February 07, 2008
February 06, 2008
Teaching in the dark
My classroom during spring semester is a small, square, airless space that could serve as a torture chamber for someone who gets migraines. The walls, which contain no windows, no windows at all, are made of cinder blocks painted with a glossy paint that reflects light from overhead fixtures which hum and vibrate until I swear I could get motion sick just by trying to focus my eyes on a text. In most classrooms, I avoid the horrible migraine-inducing lights by keeping them off and using natural light, but it's sort of tough to do that in a room with no windows.
Today, as soon as we'd gathered in a circle, I said to the student closest to the door, "Hey, can you shut the door and turn off at least one strip of lights?" It's one of my peculiarities that I simply can't teach with the door open. It drives me crazy.
Swishy Hair got up and shut the door, and switched off not one, but both strips of lights. Suddenly, the whole room was dark. Really dark. As I may have mentioned, it's a room with no windows.
"This is so much better," said one of the students. See, I'm not the only one who gets migraines.
"Want to have class in the dark?" I asked.
Two of the students laughed. I could hear Swishy Hair moving back to his seat, the scrape of his chair against the linoleum as he sat down. The lights stayed off.
We were discussing several essays from an anthology of urban nature literature, including a piece by bell hooks that explored connections between racism and the environmental movement, a piece that I knew had made some of the students uncomfortable. I figured that it might be easier to talk in the dark, just as people find it easier to talk when they are sitting by the campfire and no one can see their faces.
We usually begin class with students reading excerpts from their response pieces. I hesitated for a moment, wondering how we could do that in the dark. "That's not a problem, " said one woman. I noticed then that students were pulling out their cell phones, using them like little flashlights. All around the circle of desks, cell phones winked and glowed as students opened and shut them.
I thought it would make me nervous to teach without my notes, without being able to see the text. But the three essays we were discussing were ones I know well, ones I've taught before, and I didn't have any trouble remembering what points I wanted to make or what questions I wanted to raise. Of course, I am someone who talks with my hands, making all kinds of gestures and motions, which made no sense when no one could see me. The student next to me said, "I can feel you waving your hands in the air."
The hardest part was not seeing the eyes of the students. I normally spend so much time scanning their faces, watching to see who is engaged, who needs to be nudged into speaking up, and noticing the blank look that reveals a student who has not done the reading. Instead, I had to rely on the voices that came out of the darkness.
Some students did speak up more, assertive because no one could see their faces. And it was easier to listen somehow, with no distractions at all. We talked about the implications of bell hooks' ideas, we talked about white privilege and racism and prejudice. Students spoke up honestly, frankly, in this dark and quiet atmosphere. It felt like we were sitting around a campfire on a summer night.
I felt startled when a student looked at his cell phone and said, "Hey, I think class must be over." I had forgotten all about the time.
Swishy Hair stood up and turned on the lights. Ouch. Glaring brightness bounced off the cinder block walls, the linoleum, the shiny desktops. It was a dreadful, abrupt return. The only good thing was that I could see again the faces of my students as they packed up their backpacks, their cell phones, their books. Most of them were smiling.
Today, as soon as we'd gathered in a circle, I said to the student closest to the door, "Hey, can you shut the door and turn off at least one strip of lights?" It's one of my peculiarities that I simply can't teach with the door open. It drives me crazy.
Swishy Hair got up and shut the door, and switched off not one, but both strips of lights. Suddenly, the whole room was dark. Really dark. As I may have mentioned, it's a room with no windows.
"This is so much better," said one of the students. See, I'm not the only one who gets migraines.
"Want to have class in the dark?" I asked.
Two of the students laughed. I could hear Swishy Hair moving back to his seat, the scrape of his chair against the linoleum as he sat down. The lights stayed off.
We were discussing several essays from an anthology of urban nature literature, including a piece by bell hooks that explored connections between racism and the environmental movement, a piece that I knew had made some of the students uncomfortable. I figured that it might be easier to talk in the dark, just as people find it easier to talk when they are sitting by the campfire and no one can see their faces.
