What is death? A temptation, a sensuous trap. It lures the weak-hearted and the easily addicted, those who have given up and given in to her dark radiance. They slowly embrace the end while composing symphonies to accompany the bittersweet fall. Death next coaxes the life lovers who have bought insurance protecting from her long reach, who have taken all measures at any cost to fight her advance. The lovers and the fighters heroically cling to their last tears until they too slip away in the waves. She is always there at the edge of our minds. 

A middle-aged man raced past me on a bike, his navy jacket flapping in the breeze and faded jeans revealing sock-covered ankles. I laughed inwardly at the sight of his legs, too long for his bike, pedaling furiously at an unproportional rate compared to the speed of his craft.

I round a bend in the trail and ease into a more forgiving pace. At the 1.5 mile marker, I decide to walk a few minutes more before turning back to race the setting sun.

As the trail straightens out I encounter the vision again, now standing with his bike between his legs looking behind his shoulder. I turn my head as well just as a boy of 7 sails down the slope on his bike. He is decked out in elbow pads and knee pads, which scrunch up his fleece jacket and trousers at the joints, while windblown tufts of hair peek out from a precariously perched helmet. The boy pedals just as furiously as his father, who calls out words of encouragement.

With a laugh, the boy keeps pedaling past his father. The two race off after the man climbs back onto his bike, closely trailing his meandering son. The father’s great laugh of happiness echoes in my head as the two venture further into the embrace of the sun-speckled trees on a late Sunday afternoon.

I never realized how silently the rain can fall. Silver, straight, soothingly silent. Outside the musky casino, we watched the downpour. Sitting on a bench next to the valet drive-through under an extended roof but out of range of the outdoor heaters. Holding hands. The chatter from the building followed us outside as people drifted out into their waiting cars and melted into the night rain. The smoke clung to our clothes and hair; I could smell it as we kissed.

Earlier that week he told me he was happy… earlier that night he told me he was euphoric. I could see it in his face Friday outside the casino, under the roof, on the bench, in the rain.

Do I feel the same?

Things can fall into place ever so silently, so unevitably. You won’t notice until you see them in motion around you.

Over the course of Thanksgiving break, I spent some time with my mom and sister in the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art (SFMOMA). It was very enjoyable and a welcome break from the natural chaos associated with hosting large family dinners.

A unique aspect at the SFMOMA is that it is very interactive with its visitors, especially children. Interspersed between select exhibits are small areas stationed with pencil, crayon and paper for visitors to jot down artistic or verbal reactions to the artwork. There are five levels to the museum, and a rooftop garden. Each level has an overarching theme connecting all the artworks within it, which makes otherwise abstract juxtapositions relevant. The layout of each of the levels is also comparable to the ambulatory of a martyrium, for one can start at any point on each floor and be able to return to one’s starting point due to the circular layout. I didn’t visit the first or fourth floor, but I did examine the second and third. The fifth was under wraps due to the planning of a new exhibition. The second floor however didn’t really have an all-encompassing theme, and seemed to be the location of the temporary rotating exhibitions, including LGBT expression (seeing as the museum’s location is in a sympathetic city), Californian artists, the impact of Dieter Rams’ “less, but better” interior design, Surrealism, Latin American modernism, and historical artworks. The third floor displays a segment of the museum’s extensive photography collection, including works by Ansel Adams and Man Ray (not currently on display). Francesca Woodman is the largest photography exhibit on display, along with a few other photographers like Tetsu Okuhara and Mike Mandel. The artworks are basically presented traditionally, in a frame or on a pedestal, enveloped by clean white walls.

Albert Bender, a major patron of the MOMA, procured many famous works, including The Flower Carrier by Diego Rivera made specifically for the MOMA, works by his wife Frida Kahlo also made for the MOMA, and Henri Matisse. Famous works and artists such as Marcel Duchamp’s Fountain, Andy Warhol, Ansel Adams and Jackson Pollock are part of the museum’s prized collection.The museum also spotlights Californian artists, especially those from the Bay Area. An example of Bay Area art I particularly liked was Robert Arneson’s self portrait, California Artist. It is a statue made of clay depicting the upper half of the artist’s body, wearing sunglasses with gaping holes as the glasses lenses showing an empty interior in the head. The pedestal is a short, crumbling brick column with painted marijuana plants growing up the side and cigarette butts and broken beer bottles around the base. This was created in response to a New York-based art critic, who commented that Californian art was just colloquial and not to be taken seriously. I think the piece is post-modern because its main intent is irony, because the piece portrays all the stereotypes of Californians –hippie sunglasses, druggie liberals, degenerate as seen in the crumbling brick pedestal, and empty-headed. The relationship between form and function are also interrelated, seeing as the clay sculpture represents the medium less favored in sculptures, also adding to Arneson’s ironic barb in reply to the critic. Ever since it first opened, the MOMA has supported contemporary and innovative art and less well-known or established artists. For example, back in the early twentieth century, photography was not considered a fine art and the MOMA was one of the first museums to acknowledge and exhibit photography as a valued art.

