New Horizons at the Denver Art Museum

            Prior to May 5, 2012, every floor below the sixth (European Art) at the Denver Ar t Museum was irrelevant in my mind. Standing in the elevator, I’d give a casual glance at the floor map: Northwest Coast, American Indian, Pre-Colombian/ Spanish Colonial, Asian, Western American/ photography were clearly labeled, but I’d skip over them in stubborn indifference, pressing the button marked “6”. My tunnel vision for art led me to believe that  European Art was the epitome, the finish line. Renaissance to Modern equals the climax- postmodern and onward the resolution- and in by blithe condescension, I didn’t care to see the non-western exposition.

I can recollect the last time I was standing in the wacky, mountain-shaped building. It must have been one year ago a tleast- perhaps the spring of 2011. It was me, of course, who perused the hallways (of floor six only, mind you), but looking back it feels like a very dissimilar Brianna who did so. This was a Brianna pre-AP Art History class, a Brianna before her visits to the Louvre, Musee D’Orsay, Uffizi, and the Vatican. In other words, a completely different creature. I made haphazard attempts to research Bouguereau, Courbet, and others; my knowledge was limited. So I felt safe only with the art I was acquainted  with. I felt safe only on the sixth floor.

Summer 2011 I spent in Europe- a little tabula rasa surrounded by superb museums, exquisite monuments, and a culture that I’d only known  in movies and books. How could I fathom what a shock this would be- the airports, the hotels, and even more, the art? My shallow pool of artistic taste gave way to a bottomless ocean.

However, stubborn prejudices didn’t budge. Realism, learned technique, anatomical accuracy were the domineering lords which ruled over my bias on a piece of art- if it didn’t fit these standards it wasn’t worth my time. I judged myself as art savvy ; in reality I was philistine. My untrained eye was blind to the sensations of color, history, tone, composition, and conceptual worth. The elucidation from this predicament called for education. The following year I enrolled in Art History.

Opening my History of Art textbook for the first time, I sighed and huffed at how far back we were travelling in time. “Cave paintings, really? That isn’t art history, that’s art before relevant history was made”, I declared to Ms. Reiner. Looking back to that day, I’m embarrassed at my close-mindedness. Now it’s May, and we’ve covered more than a sufficient amount art “before history”, for me to get it through my thick skull how indubitably relevant it is.

Only now do I wholly understand the fervent dedication of tribal garb (ahem, second floor), the astounding antiquity of earthenware that dates to 1000 A.D. (that’s Pre-Colombian, third floor), the gossamer ornamentation of oriental pottery (um, fourth floor), and the multihued interpretation of Central America by W. P. Henderson (one floor up to the seventh).  Art that tells a story, art that utilizes color over line (or vice versa), art that challenges art- everything deserves, at the very least, consideration. Equipped with my new attitude, my visit to the incredibly diverse Denver Art Museum was the best I’ve ever had.

Jason's Hymnal

Popping the headphones in, I raised my eyebrows in expectation- a cue to start his three-minute song. Looking more at the computer than myself, he clicked once and the music crept into audibility.

Immediately, I reckoned the metallic vibrations to that of a lonely echo clinging to the walls of a concrete tunnel- and I closed my eyes to match its entrancing darkness. It was rhythmic, it was beautiful. It was the tribal hymn of rain, somehow translated to an acoustic guitar.

Then, the melody began to speak. The cadence, the pauses, the expression mirrored his voice, and the song was having a conversation. Feeling more like reading his journal than listening to a song he'd constructed, I wrapped my fingers around his arm as if to say, "I hear you."

Towards the end, there was deconstruction. High octave notes rang out, a frantic goodbye, screamed by the song itself.

Of course, I can only now describe it. And I feel stupid, because I just sat there, commenting here and there, chuckling thoughtfully, and saying "This is so pretty!". If only he knew that every night from now on it will sing me to sleep.

I'm the beholder of happiness- when my boyfriend is with me.

We walked the through cold wind last night

until he begged me to go home-

but I just smiled and replied,

“There’s a place I had in mind”

and we kept walking.

We walked the through cold wind last night

until we came to a lilac bush-

and I made him stop to smell them,

their sweetness seemed thousands of years old, like a dusty perfume,

and he was happy we stopped, but we kept walking.

