Monday, February 25, 2008
Saturday, February 16, 2008
My two brains: 5 Rehearsals in Ink
It is fitting that I first embraced my doodling addiction in Jami Ake's Shakespeare class Freshman year of undergrad. I should say that I shouldn't have even been in this Shakespeare class, it being an upper level course, and I being a lower underclassman; I would later find out, furthermore, that this 300 level English course could not and would not count towards my 200 level English requirement, and that I would have to take one of the survey courses I was avoiding by focusing on the bard. The bogus logic of academia.
I have been drawing since preschool, and though I don't know this for sure, I assume that I have been doodling since at least high school if not middle school. But it was while debating Desdemona and talking about the twin-cherries in Midsummer's Night Dream, that I first started using two notebooks: one for note-taking, and one (now far more interesting to revisit) for doodling. This was much more practical than it was artistic: my doodles had begun to dominate my notes when they shared the page, and I wouldn't hesitate to draw over the fact that Shakespeare was born in -----------.
As I simultaneously pursued a drawing/woodcutting minor and a psych minor, my artistic brain and my analytical brain strengthened in unison. Great, right? Right. Sure: I think so. But with this, like the valley between two active volcanoes, the divide between these two brains became more pronounced. They can work together, sure. There was no fall-out. No schism. They are like brothers who play well together; but they are also like brothers who both constantly want dad's attention and when dad is playing frisbee with the analytical brain, the artistic brain is jumping up in down in the window until dad finally turns his attention to him, leaving the analytical son alone in the backyard wishing his frisbee was a boomarang. Pretty soon the analytical son drops the frisbee altogether and chases after his brother and father, leaving the frisbee forgotten and unattended, lost in the tall grass for eternity.
To drop the metaphor, my brain wanders to whatever play I am working on or an idea for a woodcut, and once the artistic brain starts wandering, the analytical brain takes its cue and starts wandering as well: revisiting conversations and memories; breaking a part a play I read yesterday; etc. And then Jami asks me what I think of Claudius's prayer to heaven and whether I think words without thoughts ever to heaven go, and I sink and try not to think about the huge intellectual crush I have on this professor and how if I open my mouth I will prove that I have no idea what she's talking about, and I quickly stumble my way to an empty answer that sounds good to everyone but her and my friend Kim because they know it's bullshit just like I know it's bullshit.
The solution has been to doodle. I don't know what the denotation of doodling is, but for me it is a drawing without intention. It is a drawing that is more interested in being visually appealing than meaning anything. No truths are sought. No great mysteries are uncovered. And if you happen to spill coffee on it, so much the better. For me it is a way to engage my needy artistic son while I am playing frisbee with the analytical son. Over this last week, this trick has come in handy. We are at the stage in rehearsals where I am (as dramaturg) most valuable listening to the language of the play and making sure the actors are communicating the intentions of their characters. Greg and Libby - the directors for Girl in the Goldfish Bowl and the director for The Misanthrope - can worry about shape right now, and I will start worrying about it when we move into runs. And at that point my two brains can play together all they want; but not yet.
Of course it appears rude. It looks like I'm not listening at all when I am engrossed in a doodle, but in reality if I am doodling I am listening intensely. If I'm not doodling, then you should wonder where my mind has wandered to.
Rachel had to make a trip the paper store for school, and she gave me some of her scraps of some super swank paper! Delicious. My bank account is thankful she did not take me with her.
Doodles from a week of rehearsal:
Journey To
Dragon
Acorn
Three Wise Men
Systems
I have been drawing since preschool, and though I don't know this for sure, I assume that I have been doodling since at least high school if not middle school. But it was while debating Desdemona and talking about the twin-cherries in Midsummer's Night Dream, that I first started using two notebooks: one for note-taking, and one (now far more interesting to revisit) for doodling. This was much more practical than it was artistic: my doodles had begun to dominate my notes when they shared the page, and I wouldn't hesitate to draw over the fact that Shakespeare was born in -----------.
As I simultaneously pursued a drawing/woodcutting minor and a psych minor, my artistic brain and my analytical brain strengthened in unison. Great, right? Right. Sure: I think so. But with this, like the valley between two active volcanoes, the divide between these two brains became more pronounced. They can work together, sure. There was no fall-out. No schism. They are like brothers who play well together; but they are also like brothers who both constantly want dad's attention and when dad is playing frisbee with the analytical brain, the artistic brain is jumping up in down in the window until dad finally turns his attention to him, leaving the analytical son alone in the backyard wishing his frisbee was a boomarang. Pretty soon the analytical son drops the frisbee altogether and chases after his brother and father, leaving the frisbee forgotten and unattended, lost in the tall grass for eternity.