Overall, I had a positive experience in this museum, and would definitely recommend it to people and families. As I said earlier, it is quite kid-friendly, and it is always a good idea to introduce kids to art, even if they do not understand it. I would advise everyone to take the time to think about and question the pieces of art, and not just take them in at face value. I also feel that the layout of the museum incorporates the reward-system. It is structured for visitors to circle through the floors up to the top floor, until they reach the rooftop café, almost like a reward for finishing the tour of the museum. It was very satisfying drinking dripped coffee, eating a sandwich and enjoying the view after walking and thinking and taking notes, for me at least. The museum is well-established, and there are free audio-tours of the exhibits, providing further information on the artists or artworks probably not easily attainable elsewhere.

The hovering sun bathes half the crater in golden light, coloring the cosmic dust a ruddy brown. Spine-like ridges bind the hills in a maze of walls encircling the slight decline. Crags and dips on the slope gradually break down into small eddies of crumbled dirt, flowing towards the small valleys between the banks of disturbed earth. The jagged rocks protruding from the crater cast flowing cloaks of shadow, as the departing sun crowns the tallest peaks with ivory clouds. If not for the collection of water vapor, one may have mistaken the desolate scene for an otherworldly landscape on Mars. The red sentinels, broad and stout, stand braced for the onslaught of a long twilight. Atmosphere and pressure are tangible in the thin, cutting air. Gulfs of wind and cloud separate the red crags from their nearest neighbors, the purple mountains. The altitude makes the crater a kingdom of air with no thoughts or memories of the ground below.

However, not a living soul stirs in this kingdom. Rotations of the sun and the moon shine on earth and air alone, with no nourishment for fauna or flora. The rolling clouds weep in vain; the strong arms of the red hills embrace only air. The ravaged valley is sterile and dry, unable to produce sustenance to support any form of life.

The omnipresent sweep of sky gazes unseeingly on the loneliness of this small habitat, never able to fathom the aches and sufferings of the spirits of the earth.

—My very first assignment for Wri10. I was to describe an image in 250-300 words, and I created a little story to add to the feeling of isolation in the scene. (Picture taken by my professor, Dr. Susan A. George.)

yesterday i slept in until 2pm. that is extremely late for me, because usually when i sleep past noon i get headaches. then today i slept in till 4. but one good thing that comes of sleeping in for me is the increased ability to recall my dreams.

the dream from the 2pm day:

there was a summer house party at a 1 story house with wide doorways and broad windows. it seemed to be built in the style of a ranch for outside, there were open fields and low wooden fences as far as i could see. it actually reminded me of little house on the prairie meets one landscape in dungeon siege I. on the edge of one northern fence was a huge coniferous forest with pines and redwoods and birds flying around it. i don’t recall it seeming ominous and dark initially, but it was pretty scary later on.

for some reason, my parents, sister and i decided to take a walk in this forest. at first it was a pleasant hike on a clearly emblazoned dirt trail. it changed between the forest path and the little stretch of skyline blvd between hillcrest and the freeway entrance, but predominantly remained the dirt path. the air was dry and warm, sweet with the scent of pine needles and sun and dirt. as we walked on, the air grew chillier and damp with the approach of night. i don’t really remember what happened next, but we were ambushed and a young lion the size of a large dog came over. i think our attackers meant to make the lion aggressive to scare us, but i wasn’t afraid. the lion led us along the path and we had to follow it to wherever or attackers wanted to bring us.

here the dream gets more abstract and hard to remember. our attackers were human; selfish, greedy and mean in the sense of being base and vile. they were armed, but with curious weapons. one was a small crossbow/gun- a crossbow with a trigger. there were also animals- natural and mythical. i think i saw a bear… and a minotaur. they force us to do something but i forget. we come to a huge dip in the terrain, a bowl in the prairie, and see dozens of people exiting a huge wire fence. the fence is super tall, and some people have to climb over it to get out, while some exit a gate.

in order to leave, we must give up our identities and lives to our captors, and assume completely new aliases. our attacker/captors inject us with a purpose to carry out, and set us back out into the world. my sister and i walked out through the gate and my parents climbed over the fence. as i walked out i distinctly remember feeling exasperated in my dream because i had an instantaneous, momentary feeling of deja vu. how many times have i changed my identity?

this is not the first time i’ve had this dream.

Whenever someone asks me what my favorite animal is, I always wonder whether unicorns are considered animals. Horses are animals. They are also classified as mammals and equus caballus. Unicorns are just horses with spiraling exoskeleton outgrowths… that are mythical.

(So just to be on the safe side, I reply with lions. I wish I was one.)