We walked the through cold wind last night

until it started to drizzle-

I worried we’d have to go back,

but as the moisture left dew on our faces and hair,

he was content and so was I; we kept walking.

We walked the through cold wind last night

until I we reached a stream and a bridge

and I told him “We’re here.”

I jumped on the rail and we shared warm kisses in the cold

he picked me up and smiled, and we kept walking.

We walked the through cold wind last night

until we reached home again

and he told me “We’re here.”

We joined on the front porch swing

and I watched him watch the rain fall,

and I was the beholder of happiness.

bright day

positivity is something that I cannot lack

on such a beautiful,

courageous,

promising day.

given the chance, I would not go back

to the feelings,

anxiety,

and fear of yesterday.

Far Gone

I'm simply far,
Floating through my weakness.
I'm in a mental place,
But my thoughts make no trace.

You'd love to comprehend me-
As I complicate your world.
Forgive me; I'm just awkwardly odd.

Please understand,
I truly shouldn't care to try.
A person left alone,
left with comforts to die.

Please understand,
I truly shouldn't care to try.
You've mistaken me for conscious,
and now I'm forced to lie.

Jack Kerouac

"Great things are not accomplished by those who yield to trends and fads and popular opinion.”- Jack Kerouac

I know. I know, I know. You- along with all the greats- preach to us for love and compassion for the individual. You say, "Be yourself", "Have skeptisism", but what of it? For kindred souls, flying free and staking a claim is your nature. But me? I'm not your bird of healthy wings- I'm much less excited about this environment. Sure, my heart burns for greatness. The love of power and influence does not supercede my dreams. But WHAT OF IT? Though my chest smolders for adventure, it is doused by the difficulties of life. Trends and fads- they help me, though it seems despicable. What better than the direction popular opinion guides me on, to keep me sane? I want to be an individual, but perhaps freedom offers more loneliness than happiness for me.

Waste 2-28-12

Feeling old, feeling old,

I'm far to young-

but not as bold.

Growing, growing, growing tired.

Haven't reached my date,

but I have expired.

Youth is there and with me now

If I could light it up,

I may know how

Just let me shut my lips-

and open my eyes

I need not be wise,

but let me-

feel this way.

I can only hope

to waste just one day.

2-22-12

Bon Iver Lyrics

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Often, I think about what I do wrong. Not obsessively or constructively, these thoughts about my character flaws scratch at my conscience until I am finally required to put them before my daily activities and THINK about them hard. Bon Iver sings, "I told you.. I told you.. I told you" and these words forced me to think about my relationships.

Too much I dismiss myself as very, very humble- to the point of self-disgust. But, even the person with the lowest self-esteem is capable of treating others just as bad as they treat themselves. Actually, I think people who have problems with who they are as themselves tend to create and critique a grand amount of problems in the people they value in their lives.

It is true, and embarrassing, that I have become so used to jealously that I don't even recognize the emotion anymore.

It is also true that I refuse compliments so ardently that I discourage and offend the people who give them to me.

It is sadly true that I find myself annoyed with my boyfriend for parts of his personality that made me fall in love with him- that I still love, but take for granted. I shouldn't expect him to be any different (especially reminding me of these song lyrics).

It is mostly true that people find me frigid,

But it is absolutely true that I love to talk,

and if I was happier, I'd seem warm.

It is false that I don't try to be a better person.

2-20-12

Sid Vicious’ suicide note 1979

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What if love was all we needed, in the end, you know?

Of all the encounters, and experiences, isn't love the most epic of all?

A three year relationship feels so natural now, I am used to having the comfort of someone who loves me, but if I didn't have the affection of another- so strong like ours is- what would be left?

More importantly, if we are full and whole together, would death be a true end? or just a finale to the exodus of the human experience?

This letter, it is so profound. I can understand the fear, and hopelessness that would cause two lovers to say, "No more. As long as you come with me, let's end this." And how romantic this trust is, the faith that the happiness felt together during life is so perfect that it could be carried on to afterlife.

There are not many things that prove the afterlife for me. I am agnostic, with atheistic tendencies. I feel empty when I ponder a deity that could be controlling my life, and I can't bring myself to believe it. I can't bring myself to believe that our minds could carry on while the energy and life in our bodies has expired. I don't fear death, I think life is too full of spectacle to expect the journey to carry on after death. But, after reading this suicide note, I thought, how could love die? I can understand sadness, memory, thought, personality dying, but that emotion, no. Love could not die, I believe, because it is more than mortal or human. It is the only thing in my life that I have experienced that is so profound.