We usually begin class with students reading excerpts from their response pieces. I hesitated for a moment, wondering how we could do that in the dark. "That's not a problem, " said one woman. I noticed then that students were pulling out their cell phones, using them like little flashlights. All around the circle of desks, cell phones winked and glowed as students opened and shut them.
I thought it would make me nervous to teach without my notes, without being able to see the text. But the three essays we were discussing were ones I know well, ones I've taught before, and I didn't have any trouble remembering what points I wanted to make or what questions I wanted to raise. Of course, I am someone who talks with my hands, making all kinds of gestures and motions, which made no sense when no one could see me. The student next to me said, "I can feel you waving your hands in the air."
The hardest part was not seeing the eyes of the students. I normally spend so much time scanning their faces, watching to see who is engaged, who needs to be nudged into speaking up, and noticing the blank look that reveals a student who has not done the reading. Instead, I had to rely on the voices that came out of the darkness.
Some students did speak up more, assertive because no one could see their faces. And it was easier to listen somehow, with no distractions at all. We talked about the implications of bell hooks' ideas, we talked about white privilege and racism and prejudice. Students spoke up honestly, frankly, in this dark and quiet atmosphere. It felt like we were sitting around a campfire on a summer night.
I felt startled when a student looked at his cell phone and said, "Hey, I think class must be over." I had forgotten all about the time.
Swishy Hair stood up and turned on the lights. Ouch. Glaring brightness bounced off the cinder block walls, the linoleum, the shiny desktops. It was a dreadful, abrupt return. The only good thing was that I could see again the faces of my students as they packed up their backpacks, their cell phones, their books. Most of them were smiling.
February 05, 2008
Notes from my Conference Journal
It might seem to my readers that I was on vacation last week. It's true that I did manage to spend a good amount of time wandering parks and museums. And I ate the most fantastic meals. The first night in the city, my sister took me to a restaurant that advertised "Asian food for the sophisticated vegan." I'm vegan and she's sophisticated, so that made the restaurant a perfect match for us. Then Ianqui took me to a place that served great "vegan comfort food" and Sarah Sometimes took me to a Mexican restaurant that made the best vegan burrito I've ever had. The night I ate out with a group of Friendly Green Folk (which is what I call my colleagues from Friendly Green Conference), I had pasta with a deliciously spicy marinara sauce. The best part is that repeatedly I ate in restaurants that offered vegan desserts. I had chocolate cake three times in one week.
But I wasn't on vacation. In between eating great food and exploring Big City Like No Other, I was attending conference sessions, going to poetry readings, and networking with colleagues. And Friendly Green Conference had a table at the book exhibit, so I had to work a few shifts at the table. "Working a shift" in this instance means taking advantage of the free wireless in the room to post some stuff to my blog.
The huge conference hotel had very peculiar characteristics. For example, there were little televisions in every elevator, so that we all had to keep watching CNN whether we wanted to or not. One British colleague kept saying, "How very American." I don't think she meant it as a compliment. The second night, my roommate and I kept talking about how strange it was that the maze-like first floor didn't have a restaurant in it. "You would think a hotel this size would," Fire Ant kept saying. "And yet, I don't even smell food."
That's why it was very peculiar, the next day, as she and I were walking through same first floor of the the very same hotel, to come across a huge restaurant, filled with people eating lunch, complete with the smell of roast beef and the clink of silverware. "Where did this whole restaurant come from?" she said. "It wasn't here before." Really, it was much like a Harry Potter novel. Other things began to appear after that: gift shops, escalators, even a parking garage. And no, we weren't drinking at all.
The conference was attended by all kinds of writers, including swarms of MFA kids, mostly about the age of my daughter, who sat in clumps on the floor of the lobby with their laptops, and who crowded into sessions with titles like "How to Get Your Novel Published" even though the titles should have been more like "You Will Never Get Your Novel Published Unless You Start Sucking Up to Editors Now." I met several bloggers, including Susan from ReadingWritingLiving, who gave a really wonderful talk.
