Hey

Hey Paul, I know you're reading this embarrassing blog.

"People who draw learned to draw by drawing."

I was trying to cut this message down to the Tweet limit, but my personal history and attitude towards this subject would not allow it.

How to improve upon the average public school kid: Make the art class just as important as every other subject— and treat it as such. The general idea of art is that you're born with it. It's a one time deal. If the kid doesn't take, just allow them to keep producing crap on their own and give them an A for making marks on paper. It wasn't until I hit college did I truly learn to do anything. I was a Fine Art AP class high school student-thing. My figure drawings were mutant people. No one spoke about form or colour... it was just, here's a brush, water colour set— go.

School:
I have taken countless math courses. Every year, in fact, until junior year of high school. My brain and I just wouldn't have it. No absorption there, with the exception of a bit of geometry (Ooh, shapes) and a bit of 3rd grade (flash cards, ooh printed material, 80lb paper with a glossy finish).

I can eat, walk in a straight line, comb my hair and a number of human activities.
This is what my public school has done to me. They made me think I would be a useless hooligan, wandering the suburban streets if I had not taken my future as an accountant seriously. But hell, I wasn't a great student anyway. I actually became a dedicated cheater. Whether the smart kid next to me knew about it, I would get those answers on my sheet.
And this is where art forced my eyes to my own paper.
You can't copy art. Well, you can, but you say that you've been inspired by Picasso or Vermeer, not the person sitting at your table. You also copy the masters to learn how to make art.

You can't copy personal experience, brushstroke or the emotion put into it. My eyes kept to my canvas, and I owe it to art to where I am today. Lucky, compared to the majority of my high school graduating class, who have been pregnant, are pregnant or are going to be pregnant soon. Who feel that they have to exploit their bodies to survive or feed their over-indulgent financial habits. And to those who considered themselves recreational drug users in school, now, haven't lifted a finger to rehabilitate or better their lives. Also, I am fortunate to realize their education system hindered my skills that could have been nurtured, crushed my self-esteem and showed that sport deserved more attention and financial aid. I'm sure that television screen in the football stadium changed lives, and I'm certain those athletes will all become professionals with an expiration date around 34 years old.

A Good Friday, Indeed

I've decided to take a break from panic mode to write about how grateful I am today.

A Friday morning that started with a sun was extremely welcomed after weeks of dreary, cold, windy and down right muggy crap weather. But the sun alone did not single out this glorious day.

Since I still remain confused about my career, a friend and I decided to get as many creative directors and copywriters in front of us. Thus far, two wonderful people from local agencies and one freelance copywriter was kind enough to offer answers to our notebooks beaming with questions.

Along with the questions, we would offer each person a packet of portfolio samples with a casual staple in the top left corner. As I slid my mini portfolio across the desk today, I couldn't help but feel more anxious than usual. It's not an interview, what have I to worry about? I spent 5 minutes throwing the campaigns together, I've been through plenty of critiques.
My skin is thick.

After a grin or two, he flipped to the cover page once more and looked up at me.
I bit my tongue.

"This is impressive."

"This is the same caliber as people who have been in the business for years."

"Thank you." I bit my tongue again to keep my legs from springing up.


As for current gratefulness, I am grateful for grateful clients.
It is an intoxicating feeling when a client emails you about the great job you're doing. Considering about 78.5% of the time, clients don't like a certain blue, keep changing their minds and ideas. Good news reassures that you are, in fact, not a design impostor and should be cast out.

A word on keeping your foot down

It's not my nature to allow (mentally) abusive friendships to go further than a few insults. I've had a boyfriend to teach me that valuable lesson several years ago. So when I hear gruesome tales of unfortunate conversation or interaction, I can't help but feel the need to strap on my boxing gloves and have a go at the perpetrator's face. One doesn't need to surround themselves with crap to feel fulfilled. It seems obvious that you'll just become full of shit yourself. All the while, you may have an occasional laugh or a jolly ol' time watching the mall walkers, the exaggerated judgements passed upon your music taste or the color of your hair should not be tolerated.

1. Back out of the room slowly, but firmly.Breaking up with a friend is awkward. Though you didn't see each other naked, running into them might be worse than seeing an ex.
Shit, I'm starting to sound like cosmavogue.