So maybe, if I will be with Jason in the end, an afterlife sounds plausible. If I don't have just a little faith in that, I might actually begin to fear death.

2-15-12

"There Is No Unmarked Woman" Deborah Tannen

I just read the writings of Tannen, concerning women, and I think she synthesized what all of us know very well. Women must make a zillion choices each day with their clothing, make up, hair and personality- because we are constantly being judged. Every decision we make- is she wearing make up, how high is her skirt, what color is her blouse- is considered to be deliberate by everyone around us. If a man looks average (jeans, tee-shirt), he is just average. If a woman looks average (jeans, tee-shirt) she is maybe seen as lazy, or as organic, or as care-free, but never, ever is she seen as normal. Because, let's face it, there is no such thing as a standard woman. Everything is a statement.

So that is basically the argument she makes as well.

When I get introspective about it, I realize that I must be making a statement too. My style is erratic, because so is my confidence (I'd say my fluctuations between "Damn, I might just be a little good looking" and "What is this creature in the mirror?!" are stupidly frequent). On days I feel gross I wear zip ups, sweat shirts, yoga pants, or band tee-shirts. On days I feel decent, I wear actual shirts, and jeans (oh, wow, getting reaaaal racy there..). Regardless EVERYTHING is black (besides the jeans) or heavily shaded hues (pretty much black-green, black-blue, black-purple). My make up centers around making my skin look clear and my eyes look bigger- with some brow liner here and lip liner there. It is a forty minute process that turns out looking like I'm not really wearing any makeup at all (yeah! let's start the day right off with a tedious task with little pay off!) Lately I wash my hair at night, spray dry shampoo on in the morning, and tie it up (because I massacred my bangs a week ago, as all girls do once or twice a lifetime).

So what is the "statement"? I can imagine, if any boy or girl in the hectic hallways or snore-fest classes I have cares to notice my clothing, would say to themselves, "She looks uncomfortable with the exception of a few days here and there. Overall a bit dark and sad."

Well, RIGHTOH my good man!

2-14-12

I do a lot of reading aloud to myself. I sit in my room, with my voice low and rhythmic, talking to myself through books. I'll read fiction, mostly, but if there are textbook sections to read for school, I don't mind reading those aloud as well. Many times I have wondered why I enjoy it so much. It slows me down, makes the sentences seem very special- like enjoying an ice cream cone v e r y s l o w l y. In the calmness, I feel my childhood again.

I remember an old woman, and I'm guilty not to recall her name, that read to us at my elementary school. She had very round, small eyes, and full droopy cheeks. Her skin was old and spotted, but with a rosy, dewy glow. Maybe once or twice a year, she would read stories to us. I remember being completely taken my the rhythm and cadence, the candid tone, the sanctity of her words. All of us would lean into her (even the 6th graders, who pretended not to care) trying to get closer to her warmth.

Now that I am older, I realize how she was just an old woman, who had a grand lifetime, who was in her winter years. Many years ago, she was in elementary school, and I bet she was read to also. Now I wonder what her life was like, and where she lived. I wonder if she has passed away (probably so). Now I think that those readings were just as special to her as they were to us, her captive audience. When I am approaching my last ten or so years, I hope to be reading to children like that too, and I understand why she may have enjoyed it.

Honestly, I can't remember any of the characters or adventures she read about, but I can still touch and feel the hush and calm of her reading when I read to myself now.

2-12-12

This is relevant. Dimmed, our senses are, when high school hits and we race to the finish line of our childhood. Too quickly, we forget about absorbing life and having fun and become consumed with be thin, be smart, be sexy, be popular, be an ADULT.

We get so busy talking, whispering, shouting for a reason, shouting for no reason, screaming out of anger, screaming out of ecstasy- that we become empty on the inside. Faucets, with all of the density, wholeness, and sanity flowing out like a tap. Filling the void with loud music, bingeing, purging, drugs, hair dye, eyeliner, caffeine, sex- groping, texting, flirting until there is no real beauty left inside us.

