art of watercolor; what is and what is not

We painted two different versions of the same sunset as we listened to the quiet chatter of the other painters. We had just learned the art of watercolors, how to apply different amounts of water on the paper and produce different results, wet on wet, washes, dry on dry, transparent colors, wet on dry, glazes. Sometimes is was strokes of brilliance, sometimes it was literally splashes of color. Too much color.

J exclaimed suddenly, "Guys! Look at my flower!" She displayed her picture on the table. It was good for what it was; we were all novices anyway, but the colors were bright and happy, the flower yellow, the grass green. She grabbed a brush and again started to add water.

"What are you doing?" I asked nervously. I thought that she had just displayed a finished product, and we had been told a common watercolor-er error is overbrushing.

"Maybe it's not a flower anymore!" She laughed and made another brush stroke. "Can this be a sun??"

"It can be whatever you want it to be," I said expertly, yet cautiously, "it's Art." (Though secretly, I had never seen or imagined a green sky.)

"Oh, no!" She soon exclaimed, "I messed it up!"

"NO" we protested, "we like it! Leave it alone.." We really did, too. The shapes had started to melt into one another, making it a sort of abstract art, but they were still a happy yellow and green.

"Don't touch it anymore," I continued, cliche-ing. "Less is more. The colors are good; the placement is good!"

"But what is it?" J looked skeptically at her own watercolor.
"It doesn't have to be anything. It just IS the colors and shapes. Just don't touch it..."

J quietly kept at it. "Maybe it's a lily pad with a flower on it."
The class exchanged glances. "That could be." The teacher commented, "Monet did that."

We painted on. One by one we left as we finished with our paints. Out came mountains, trees, sand, water, air, and the occasional flower. Holding her painting up one last time, she asked as she readied to leave, "Do you think everyone will know it's a cave?"

the art of ending tragically

Another S offered to show us a few "odds and ends" (his words) on the t.v. the other night, so we nestled down on the couch to be cultured. 

Reflecting on the strange and wonderful world of Dr. Horrible and his sing-along blog, I tried to anticipate the ending. I do not make a habit of savoring sad endings, if I can help it. There are only two ways for anything to end: ending well, or ending badly. Some people really like sad things, and feel that happy endings are a cop-out, but the truth is there is a fifty-fifty chance either way.

Now-a-days, tragic endings are equally common. But a person, observing a situation, can instinctively feel the onset of a bad ending and brace herself for it. The worst endings, however, are unexpected, such as Dr. Horrible inadvertently creating the weapon that causes the death of his One True Love. Eventually, he finds solace in becoming a mad scientist. Lucky for him.

But for us, the viewers on the couch, it was a shockingly tragic feeling to watch her die in his arms and then see his wasted, misdirected energies turn evil. We sat in silence as the credits rolled by--and then we erupted into protests. Poor Other S.

Hastily,  he put in a more happy tale of one Dr. Who (there are a lot of Doctors in the Other S's life) who travels space and time pluckily saving the human race from itself and more sinister life forms. It's an entertaining look into British humor and French history. That night's episode featured the famous mistress of one of the King Louies.

Like many of life's experiences, we laughed until we cried. And then we just cried. Tragically, the ending is sad and ironic; Dr. Who misses the heroine's death by minutes and then sails without her into the space sunset. We sat in shocked silence as the credits rolled by.

Turns out that the Other S likes sad endings.

Turns out we won't be watching odds and ends on the tele with him anytime soon.

the art of a mobster’s magnum opus

Today's teachers only participate on the grounds that no one knows their names. Not even their initials.

Protection of Witnesses, anyone?

Also, those who can't do, teach...

One night with The S-Man and his associate Ty "The Guy", L discovered something very vital in all mobster/civilian relations: you won’t teach a mobster new tricks. Mobsters, however, like to be cultured; the art is in showing HIM how to teach YOU.

(I'm reminded of the mob boss from Oscar, Angelo “Snaps” Provolone. While instructing his accountant he comments, “I learn a new word every day. You should expand your vocabulary, Antny, and you wouldn’t be just a book keeper.“)

And so our friendly neighborhood wise guy learned the flute. After a brief explanation of musical theory, The S-Man took the flute parts from L’s hands and re-demonstrated equipment assembly. “This is the Blowy Part,” he stated, putting the head on the body of the flute, “and this is the Tipity Tappers."

"And this part here, Boss,” Ty "The Guy" said excitedly, grabbing the foot, “is the Silencer.”

Nothing like a gangster to put music into perspective.

