Am I Then...?

I am a sucker for posters. Especially big, beautiful, impressionistic posters. They're having the annual poster sale in Eisenhower today and tomorrow, so, being unable to avoid the spot, I went.

There is, at this sale in particular, a plethora of choices, artists, popular subjects and esoteric subjects. At one point I simply had to stop looking. Otherwise I'd have seen too many beautiful ones, and spoiled my joy in the two I decided to buy. Or else I'd have bought too many and spoiled my joy. Either way, too much unreachable beauty would have spoiled the attainable beauty. This made me think: my schedule is a lot like this poster sale. I had too much unattainable beauty on my plate, and it was spoiling the whole thing. By dropping my creative writing course this semester and taking it in J-term, I'm recovering my joy with attainable beauty, just as (by limiting my poster exposure and purchases) I'm increasing (or at least leaving unspoiled) my joy in my posters. That made me feel a lot better about dropping the course, less of a failure, and more of a focused, disciplined "adult" person.

One other thing happened at the sale that made the little head-wheels start turning. I was staring (in complete rapture) at a Degas (Blue Dancers, for those that care) and I heard someone behind me mistakenly attribute it to Monet (in a very authoritative tone of voice). As if all impressionists are Monet! In all likelihood, if you can't tell their work apart (and it's VERY different) you haven't even been looking at it! I was so angry, I turned around and corrected the girl, in as neutral a voice as I could muster.

With authors, I am much like that girl. Unless I'm totally obsessed with their work, their names escape me, and I'm quite as likely to attribute Jane Eyre to Diana Wynne Jones as to Charlotte Bronte (or was it actually written by Emily Bronte or that other Bronte sister? See? Hopeless.). Even if I enjoyed a particular story, there is little chance I'll remember the author at all. With loved artists - well, I simply cannot understand confusion, especially not with impressionists, whose work was generally of the same style for the majority of their lifespans (I am making generalizations here - I realize that. Hence the word "generally"). Am I then more of an artist than an author?

And one more exciting piece of news... or at least one that boosted my self esteem. In Color & Design, only a quarter of us had ever used pallete knives to mix paint before. Knowing that, although they may be ahead of me in other respects, I can already use a pallete knife to mix paint made me very happy. According to Daniel Finch, my mixing is also "very good," and my texture was "excellent." - at least for this project.

Forgive me if I sound boastful - I'm just really really excited not to suck at something! = D