White House Garden

I don't care what your politics are, this is a great idea! Michelle Obama seems too good to be true. Beautiful, successful, an involved mom, multi-generational, AND now she's planting a garden.

MA Thesis

Just to clarify, I'm working on an MA in Humanities with an emphasis in Medieval and Renaissance Studies. My thesis is on Piero della Francesca's Polyptych of the Misericordia.

I am sure that you are all wondering why a sculptor would be getting a degree in the Humanities and writing a paper about a panel painting. For one, I do not see the history of art and the making of art as two separate disciplines. It is very important for my work that I know quite a lot about the history of what it is that I'm doing, and not just what is being made now or even recently. Why have humans made art historically? We see art now as an expression of the self, as being therapeutic, as something we make because we want to and then we struggle to market it. As far as human history is concerned these ideas about art are very new. In the Renaissance, no one would think to make art just because. There was an intended purpose, a patron and a payroll. Most artists worked in groups as a part of a workshop under a master. The myth of the reclusive, anti-social artist who works obsessively alone on things that express the inner workings of his soul may describe a few contemporary artists, but it is not the norm. In fact, many of us contemporary artists who work better in groups, are generally clean and cheerful and who would like to earn a decent wage feel like we phonies because we do not live up to some invented stereotype based off a few eccentrics.

So at the end of all of this, I'll have a Master's degree, not in studio art, but the art history, culture, philosophy, theology and literature of a time when the West commonly sees as the pinnacle of art. It's too bad, really, that we cannot really look forward to another Renaissance. At least not in my lifetime, I do not expect it.

FaceBook has taken over the world...

I find myself exercising my narcissistic tendencies on Facebook, rather than on this blog, even though I think that blogging is more interesting. There are more people over there on Facebook who might see my incessant status updates and think me clever. I hate myself for being so self-indulgent, but cannot seem to stop.

Facebook is also the perfect distraction from the agony that is thesis-writing. It isn't just that writing forty pages of coherent academic musings is challenging in its own right, but for me there are deep emotions of self-worth caught up in it. I stare at the page completely without confidence of my ability to write a decent paragraph. What if I plagiarize someone and don't realize it? What if my advisor thinks I am a blundering idiot. What if I am found out?

I'm on my twelfth semester of college. I have this lingering suspicion that I am a fraud, that I'm just making this stuff up. Writing an academic paper feels unnatural for me, but I have done it so many times that I've lost count. I remind myself how many pages I must have written in my academic career that have been decent and interesting. I somehow cannot believe that I've written and A or a B paper. The professors must have been mistaken. All of them?

It's a self-confidence war. An all out war. My stomach is in knots approaching my notes. Drivel, it's all drivel! I feel queasy opening a book. What if I don't' understand it? Breathe, Sarah, breathe.

A former boss, the dean of students, told me that a higher degree is an act of perseverance more than anything. He encouraged me to persevere. "You've come this far, Sarah, you can do it!" Somehow, I have come this far. I'm not a phony. I might even have something remotely interesting to say. If I am anything, I am a persistent little cuss. I'll do it. I won't enjoy it, but I'll do it.

First, let me check my Facebook page...

Urban Chicken Underground

The urban chicken underground is up and running again, this time with more bloggers! If you'd like to join, send me a note or leave a comment with your e-mail.

Seven Acts of Mercy

Feed the hungry
Give drink to the thirsty
Clothe the naked
Shelter the Homeless
Visit the sick
Visit the imprisoned
Bury the dead

Telling Stories

On Sunday morning, it was cold but sunny, so Erik and I took the dog around the neighborhood to try and take in the rays as much as our bundled selves would allow. As we were making the turn back onto Washington Blvd. we saw an old woman pull up to a stop sign. She got out of the car, leaving it running and the wipers going swish-swash, back and forth. There was no sign of rain. She turned away from the car and began walking and a brisk pace. We speculated on why in the world she would leave the car running and swish-swashing like that, especially on a day with tempuratures below freezing. We decided to follow her.

She walked quickly, so that our pace remained about fifty yards behind her. She walked and walked, determined to get somewhere. The behavior was so strange that we began to make up stories about her…

“You have to leave; he’ll be home any minute.”
“I won’t leave your embrace, you must tell him about us.”

“No! He’ll kill you! If you don’t leave this instant, I’m taking your car and leaving it at a stop sign a mile away from this house.”

No good. No good. No one would believe that this cute little old lady would have a clandestine love affair. But perhaps…

“What!?! Whose car is this? Larry, who?!? How could you?” Sobbing. She stormed out of the house, grabbed her husband’s secretary’s keys and took the car. She drove erratically, sobbing so much that she could no longer see. She stopped at the stop sign on the corner of Washington Blvd. and thought to herself, “No, I must confront him! How could he do this to me after all these years?”

Or maybe she forgot something at home. But why would she not turn the car around? What was she escaping? Did she have dementia? We continued to follow her. She walked up to a house, about a half-mile from the parked car. She went up to the garage, but couldn’t get in, so she pounded on the front door. A boy looked out the window. He was wearing a coat. There was some dialog exchanged and then the garage door opened. A man and a boy got into a shiny SUV with the woman and they drove away. We walked by as if this was our normal route.