For me, this raises the questions of how myths are created, how true they are initially, and why they are still alive today. The unicorn originated in Greek myth, and possibly Egyptian as well. The story goes that the she-goat Amalthea nursed an infant Zeus, and in return, he broke off one of her horns to create an endless supply of food- the horn of plenty. The ancient Greeks believed it to be a real animal, native to fabulousIndia, while Egyptian drawings depict antelopes with just one horn.

The unicorn became an important symbol in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance inEurope. It represented purity, love and strength, as well as other virginal characteristics and associations. Its horn, the alicorn, was thought to have had magical qualities. In a Christian light, the unicorn’s attraction to the virgin parallels the relationship between Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary, or the Passion of Christ.

Today, the image of the Western unicorn is alive and thriving. It is particularly manifested in the overtly feminine Disney-princess girl culture. Here, unicorns are commonly associated with fairies and “cute” woodland creatures.

However, I did have the happy fortune of viewing The Hunt of the Unicorn tapestries in theCloistersMuseum inNew York City. The story behind the capture and slaughter of the unicorn is tragic and enigmatic. Why would the huntsmen want to kill something so pure and vulnerable? I think it is reflective of man’s destructive nature. He first manipulates a virgin to lure the unicorn to kill it, the symbol of love, the Passion of Christ, purity, nature. To me, the unicorn’s death symbolizes the death of love and spirituality, the loss of innocence, and man’s declared dominance over nature.

Why does it make us happy? (or at least most of us)

I don’t know about everyone else, but I start listening to Christmas songs in August. Scratch that- I listen to them any day of the year, when I’m down or gloomy or sappy or emotional or homesick. There’s just something about the chilly air, smoky with the scent of firewood and the promise of being safe and well fed at home with missed loved ones. In America, when one thinks of the term “holiday season,” Thanksgiving and Christmas and sometimes Hanukkah themes parade across one’s mind. Images of presents, turkeys, candles and menorahs, jolly old St. Nick, evergreen trees, The Nutcracker, ornaments and strings of lights, eggnog and hot chocolate, pies, hues of red and green and much more are synonymous with the holidays.

In one of my favorite movies A Charlie Brown Christmas, Charlie Brown ponders these images and the meaning of Christmas. The blatant materiality of it bothers him, like when the kids are going through the motions of buying presents and decorating and writing Christmas cards. Lucy orders Charlie to pick out a tree to boost his spirits, but his search through ranks of shiny pink metallic trees further depresses him. The pink trees represent commercialism and its distortion of the true Christmas spirit, personified in the only real tree Charlie finds in the lot. In this movie, Linus quotes a passage from the Bible to Charlie, which is taken to be the meaning of Christmas (as according to the author, Charles M. Schulz). The quote from the Bible connects the celebration of Christmas back to its original purpose, the birth of Christ and Christianity. Schulz comments on the growing secular, economic emphasis on the holiday season, rather than on the spiritual or religious.

The image of Christmas is generally similar for Americans, but to each individual it means something different. As an atheist, I don’t really celebrate the original meaning of Christmas. I do get swept up in the holiday fervor and exchange of gifts, but most importantly the holiday season represents the closeness of my family.

Learning about art in relation to modern society shines a new light on everything I see. Recently, my grandmother underwent eye cataract surgery, and, during her recovery week, wondered at why the lights were suddenly brighter, why colors more vivid, why she could see her own hand reaching for a mug to her direct left without turning her head. I feel just as she must have that week; just like my grandma, I perceive seemingly prosaic objects through new lenses and end up surprised. It’s humbling to realize that I walk by thousands of images, symbols, histories without ever knowing their connotative significances. It’s even more discouraging to think about the majority of the population who only see through a literal lens, who only take things at face value and never fully appreciating or considering our rich cultural history.

I don’t even try to recall class lectures, but vocabulary terms spring forth unbidden when I encounter something learned in class. Tall columns suddenly have a progression of orders and the Corinthian’s elegant stem is rooted with a circular attic base, crowned with a narrower foliate capital. Shadowy gaps in history are explained and etched in my “mental art database,” and the history channel makes sense. Who knew the Dark Ages succeeded the Renaissance?

An example of Corinthian columns. 

When I was younger, trips to the museum were only scraped the surface. I would complain of fatigue or hunger, pose next to vacant marble busts, giggle at nudes with my sister, and declare pieces “pretty” or “ugly”. Now I believe (or I hope) that I can analyze pieces with greater depth and background knowledge, or at least the process in analyzing an artwork. I guess the upcoming museum trip for the final paper will put my newfound abilities to the test.

One aspect I still cannot fathom is the omnipresent series of paintings slathered in nothing but white paint. Many art galleries I’ve been to have at least one section dedicated to what I call the “blank canvases”. I am sure there are technicalities in the brushwork, the layers of paint, the differing sizes of the canvases, the degree of whiteness… but I still cannot understand how one of these paintings could take seven years to complete.

This particular series is oil on canvas by Robert Rauschenberg, 1951. The White Painting (Three Panel) is currently held at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.