2. Communication BreakdownNot that anyone calls anymore— but just don't do that. And texting, hell no. The problem with texting is that it's too damn simple. You can compose a text on the toilet, in your sleep, the shower, driving, eating, drinking...
Let's just get that contact out of the phone altogether.
Oh and social media, what a disaster. You can concoct a dossier based on your grandma's facebook page. Although it is amusing to watch people over-expose themselves to the internet.

3. The Last StandListen, I don't think we should hang out anymore. I've sent this through facebook before. I wasn't especially fond of the person, so I didn't feel a scrap of indignity.

My Communist, My Villian

I spent most of the day alone, without music, people or movies.

And I've figured something out. A question many fellow art students may have wondered several times.

"What's with all the Communist paraphernalia?"—shirts, hats, posters, art, ideas...

It was endless, or so I thought.

I figured it out when it started to dissolve. When I stopped looking for pins, books...etc.

I like to exploit the population's irrational fears.

Not that I'm done doing this. The propaganda style still dominants my empty canvas.

It's just that I've been studying another feared group. Here's a hint. I picked up the Qu'ran, I'm writing about transnational feminism, I know the difference between Shi'ite and Sunni.

That's right, I'm playing on Islamophobia.

The Communist thing just made me laugh, this time I'm stocking my arsenal for future ignorance.

The Veil

Let me get this straight. As a female, there are a lot of things in this world that make me roll my eyes or turn my stomach when it comes to women's rights. Until about a week ago, the perspective of the veil was one of oppression. And like many humans, I chose to make my own mind about it without searching further into the matter.

Lately, I have been working against this habit accepted by so many. It's not easy to undo 20 years of accepting that Arabs are out to get Americans because they hate 'freedom'. Especially after 9/11, as a 13 year old... the confusion and media takes over; it was so simple to ease into it.

I knew nothing about them, not even in "world" history had we even geographically come close to talking about the middle east. World history was WWII. Nothing happened before 1939.

Never had I considered where this "hatred for freedom" had come from.

What I found was quite the opposite. Like any other religion, culture or race, they longed for freedom.

The faulty alliances made for oil nearly forced me to pack my bags that moment...

Wait, I'm suppose to be talking about the veil—anywho...

I found that eastern femininity and western femininity are quite different.

For now, I've only scratched the surface or this topic— more to come later.

Boylan, Round I

Half page AD

Root beer.

Notes to my Mother—

Root Beer Co.

I don't put my copywriting up. Although very unlikely the company finds this, loves it and steals it— I'm taking a leap.

Below is some long copy, something found on the side of the bottle or packaging.

My question is: Who is speaking?

I was an accident. Part of an experiment trying to create an elixir, Boylan made me, Boylan. The best stuff comes from the ground and that’s all he had. Extracted from the Yucca plant mixed in with yeast and pure cane sugar, there I was; a dark, sweet, bubbly foam overflowing test tubes. For over 100 years, the strong, frothy blend hasn’t changed. And there wasn’t any reason to.

Not bad for a pharmacist.

Why I Read—

This was written for my World Literature class.

—to gauge how well I write.

I come about discovering books I eventually read and finish by means of design. I can’t ignore these things anymore, I knew I was officially a design snob the moment I turned away a brand of cereal because of the kerning. I honestly cannot think of a book I’ve recently read that did not have acceptable typography and art. But that is only the first element that captures my exhausted eyes. After I’ve given the book a quick weighing— not too heavy, I have things to do, the back cover gets a quick scan. Mildly interesting, I take note and move on. If the library supplies such a book and holds my interest within the first two chapters- no matter how horrible it becomes, I keep reading and finish.

From last June to November, a repetition occurred. Each book I analysed, weighed and read contained a plethora of suffering, loss and pain. Such books were City of Thieves, What Is the What?, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close and Everything Is Illuminated. The typography gave no such hint of this. Since I thought these books were good, I decided to abandon my technique and actually search for suffering, loss and pain. I ran into just as depressing stories, but failed to go beyond it.