L internally roller her eyes, and lesson two began. S-Man drew a 5-lined staff, and carefully added the notes, composing his master piece (it turns out mobsters think everything they do is a Magnum Opus.) To increase the difficulty, he drew flags on the notes and made obscure time signatures. L found him to be a hard taskmaster, much like Mozart of old, but surprisingly enough, she now could play all sorts of mobster ballads and drinking songs.

By the end of the night L was a professional. The S-Man is now willing to teach others for a small fee. (He, however, is still working on making a sound.) But don’t tell him that. He’s thinking of changing his name to S “The Flute” Harris…and we, for one, will not be dashing his dreams.

the art of 9 a. m. dance parties

A= "What happens at Apartment 6..."

L= "No comment."

(or is there? you should look...)

No, seriously, look at the comments, but before you go, you should know that there is no shame in dancing crazy in your living room. I believe it should be therapy.

M showed us that there is an art to dance parties. It's no easy task to let loose and release your inhibitions, especially because people have a phobia of dancing in public. And, though dancing in your living room is not usually public, I would say it's a good way to practice anything more complicated than the YMCA.

the art of wiing, or in other words, getting our ducks in a row.

Wii. Get it? Wii-ing?

It could be an exclamation of joy, but in our case, it is Virtual Reality Resort Recreation (VirReal ResRec... just kidding. I just made that up).

Our instructors: D and N.

Our mission: Paddle our virtual canoe across the duck pond (virtual pond=clean pond), stay within the yellow buoys, and guide the baby ducks to Mama with our trusty canoe.

Easy, you say? Wii beg to differ.

Did you know:

Angle of your tilting controller determines the side of virtual canoe when you paddle. It doesn’t matter if you actually put the controller on that side. One could, in fact, paddle with a casual flick of the wrist while lying on the couch, as long as the angle is correct. (Physics genius or not, that is messed up.)


Did you know:

Ducks aren’t programmed to be caught and guided to Mama. This is also true for ducks in real life.


Did you know:

There is a breaking point even with fake canoeing. There is only so much turmoil a person can take while chasing ducks around that don’t want to be found. Not to mention the angst you feel when you tilt your paddle consistently at a wrong angle and crash into yellow buoys. It's surprising how a virtual world can still produce fake, real emotions.

Anyway, had anyone looked at us paddling furiously with little white control things in the middle of the living room, I would have been mortified. Out of context, we looked ridiculous.

So, tragically, the escape button was accidentally pushed before we finished, much to the disappointment of our teachers, who disapproved.

We could have done this business in the real duck pond by our house. The kinks are almost out in a daring mission to “rescue” a duck or two. (However, real pond=disgusting pond.) Anything is diverting at college, and relocating a quacker to a rival apartment's shower is hi jinks worthy of a blog post, at least. I'm told that all it would take is a little NyQuil and a cold front, since ducks (like humans) don't like to expend more energy than necessary, they use all their energy to keep warm and not a lot of energy to run away. And it's not really that hard. Though real ducks are a little twitchy, I’m told (information courtesy of the G sisters), “They squirm a lot," regarding relocation to the shower, "but they secretly like it…”

art of blogging

I've been skeptical about Blogs since first reading about them 4 years ago; the word "blog" is ridiculous sounding and doesn't seem to have much street cred--But the appeal of a project, coupled with easy access to readers made it difficult to resist the pull (plus I found out blog stands for web log. Who knew?)

As you can read vaguely in the Explanation Section, our project (there are two of us--A and L) is that we determine what interesting things people know how to do, and they teach us a bit of an introductory course.

First Project: Blogging. Intro to the art by T, N, and Ty.

L interjects:

"I thought blogging would be fun. Actually it was ridiculous. Who knew that there were so many stupid formatting parts to a blog; who knew that it would take 30 minutes to decide whether we needed white or black words; who knew that there would be a process..."

I (I'm A) actually spent all day getting ideas and help from tons of people around me, asking their ideas and for hints. I felt weird without L, who for different reasons couldn't make it. I think she feels a little like this first blog isn't really collaborative.

L again:

"But I'm kind of important to this process, 'cause I light up people's lives. And we need a lot of light in this blogging project."

We did it though, even if we threatened peoples lives to help us finish posting this first one. The night is waxing, and we need some sleep. Good Blogging, People. Thanks for the Art form.

Here are L's last words...

"Dear S,
If you get this message then that means that I am no longer with you. I've been taken captive by an alien ship BloggerDotCom. It's a horrible journey. Know that I am aware of your suffering, but I have suffered more. Don't cry too hard for me, but just a little for my loss..."

Well, who knew you could actually say whatever crazy, random thing you wanted. You will find a little of that here, and a little crazy, random things we do, or new things we try. Read, enjoy, and volunteer to teach us something new!