To drop the metaphor, my brain wanders to whatever play I am working on or an idea for a woodcut, and once the artistic brain starts wandering, the analytical brain takes its cue and starts wandering as well: revisiting conversations and memories; breaking a part a play I read yesterday; etc. And then Jami asks me what I think of Claudius's prayer to heaven and whether I think words without thoughts ever to heaven go, and I sink and try not to think about the huge intellectual crush I have on this professor and how if I open my mouth I will prove that I have no idea what she's talking about, and I quickly stumble my way to an empty answer that sounds good to everyone but her and my friend Kim because they know it's bullshit just like I know it's bullshit.
The solution has been to doodle. I don't know what the denotation of doodling is, but for me it is a drawing without intention. It is a drawing that is more interested in being visually appealing than meaning anything. No truths are sought. No great mysteries are uncovered. And if you happen to spill coffee on it, so much the better. For me it is a way to engage my needy artistic son while I am playing frisbee with the analytical son. Over this last week, this trick has come in handy. We are at the stage in rehearsals where I am (as dramaturg) most valuable listening to the language of the play and making sure the actors are communicating the intentions of their characters. Greg and Libby - the directors for Girl in the Goldfish Bowl and the director for The Misanthrope - can worry about shape right now, and I will start worrying about it when we move into runs. And at that point my two brains can play together all they want; but not yet.
Of course it appears rude. It looks like I'm not listening at all when I am engrossed in a doodle, but in reality if I am doodling I am listening intensely. If I'm not doodling, then you should wonder where my mind has wandered to.
Rachel had to make a trip the paper store for school, and she gave me some of her scraps of some super swank paper! Delicious. My bank account is thankful she did not take me with her.
Doodles from a week of rehearsal:
Journey To
Dragon
Acorn
Three Wise Men
Systems
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Monday, February 4, 2008
While you were drying.
My clothes are in the drier. Drier. Weird word. Makes you have to make a weird shape with your mouth. "Dry" is fine because you can let it go, but the noun-ifying suffix "er" forces you to make an odd loop because you silently must return to a closed position. Drier. Almost necessitates mumbling. I'm probably overthinking this.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Primary Lament
Damn. Reading Bellwether State Fervently Seeks Choice Who Can Win in the Fall in today's New York Times makes me disappointed in myself for my political laziness. I am still registered to vote in the great state of Missouri (the Libra of the US). Which would be great if I didn't live in Chicago. Or if I had gotten my shit together to vote absentee on Tuesday. As it happened, I procrastinated by watching clips about the debates, reading articles about the rise of McCain (yay!) and the demonization of teary-eyed Hilary, and following who won what states and trying to figure out how the point system works. And I never registered in Illinois. And I never called in to get a Missouri ballot sent to my Illinois apartment.
I honestly believe in this Presidential election, which I could not say about the last election because I didn't believe in Kerry because I didn't believe Kerry and I only voted for Kerry because Bush is, well...Bush is, how do I put this...Bush embodies the worst of politics: secretive, obstinate, inarticulate, closed-minded...we could continue because we all have continued and by this point we are all preaching to the choir because the choir is overflowing the church.
But the world is watching this election as we here in the states are (maybe even closer than some here in the states are). They see it as a reflection of what we value and what relationships we want to foster with Europe and the Middle East and China and Russia. The next president could bring the world together even before yo (apparently the new genderless pronoun?) takes office because of the message we will send by electing yo. By electing Obama or Clinton, we will announce to the world, We agree with you: Bush fucked it.
Damn. I should go home to vote. Because: Bush fucked it. I could catch the megabus. $20 down. $20 back. 10 hours on a bus. Lose time on rewriting that commission. Miss rehearsal. Miss rehearsal again, I should say, since I am going to the opening of Talking Pictures on Monday. I guess I could skip the opening.
God that's a lot of work though! But I guess not as much work as the Revolutionary War.
Damn.
I honestly believe in this Presidential election, which I could not say about the last election because I didn't believe in Kerry because I didn't believe Kerry and I only voted for Kerry because Bush is, well...Bush is, how do I put this...Bush embodies the worst of politics: secretive, obstinate, inarticulate, closed-minded...we could continue because we all have continued and by this point we are all preaching to the choir because the choir is overflowing the church.
But the world is watching this election as we here in the states are (maybe even closer than some here in the states are). They see it as a reflection of what we value and what relationships we want to foster with Europe and the Middle East and China and Russia. The next president could bring the world together even before yo (apparently the new genderless pronoun?) takes office because of the message we will send by electing yo. By electing Obama or Clinton, we will announce to the world, We agree with you: Bush fucked it.
Damn. I should go home to vote. Because: Bush fucked it. I could catch the megabus. $20 down. $20 back. 10 hours on a bus. Lose time on rewriting that commission. Miss rehearsal. Miss rehearsal again, I should say, since I am going to the opening of Talking Pictures on Monday. I guess I could skip the opening.
God that's a lot of work though! But I guess not as much work as the Revolutionary War.
Damn.
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