Sunday adventure, 3.18.12

Last Sunday (on the eve of finals week), Lauren, Jared, and I decided to go on a walk around Stanford. It had been grey and windy for much of the day, but that didn't stop these intrepid explorers from braving the elements of gloom and wandering out into the great unknown around Cantor Arts Center.

We all wore black coats.

First stop: Mausoleum. It's a widely known fact that there are two sets of sphinxes at the Mausoleum-- a crude, "heathen" set in the back, and much more sophisticated set in the front. Both are terrifying in their own ways.

Second stop: The Cactus Garden! Years ago, a friend and I decided it might be a good idea to pick cactus fruit from the garden. Turns out, that's a sure way to get cactus needles on your hands, arms, and whatever other parts of your body or clothing come in contact with the cactus. This time, Jared located a discarded piece of cactus fruit on the ground which we all bravely tried: tasted like cucumber.

Third stop: The back of Cantor, which had a lot of fences around it. Some were toppled over, so we couldn't really tell if it was off limits or not. Jared was once kicked off the roof of a Hogi Yogi when trying to report a crime, and it didn't go on his permanent record, so we decided we weren't too concerned about whether or not we were breaking any trespassing laws. All we found, however, were stairs that led to a locked door and more modern art. Oh, and more fences.

Fourth stop: Stone River by Andy Goldsworthy. Built from Stanford buildings destroyed in the 1906 and 1989 earthquakes, it's a cross between ancient civilization and the Great Wall of China. Jared made a decent attempt to walk across it (he made it probably 10 or so feet?) Lauren made it about 2 feet. And, constrained by my bulky boots, I just stood back and cheered (pressured) them on. Unfortunately, some of the stones are loose, so it's probably a very bad idea to attempt walking the 320 feet.

Fifth stop: My apartment: where we realized that one of Lauren's fingers was frostbitten (well, just very, very white), where we had tea in odd cups (i.e. a jar that once held peaches), where I accidentally ruined my tea by adding 3 teaspoons too many of sugar, where we watched Lana del Rey music videos, and where we congratulated each other on making it back alive.

I befriend a sphinx at the Mausoleum (who refused to look at the camera)

Jrd & Lrn "pose naturally" at the Cactus Garden

Caught in a labyrinth of modern art and shelter

Wondering if this piece of modern art is climb-able (it wasn't)

Ruins of a recent civilization: we had to google the location of this one in the cold

Meeting America

This morning I went to LACMA (the LA County Museum of Art). Out of all the wonderful and deeply beautiful exhibits there, the one that has stuck with me the most was “Glenn Ligon: AMERICA.” The Picassos, I walked past taking completely for granted. The Peruvian art, I thought would resonate with me, but once you’ve been to the ruins in Cusco, a mere handful of artifacts can’t compare. I did not like the Pacific Island art exhibit, and felt largely neutral towards the California design exhibit. I loved the permanent collection of Islamic Art. But why, why has the Glenn Ligon stuck with me? The first piece of his that caught my eye was a pink mural: “SWEETHEART To dream that your sweetheart whispers funny things in your ears is a sign of Joy” is stenciled on the mural in red. Below: “417” and at the bottom: “To see him walking or flirting with someone else denotes a misunderstanding.” I took a picture of the picture and e-mailed it to a friend of mine, who had recently e-mailed me about a series of dreams she had had. I later discovered the excerpt on his mural, along with excerpts from other pieces in this dream series, came from an obscure African American guide to dream interpretation. These dream murals were placed at the entrance of the Ligon exhibit and therefore, were my point of exposure to the world of Glenn Ligon. What I came across next, was a wall lined with three tall murals (I’d guess, six feet?)—each black, furiously covered in black stenciled writing. I stood in front of the murals and I read the words: “I remember the very day I became colored,” “I do not always feel colored,” and “I feel most colored when I am thrown against a sharp white background.” I read the words over and over again, as they were repeated dozens of times, running from the top of the mural to the very bottom. I read the same refrain, summoning every ounce of my English major-ness to the forefront of my mind, trying to extract every bit of meaning and moment the piece had to offer. Later, I sat in the dimness of flickering “AMERICA” neon reliefs and tried to figure out how many words I could make from the seven letters in America. I'm not sure if this was what Glenn Ligon intended, but from the lights I pulled many, many words, among them: air, rice, crime, rice.

bejarista?

I had originally wanted to name my blog "ista"-- something about that ending fascinates me. In my mind's eye, I envision femininity and boots (and maybe some kind of red and yellow flag...) Unfortunately, "ista" is owned by one, Konrad. He made the blog in 2000, and since then only has posted one post: "first day out of the sphere looking over the bridge to asia." With an intro like that, we can only imagine what happened next.

I've heard that other members of my extended family occasionally go by "Bejar" (short for their last name, my middle name-- Bejarano). So, I thought, why not add some "ista" to my name?

If you are familiar with my poetry blog, you know that it was not much of a hobby, and more of an after-afterthought. I can't say I hope this blog will be different. But I do know it is easier to speak than it is to write.