boysleep

I sleep. I sleep a lot. On sunday I clocked thirteen consecutive hours with a three hour nap tacked on. Then today I woke up, another day at work, and then really thought I would accomplish something when I fell asleep on my hot, scratchy lawn; the sun coating my legs in sweat, my head with dull thoughts for a horrible half hour. This only led to a four hour nap of worthlessness.

I am not tired. I am not.

I don't really know what is what anymore.

Because I really have others things to do. Really.

the perfect number

sun, sun, sun

1. finish three more books. books of literary substance. books beyond my normal reading. wonderful, new books.
2. practice simple book binding techniques by making silly and simple illustrated stories. complete one a week for all of august.
3. delve into the history of tobacco. if it's going to be a vice, than know it for what it is. in said researching, learn to roll personal cigarettes. stop supplying the man.
4. start sketching. stop being stupid.
5. learn a song on the guitar. maybe jesus by brand new. or hey ya by outcast. or paperweight by joshua radin. or maps by yeah yeah yeah. or any song sung by the decemberists.
6. any other and all art work would be greatly appreciated.
7. go on an adventure, a final huzzah, if you will. something wonderful and unforgettable and full of costumes and pictures and dancing and laughter and the people i really, really love.

I have been meaning to write the above all summer. I do not know what I have been waiting for. I do not understand my procrastination. I do not want to have it as a primary burden any longer. I am too old and it is too ridiculous for me to think it appropriate any longer.

This summer may have been relaxing, but this past month is futile in its productivity. I am beginning to feel it all in the pit of my stomach, breathing life into the butterflies of college.

Maryland Institute College of Art, please, with every delectable sugar on top, do not be the death of me.

ode to mia michaels

I would do terrible, unspeakable things in order to be taught by Mia Michaels. I'm just saying.

art-tasty wonder

Recently my life has been so very much consumed by art, whether in thought or feeling or making of, and I cannot help but to bask in every bit of it. Between the glorious task of Insurance Agents turn Superheroes commission to the Philadelphia Museum of Art to attempting to learn how to knit (epic failure) to face painting and table-top painting and button bracelet making to decorations for the fast approaching Harry Potter and the Dance til Dawn celebration; my life is, entirely, gloriously brimming with all types of art-tasty wonder.

Such a delicious, nutritious meal for my everyday.

PHILADELPHIA MUSEUM OF ART! complete with following exhibits:
Shopping in Paris: French Fashion 1850 - 1925

'Common creatures, in other cities, dress to live; but in Paris people live to dress.'

-Charles Dickens

department store [di-pahrt-muhnt stohr] - noun: cathedral of modern commerce

A lightly lit room filled with a stage of simple mannequins impeccably dressed. The clothing, as pictured, was ornate, each piece a luster in that of hand spun creations that basked within the wardrobes of the wealthy. How profound, to think that each piece is mere fabric, draped, stitched, ornamented for singular purpose of making someone beautiful, rather than being beautiful itself. It's nice to see that the clothing finally receives the recognition it deserves, that of pieces of impeccable art.






Visual Delight: Ornament and Pattern in Modern and Contemporary Design

The exhibit featured household works from recent past to present, all of which explored the maker utilizing the mergence of function with that of ornamentation. It's primary objective was to relate to the viewer the structural change in our societies' desire from disregarding that of ornamentation, of beauty without design to be replaced with all that is sleek, functional and for purpose, into a society that desires both in one.

The above is a radiator, whose design not only is beautiful, but functions as a tool better in its primary object to heat in that its spaced figure distributes warmth in a more dispersed manner, allowing for a room to grow comfortable in a fashion timely-er than that of the average radiator.


That up there is a crocheted box. It's yarn. Really.
And then there was a room full of chairs. I thought it was quite silly.

Henri Matisse and Modern Art on the French Riviera

I have this thing where I don't really photograph two dimensional art. It's weird. I guess I just wasn't in that certain mood needed to do so. Needless to say, the exhibit was nothing quite fantastic. Baltimore's Walters Museum houses its own Matisse exhibit that far exceeds that which the PMoA is currently showing. Needless to say, I like France, and the French Riviera, and the astute family that waltzed through the exhibit with there thick French accents and smiling faces, dissecting each and every piece as if it were as familiar as a family photograph.