Many of the sessions I attended were filled with graceful and poised older women, who wore flowing skirts, long scarves, dangling jewelry. Fabric swayed as they talked. I've often thought that maybe I would turn into one of those women as I got older, but I'm 46 now, and I still dress more like the MFA kids. Jeans are so much easier than skirts. And I talk so much with my hands that I think I'd get tangled in all them scarves and long necklaces. I did make a vow that when my hair turns completely grey, I'll grow the layers long so that I look like Sharon Olds. Her long silver hair looked just gorgeous under the chandelier lights as she read.
At a session filled with Friendly Green Folk talking about the future of the environmental essay, Crazy-Hair Clarinet Player, who claimed that his talk was pretty much a "low end book report," read quotes from various nature writers. It's possible he watched way too much Saturday Night Live as a teenager, because he could not resist doing imitations of each writer he mentioned. The disappointing moment came when he referred, in his conclusion, to a scene from the Pirates of the Caribbean and failed to follow up with an imitation of Johnny Depp. "It's not that I can't do a good Jack Sparrow imitation," he explained later. "It's that I couldn't find a worthwhile quote."
The conference was great, but I can spend only so much time inside a big hotel. There were no windows in the conference rooms, and the big ballrooms were decorated in Poseidon Adventure motif, which just added to the sense of doom that would pervade the audience as an editor would explain why he no longer even bothers to look at unsolicited manuscripts. On the last morning of the conference, I sneaked out early to take a walk to Park in the Middle of the Universe, where I followed curving paths, listened to the sound of kids ice skating, saw a man happily feeding the ducks next to a sign that said "Do Not Feed the Birds or Other Wildlife," watched horse-drawn carriages go by, and stopped to listen to an old man playing a saxophone.
But I wasn't on vacation. In between eating great food and exploring Big City Like No Other, I was attending conference sessions, going to poetry readings, and networking with colleagues. And Friendly Green Conference had a table at the book exhibit, so I had to work a few shifts at the table. "Working a shift" in this instance means taking advantage of the free wireless in the room to post some stuff to my blog.
The huge conference hotel had very peculiar characteristics. For example, there were little televisions in every elevator, so that we all had to keep watching CNN whether we wanted to or not. One British colleague kept saying, "How very American." I don't think she meant it as a compliment. The second night, my roommate and I kept talking about how strange it was that the maze-like first floor didn't have a restaurant in it. "You would think a hotel this size would," Fire Ant kept saying. "And yet, I don't even smell food."
That's why it was very peculiar, the next day, as she and I were walking through same first floor of the the very same hotel, to come across a huge restaurant, filled with people eating lunch, complete with the smell of roast beef and the clink of silverware. "Where did this whole restaurant come from?" she said. "It wasn't here before." Really, it was much like a Harry Potter novel. Other things began to appear after that: gift shops, escalators, even a parking garage. And no, we weren't drinking at all.
The conference was attended by all kinds of writers, including swarms of MFA kids, mostly about the age of my daughter, who sat in clumps on the floor of the lobby with their laptops, and who crowded into sessions with titles like "How to Get Your Novel Published" even though the titles should have been more like "You Will Never Get Your Novel Published Unless You Start Sucking Up to Editors Now." I met several bloggers, including Susan from ReadingWritingLiving, who gave a really wonderful talk.
Many of the sessions I attended were filled with graceful and poised older women, who wore flowing skirts, long scarves, dangling jewelry. Fabric swayed as they talked. I've often thought that maybe I would turn into one of those women as I got older, but I'm 46 now, and I still dress more like the MFA kids. Jeans are so much easier than skirts. And I talk so much with my hands that I think I'd get tangled in all them scarves and long necklaces. I did make a vow that when my hair turns completely grey, I'll grow the layers long so that I look like Sharon Olds. Her long silver hair looked just gorgeous under the chandelier lights as she read.
