1/29/18
A part of myself I don’t truly understand is when I am overcome with nervousness at times. It has happened often enough for it to be a concern to me. It usually happens in the moment before I step out of my car to go somewhere. Most notable is the instance of when I drove myself to my favorite coffee shop on a hot summers day in July. The windows were down in my car and my new playlist was playing on a loop. I waited in the parking lot for a long time before starting my car and driving away again without ever getting out. The task of talking to the baristas seemed too daunting to me. It happened again that summer when I set out to meet my friends at our town carnival. I sat watching from my car as my friends rode the Ferris wheel and texted me “When are you getting here?” I thought about seeing people from my high school, dressed in all the casual clothes I’ve never seen before (we wore uniforms) with their arms slung around girls from neighboring high schools and I was struck with an unknown fear. And, like I had last time, I drove myself home and went to sleep without ever texting my friends back. Was my car the enabler to all this? Was it because I felt so safe in it? Alone with my music, leather seats, the angel medallion hanging from my mirror that clacked as I drove? Or was it the fear of socializing? Making small talk, doing the bro-y handshakes or the possibility of someone seeing me out of my school clothes. My car – for sure, I thought. When I moved to New York, this feeling, for the most part, stopped. I was able to walk outside with my headphones, order a coffee without hesitation and make meaningless small talk with my barista. Was it the small town that scared me so much? Was I more comfortable with ambiguity of the city? The same feeling creeps up sometimes as I sit in front of my mirror applying my morning sunscreen in my dorm room, anxious at all the people I might see on the street.
1/30/18
If I try and picture myself as a painted portrait, I imagine an oil painting with a blurred background of a muted grey. The light would be heavy on the upper most of my face and slowly become darker as it approached my mouth. I believe the painter would focus mostly on my eyes. Because of their light color, they appear striking under my heavy dark brows and long wispy eyelashes. I like my eyes most about myself. I have a very defined crease that is thick enough to look like makeup. And my dark eyelashes have always made people ask if I was wearing eyeliner and mascara. They’re the shape of almonds and I’ve always believed they were a bit small for my face, to which people fight me saying they’re bigger than I perceive. People usually mention my eyes and compliment their blue shade, which leads me to correct them as they are green. My mom always says I don’t hide my emotions well enough because my eyes are a giveaway. I try always to keep my eyes in a warm and welcoming shape (Tyra Banks would call it smizing). I always want to seem nice and approachable so when I’m bored, I practice redirecting my gaze without having my eyes seem mechanical. I choose a point A and a point B and slowly drift my gaze to and fro. When I’m tired, my brow bone puffs up and my upper eyelid droops noticeably low. And when I’m nervous or stressed, the inner corner of my right eye becomes red and veiny. “Do you have pinkeye?” people ask. I yawn to make my eyes watery and help with the dryness. In drawing class, I struggled most with drawing my own eyes in a self-portrait. For some reason, I couldn’t get them exact to how they really look, which is weird because of how straightforward they read to me. When talking to my drawing teacher, she mentioned how much attention I pay to eyes, something I never noticed. In my self-portrait, she said my eyes, although not exact, showed a lot of emotion and dimension.
1/31/18
My ideal place to live and work would be a cross between a city and a suburb. My mind travels to a large villa somewhere in Italy. The walls would be a tan terra cotta on the outside and the inside would be white, the same terra cotta. My home would be a blank space that allows me to set up different sets and scenes for me to take pictures. Because my style is ever changing, the rooms should be able to be versatile. I’d reserve a room to be my art studio where I would do paintings and drawings. The room would have big windows with wooden panes. They would stay open during the day and blow their linen curtains around while I work on art that isn’t photography. Another room would be a library where the walls would be fashioned with bookshelves filled with books and movie of inspirations. This can also act as a backdrop for my photos. ID spend most of my time in here, researching and creating ideas. The yard would be a shady place where the branches of trees would cast shadows all over the long grass that billows in heaps. The house would double as both a home and a set for my photos. I’d challenge myself to find new corners of the house and find inspiration in the mundane. The doors would always be open to those interested in visiting. I’d be a small hostile for other artists. This would give me the option to collaborate and draw inspiration from those around me. Since moving to Parsons, I’ve noticed how important collaboration and the swapping of ideas with other artists is, so I’d like to continue this idea as I move on past my schooling.
