrorize her.
But now, between snotty comments of "I want your job!", "You get paid to surf the web all day!?" [excuse me, I am not surfing the web, thank you, I am reading the New York Times, you "I play arena football because I can't play real football" imbecile] and "working hard?" I literally have nothing to do for extended periods of time.

And... okay, I'll say it:
I'm afraid my imagination isn't what it used to be.
Eek! I said it! How can I be bored? I've made lists ["How to Improve this Desk," "10 ways to commit suicide using only office supplies," etc.]! I've played games (Granted, "guess what I'm thinking- extreme edition" isn't that fun alone). And yet I can read the symptoms. I'm classically, through-and-through, Jungle Book vultures, watch-Pete-and-Pete re-runs-all-day bored.
bored bored bored.
And so I have no choice but to eat all these blueberry, cinnamon, chocolate chip, pumpkin, and cranberry scones they keep not eating. OH, and the huckleberry cinnamon rolls.
And the cheese danishes.

whoopsies.

NOW I'M BORED AND FAT!

Anyway,

Number one on my "How to Improve This Desk" list is, of course, Manet. So, I sometimes get funny looks at the lone picture I have taped up under here at eye level:

If anyone asks about her, I tell them it's a private joke. Which is kind of thrilling, feeling like Manet and I developed some sort of running jest over coffee while we developed the impressionist movement together.

We didn't. But still.

Look at her! Her bored, lonely, stare- trapped, stifled! in alienation- while her dreamy, skewed reflection attends to the swarthy customer in the stove pipe hat. She's just like me.

So we made a deal, her and I. We're going to tough out the shady men over the counter and our lowly days in the dregs of the working class. But these days we spend at our respective "bars" will turn us into...

masterpieces.

That's the deal, anyway.

Unfortunately, it was something of a one-sided conversation. And she doesn't have texting, so...

Hurrah for the winding down of day four! Tomorrow I'm leaving on a jet plane with the girls (mama, grandmama, and aunt suzanemama) for ickle Mindy-cousin's wedding. Still trying to make something of myself. I suppose most things just work one day at a time, don't they?

meh.

Time for a scone.

Banana

I love so much about this painting.

Thanks to my heavy load of Humanities classes, I'm developing quite a thing for Mr. Rembrandt Van Jinn.

This is on display at the BYU Museum of Art. I adore it. I've gone back a couple of times to look at it.
What do you think?

[Head of Christ, Rembrandt]

love, Banana