Hello! Fashion: Kansai Yamamoto, 1971–1973

I love color, and the small gallery located on the second floor house a unique display of cultural pieces I had not thought to expect, all of which were detailed in an extraordinary excellence or lack of color . The gallery was an open room with a perimeter of glass 'closets', each housing a mannequin and its piece. All in all, the total twenty or so pieces each displayed a certain style and sense of Japanese fashion I had never come to realize, such as: the Futen-Zuko (vagabond tribe) 0f 1967, who were closely definable to the American hippie; wabi-sabi - to find beauty in imperfection, impermanence and incompleteness.

illadelphia says, 'happy birfday america!'

After an hour and a half drive, which included learning how to utilize cruise control and realizing that driving through Philadelphia is comparable to navigating the seventh circle of hell, I spent a lovely two days in the birthplace of our nation. Weather smiled upon us as me, my younger brother, father, and Canadian cousins traipsed about the city, exploring the generically overcrowded historic sections, as well as the beautifully brimming South Street. Adventures that ensued included:

blatant picture taking of interesting people;
CANADIANS;
the modern tea party (what a shit way for Americans to celebrate America's birfday, really);
the best dressed American;
DARWIN!;
blatant picture taking of babies;
visiting my great-great-great-great grandfather;
taking pictures with said grandfather;
GRANDPA!;
much eye rolling at my uncle (he's swell, really, but talks in a way that is reminiscent to that cool kid slumped in the middle of the classroom, attempting a banter with a professor who could care less, but inevitably gives in with a smile in effort to recognize the students potential);
more blatant picture taking;
POODLE FIGHTS!;
BABIES!;
immersion into the vast array of Philadelphia's street art, including sidewalk chalk;
BROWNSTONES!;
telling my brother to jump off random buildings so I could photograph him doing so;
LOST!;
more jumping, but with my cousin involved. This picture is a great close-up;
SOUTH STREET!;
and all it has to offer;
UGLIEST BABY EVER!;
my uncle turned to me through the throng of people to state, in full accent, 'I really like this place - it has that, sorta, bohemian thing.' All I could do was laugh, and nod;
PANTS-LESS MANNEQUIN!;
early celebrators included much revelry outside a restaurant as we waited for a table; in said restaurant I was served alcohol neither carded nor met with disapproval by the parental and posse; blue moon is delicious; South St. also included RepoRecords (where the new, shiny Decemberist's record gleamed for a pricey $17.95 (which was rather unfortunate compared to the four dollars in my wallet)), experiencing the Gayborhood, sneaking cigarettes, until a total pass-out on the top floor of the Marriot Tower.

Then came time to venture out to Benjamin Franklin Parkway for the largest free concert celebration in the country, which included Harrisburg native Jeffrey Davies representing the 717, the Philly native Roots, and Sheryl Crow. There were people everywhere, everywhere!; a shoulder to shoulder expanse that began to smell as the music tumbled into the night and tempers rose to fist fights, and my favorite quote of the evening, 'FIRE DAT CRACKA!', shortly followed by, 'GET THAT BITCH OFF THE STAGE!'

I agreed. Sheryl was killing me, especially when she ventured into a Led Zepplin cover.

Most peculiar was the vast difference between the July 4th celebrations of Philadelphia in comparison to Washington D.C.'s: fireworks and orchestrated interludes are all very much the same, but the crowds are totally of their own worlds. In D.C. the setting in vast, all surrounded by iconic America, and in such setting, all sit, blankets, pillows and fold outs splashed in a sea of people all eagerly awaiting fireworks. Philadelphia, in the other spectrum, was a mass of people shoulder to shoulder, reeking in the foul mixture of cultural foods, smelly feet, and body odor, all the while people forcefully pushing against your still form so they can mash themselves further into the wall of people. The general camaraderie doesn't exist, and rather is replaced with a hostile environment evaporating after the 17 minutes of fireworks into a chaos of litter, yelling, and, what I assume, a gang battle outside of City Hall (it was the most peculiar thing; we were a block from the Marriot and all-a-sudden all the teenagers within the vicinity flocked to a point directly outside the building, and, moments later, all were fleeing. None knew what the reason was, and many were running opposite the location. Thankfully, we passed through and crossed to the next block just as cop cars began surrounding the building).

July 5th was filled with the Philadelphia Museum of Art, which housed many fantastic exhibits within its new building. After a few hours perusing the various exhibits (which included contemporary Japanese photography on gelatin silver prints, Shopping in Paris, an exhibit on modern furniture design, Hello! Fashion, and a full three rooms of Matisse and other French Impressionists from the South of France. All in all, a fantastic collection of work.

Then, a delicious meal of French Toasted filled with fig and cherry butter at the London Grill on Fairmount (next to the Penitentiary). The restaurant also had the strangest drink menu I have ever read. All the concoctions sounded surreally fantastic. I didn't try my luck twice, though.