2/1/18
An object I have an attached memory to is of a figurine I had got from class in the first class. My teacher, Miss Brown, had a well-behaved system that would be tallied at the end of class every day. Over the course of the week, if a student earned a certain number of tallies, they were able to choose a toy from the toy box at dismissal. When I reached my total number of tallies, I waited in line at the front of the room to grab a toy from the box. I watched as my classmates pulled away from the box holding coloring books, Slinkys, and dolls. Because I was the last, I took my time digging through the box. I passed up rubber sticky hands, hard rubbery frogs, and cheap girl jewelry. I dug to the bottom and found a small, burgundy colored velvet pouch with brown braided pull strings at the top. I felt around the pouch to see what was inside, it seemed hard. I opened it and found a metal carved statue of a witch in a long cape that swayed in the same direction of her hair. Her left arm clutched a walking stick while her right hand was extended out, crystal ball in palm. I looked at it in amazement. Why were there something so well-crafted and serious in a box full of cheap dollar store toys? I believed that it had magic powers and, like the movies, meant I was the special chosen one. Thinking back to it, I picture myself finding this figurine the same way Harry Potters wand chose him; a bright white light and a wind coming upon him. To this day, I still keep the little pouch and witch in my drawer. Over the years, the fragile wrist of the witch gave out and the crystal ball and hand broke off so it dangles in the bottom corners of the bag.
2/2/18
Voice frying never had such an effect of me until a teacher of mine had brought it up. “Look I’m doing it right now” she said as she described what it was. This happens mostly with women, apparently. They lower the octaves of their voice until it scratches and groans as they talk. The Kardashians are famous for this. Their valley girl voices ‘frying’ as they talk. Frying has affected me so much that I wonder if I can ever hear a woman speak the same again. Now, I can’t listen to certain songs, podcast, or watch some shows because the voices give me chills to my skin. One girl in my class voice fries so bad that I have to quickly distract myself before she talks. To me, it sounds like there’s two people talking as she talks. One being herself and the other being a demon. I feel so sexist saying this all Most of my female friends don’t do it but when they do-m at the tines they get tired or lazy, the sound drives me crazy. Why do they do that? Is it to make their voice deeper, to not make themselves seem so young? I HATE VOICE CRYING IT’S RUINING MY LIFE!!
2/4/18
If I was prompted to explain my art to my dad, I’d begin to relate it to that of his moms. My grandma, like me, was a photographer. She photographed everything; her family, friends, neighborhood, and her only son. She was known for licking the one-use lightbulb before twisting it into place and blinding everyone with a flash. Her endless collection of photo albums was passed down to my dad after her death and is now scattered around our home. My photography takes after hers as mine is often times nostalgic. I try to take and edit photos to elude to those from the time she developed her own. My photos, however, are usually girl driven. I’m always taking photos of females as femininity fascinates me. My grandmas style was very tacky, I’d explain to him, but not in a bad way. The fake flowers, feather boas, many mirrors, cheap Versailles style furniture, and gold is something I love to set my photos to. If my grandma was still alive, her house would have been an amazing place to take photos in. Like me, my favorite photographer, Olivia Bee’s photos are very youth based. She takes photos of her friends, mostly girls, in a very documentary style way, Nan Goulding style. However, her photos are more kids in the American dream, suburban boredom. Olivia’s photos represent a different kind of nostalgia. Her photos are reminiscent of careless high school summers. Often times, I’ve thought about recreating some of my grandma’s photos, using the cameras she once used as well as the film she left behind.
