on art:

Just now as I was heading towards the doors of the library to go downstairs and check out the pretentious books about relational aesthetics demanded by my 'postermodernities' class, a student walked through the doors and I tried my hardest not to look but there it was: right side of his face purple and rubbery, complete with eye patch. And yet I felt the need to report it here. Physical deformities (a harsh word, I know) never fail to stop me in my tracks in their awe-inspiring weirdness. I remember a man who hobbled towards me outside the Forbidden City in China, and I can't even describe exactly what was strange, except that everything was. His skin was not where it should have been. And the student, I know this guy was in a fire. And it's horrible. And there are people who stop and look, and there are people who purposefully don't look, which may be even worse. So I don't know. Maybe its because I was thinking about my essay question: 'Analyze instances of relational aesthetics and the types of social space they attempt to produce.' See, I don't even know what that means. You know I don't know what that means. No, I want my neon lights & sixties revolution & Nazi women in Germany topics back because these words frighten me: 'relational, aesthetics, social.' Along with the generally scary 'analyze, attempt, and produce.'

I'm feeling a bit braver though, even than yesterday. A rainy day in London and some more excellent points made in class by yours truly perhaps helped. Last night I realized that I haven't really taken any pictures of London. The London that I walk through every day and the reason for that is understandable and simple: I want to appear that I live here. I want to walk down the street and have everyone assume I've lived here most of my life. But there are certain things you have to capture: and that's the way the streets feel, and most of all, how the Underground feels, and what it's like to party in the flat upstairs like I so often do. So I'm trying to step back. I imagined leaving London for the last time and realized that when I leave, the things that I remember will not be the view from Hampstead Heath, but the view from being pressed back against the doors of the train.

I went to the Photographers' Gallery today (above). It's turned into one of my favorite galleries, as it has a really cozy atmosphere, despite all the white you see here. In the other gallery, a large table sits right in the middle of the viewing space. The cafe is right up next to the gallery and you can sit, drink, and read art magazines as people shuffle about you. Today I saw Alec Soth's work, 'Sleeping by the Mississippi,' who's shortlisted with three other artists for an international photography prize, and I liked him the best even before I found out he's Minnesota born and raised and teaches at MCAD.

And then the desire to stick my hands in chemicals and watch the crisp images of my photos appear with a horrible slowness washed over me as it hasn't since highschool. I've become very tired of my digital camera: it's old, and no matter what I do, what shows up on the screen is rarely what I saw or wanted to convey.

I found a bookstore in London (it's so large, I don't know how I've never seen it before) called Foyles, which claims it's the most famous bookshop in the world. It looks more like a Borders inside now, but the range of books is amazing. I had already been in a cafe at Borders researching Europe travels, but if I was not so tired I could have spent hours in it. Nevertheless, I was so in love I bought a book of travel writing (hopefully to assuage my fears and the stress that bubbled to the surface while trying to flip through four country travel guides) on a whim and a staff's recommendation write-up and also one of the many amazing little books that Penguin has recently published. Jonathan Safran Foer. Oh, you know every girl has an author crush on you.