The things I’d never do is take advice. People have a terrible track record of recommendations. All tainted by how great the film Eraserhead was described, I haven’t taken any suggestions since.

A grade school teacher once told me that reading books will make you smarter. I’d like to think this while I’m reading, since it’s a relaxing time, becoming smarter in the process sounds easier than a three hour lecture. I can’t really back that statement up with evidence, nor can I deny it. What I do know for certain is that it makes me sleepy.

But I’ve come to realize that I read to know how other people think, to experience another life or culture without leaving my apartment and to see another picture of the past without a photograph. I don’t know if my I.Q. will increase, but at least I do feel smarter and more worldly.

It Happened and Now I'm Here

I read it for the first time last Friday. I might have learned more from my family's past here than through stories told after Christmas dinners. There were grammatical errors, which I didn't expect. Typos riddled each page like a third rough draft (you might've thought they've all gone—)

Amazon does not have a picture. The customer reviews are positive, 2 five star ratings and reviews written in the late 90's and early millennia. Only a blockbuster film could stir any interest in purchasing such a book; people don't think about one of the worst sea disasters everyday.

Although, Pirate Radio stirred a sickness and fear in my stomach during the scene where the cold sea rushes into the rooms of the ship— that scene was entirely too long.

And when I hear Celine Dion, any song, really.

There is a blanket of sadness that lays over me when I think of her. The questions she could never resolve, not matter how many times that night replayed in her mind. Did she ever know where Pekka went?

Having raised my grandfather, something from that traumatic night may have passed onto him, ran through his blood and now rushes through mine.

Several years ago, I decided to look for Pekka. My would be great grandfather, I suppose. Through Finnish specific encyclopedias, interviews, short stories— many have incorrect information. Where do they get this crap? "I'll go out and see, what's going on." Never left Pekka's lips.

Some references have the wrong names completely. Erin and Pekko?

An interview was finally recovered from a man that claimed to have been running around in the chaos with Pekka that night; even the last seconds of life Pekka had in the freezing Atlantic.

So, did Elin ever find out what happened to her husband on the night she became a widow?

Having died on the day my uncle was born, sitting in a chair with A Night to Remember laid on her lap, I'd say the Titantic had actually taken her life too, so many years ago.

http://www.amazon.com/Going-See-What-Has-Happened/dp/0965717402

Don't Trust Monkeys with Mascara—

I was helping my friend Juli gift shop for her nieces and nephews at Walmart. Luckily they are under the age of 10 so I doubt any will be offended by the Made in China engraving.

First the boys. They like cars, robots, explosions, board games monsters—the like. Excellent and typical.

I like the same stuff.

Next, the girls.

Turn to the next aisle and an extraordinary glow of pink weakened my eyes.

Congrats marketers. You know little girls like pink.

My initial reaction was to grab a bat from the previous aisle and viciously swing the bright yellow hunk of plastic side to side. But nay, I had control.

I saw the usual stuff:

Barbies

Little animals in odd settings (horses in the kitchen—?)

kitchenette set

nail polish

Ya know, conditioning.

But there was something there that was new (to me).

Everything was wearing make-up.

Everything.

What the hell? Stuffed animals and toys— from elephants, horses, kittens, puppies to tigers and babies?!

Yes little children, don't forget to put on your mascara before going out to the playground, little Tommy was giving you the eye yesterday during nap time.

Conceived by the Bratz dolls?

Enormous eyes, heads and lips.

Short torso, heels, stickly features, no nose.

Oh, yeah and they're called Brats(z).

Face plastered with make-up, provocative attire, poor attitudes that revolve around a life of consuming, consuming, consuming idiots.

Let's celebrate these unattainable and ridiculous features only possible with cosmetic surgery.

You're not beautiful girls, this doll is beauty. This doll your parents got you to play with everyday because the t.v. told you that this is what normal little girls play with— and you're normal.

I realize not all will be playing with these disgraceful things, but looking at the long term— these are a reference to which they are looking off.

I remember feeling it. I'm not tall, I don't have dark silky hair, I have a nose.

And I didn't think I was normal. And what I could tell was that I definitely wasn't normal because some girls achieved this perfect image.

(They are stripper-moms now.)