There are these moments, when my forehead and throat and body feels raw- like I've given all I've had to say and do and think away. I look back and cherish the times of childhood when I kept a good deal inside, keeping quiet, thoughtful, and ever observant. Turning my focus inward, and maybe mimicking this former self could save me now. I remember all the optimism I held for the world, my friends, myself,

And I realize now, that I've just said too much.

2-10-12

You know that sensation when you've been suffering (be it headache, stomach ache, ect.) then you finally start to feel better? It is suddenly as if a large curtain has been lifted.. and even though everything is back to normal again.. you feel so lucky just to feel normal. Just to be rid of the pain suddenly makes you so grateful, and happy with the moment you're in. Even if you were depressed or sad before, it seems right now that the only thing that matters is your physical well-being, because you feel like you've just heroically won "the battle" against a migraine or heartburn or cramps.

We often forget we are physical. Machines, that run on fuel and dispose of fuel- who just happen to be able to contemplate the universe. But firstly, we are animals that are birthed, get sick, get healthy, or die. We're thankful for money, for love, for material, for sensations.

I see people on TV, who have suffered cancer, extreme accident and injury, or disease. Such relief and happiness lives in their voice, like they are constantly at the finish line or winning Who Wants to be a Millionaire. And I think, wow good for them.

I'm just getting over a painful, heart-beat-throbbing-behind-your-eyeballs headache right now-- and this odd gratitude is showing up. In truth, I am just feeling normal right now, but normal feels splendid. I wish it did all the time.

All the time there is something to thank the world for. (Right now, however, I"m sending a special thanks to Excedrin Migraine.)

2-8-12

It is everwhere,

and everything--

I put it here,

It pops up there,

and in the end

it's everywhere.

I throw it out

like last weeks' trash

then it returns,

multiplies twice as fast.

I wipe it from my conscious

It shows up in

my dreams

I tell it to politely

go away, but it can't hear

my screams

I've tried it all, I'm

consumed by all these

schemes

But it's in my eyes,

it's in my brain,

it binds my thoughts,

I'm so restrained.

2-7-12

it belongs to just two people..

a pair of minds,

a pair of hearts.

just like no one has three eyes

or three ears,

there is no love between

more than two.

love is not an apple

or pear

or pizza

that can be sliced

into pieces.

you give it to one

or you give it to none.

i am young,

but i am not careless.

the love i have for you

is just for you.

2-5-12

Lately it has just been me gripping so tightly to everything.. and gasping for control. I float from one extreme to the other, and I never reach the shore. I'm so anxious and needy, so wound-up and desperate.. for what?

I realized that I am human, that I am seventeen, and that if I want control- first I have to let go. It is extremely frightening for me to loosen my fingers, one by one, from this iron grip- but maybe it is terribly necessary to do so. Seventeen is prime, so are the next few years of my life, and if I don't let go it will be such a grand waste. I'll do what I can, when I can, nothing more.

Then maybe I can finally discover who I am and why I'm here and press 'GO' from that point. Because pressing the accelerator from such a crazy, depressed, anxious place keeps leading to twenty-car-pile-ups in my brain.

2-4-12

There is two and a half feet of snow surrounding my house, blanketing my neighborhood, and muffling the asphalt and lawns beneath. It's like angel food cake, spongy and white- untouched by dirt or footprints. I have this infantile longing to envelope my hands in it, taste it on my tongue, just jump in.

But, I have not even touched it yet. I've been under self-induced house arrest for the duration of this storm. Depression (though circumstantial, fortunately not chemical or hereditary) is strong enough to keep me inside, acting like the nonchalant teenager who has no intentions of burying my foggy head in the crisp snow.

This bad mood itself is like a two and a half feet thick blanket sitting on my head, swaddling me like a caccoon, inhibiting my limbs from movement. However, it is not milky white and clean. It is filthy with anxiety, guilt, lethargy, grease and grime.

Sometimes I wish there were no neighbors to judge me, because I would without a doubt throw myself into the snow, roll around until my sadness was rubbed off clean, then wave my freed limbs around until I'd made an army of angels to protect me.

2-2-12

I'll make you dinner, if you can make me laugh..

I'll draw the water, if you want to take a bath

Life's mercy is a shallow pool, but we can swim around,

When I'm with you, though, I feel like I have drowned.

Gratitude settles like dust and is forgotten quick-

But we can stir it up into the air with just a little kick.