At a session filled with Friendly Green Folk talking about the future of the environmental essay, Crazy-Hair Clarinet Player, who claimed that his talk was pretty much a "low end book report," read quotes from various nature writers. It's possible he watched way too much Saturday Night Live as a teenager, because he could not resist doing imitations of each writer he mentioned. The disappointing moment came when he referred, in his conclusion, to a scene from the Pirates of the Caribbean and failed to follow up with an imitation of Johnny Depp. "It's not that I can't do a good Jack Sparrow imitation," he explained later. "It's that I couldn't find a worthwhile quote."
The conference was great, but I can spend only so much time inside a big hotel. There were no windows in the conference rooms, and the big ballrooms were decorated in Poseidon Adventure motif, which just added to the sense of doom that would pervade the audience as an editor would explain why he no longer even bothers to look at unsolicited manuscripts. On the last morning of the conference, I sneaked out early to take a walk to Park in the Middle of the Universe, where I followed curving paths, listened to the sound of kids ice skating, saw a man happily feeding the ducks next to a sign that said "Do Not Feed the Birds or Other Wildlife," watched horse-drawn carriages go by, and stopped to listen to an old man playing a saxophone.
February 04, 2008
That naked blogger
Rooming with a poet can be tricky. Poets spend way too much time obsessing over words. My roommate at this conference, Often Erotic Sometimes Blogging Friend, kept complaining about the pseudonym I'd given her. "It's confusing," she said. "Am I only SOMETIMES your friend? And what's with the word often? I like to think I'm ALWAYS erotic."
Of course, the advantage of rooming with a poet is that those creative types will do anything for art.
Fire Ant, which is the pseudonym my roommate uses on her blog, was busy writing a blog post on my laptop computer when I decided that it was time to inform her that she had to pose naked for my blog. She didn't really have a choice. My blog is, after all, the number five hit for the google search "photos of naked middle-aged women." I have a reputation to uphold. (Readers who want to know the history of this tradition can check it out here and here and here and here.) She reads my blog, so surely she knew what she was in for when she agreed to share a room with me.
I announced, without preamble, "I need to take a naked photo of you. For my blog."
She didn't hesitate. Without even looking away from the screen, she stripped her shirt off, flung it onto the floor, and kept on typing. "Let me just proofread this, and I'll take off my pants."
The room we shared was something leftover from the seventies, complete with mood lighting, funky furniture, and a weird pattern on the carpeting. The little table near the window looked just like the pedestals I'd seen the day before in the Museum With Statues of Naked Folks. "Hey, climb up on that pedestal," I said, inspired. "We can take a classic shot! A silhouette in the window."
Fire Ant stopped typing. "I'm too tall. My head will be higher than the window, and the silhoutte will be headless."
"But you could be a Greek Goddess."
The blue light from the computer screen glowed in her eyes. "I could be ... Aphrodite."
Of course, she couldn't resist. I grabbed my camera, and she hopped up on the pedestal. Or at least, she tried too. It turns out the fancy flimsy pedestal was not meant to hold any kind of goddess. Fire Ant screamed, grabbed the curtains, and came tumbling down, which completely ruined the shot and possibly the curtain rod.
As I stepped back to look for other possibilities, she sat back down to continue writing. That's when it occurred to me that I should just take a photo of her writing a blog post. I mean, who needs to be Aphrodite when you can pose as That Naked Blogger? It's the perfect new pseudonym.
"Just keep typing," I said, picking up my camera.
That Naked Blogger looked over her screen at the office building across the way. We'd both been fascinated at how we were able to look right into the offices, seeing every detail in each room. By the third day of the conference, we felt a kinship with the guy in the corner office, who came to work so promptly, and the two guys in the narrow office, who both seemed to spend most of their time on the telephone.
"This is ridiculous," she said. "Here I am, stark naked, and not one of them office workers have so much as looked up. What's up with that?"
Read more about the history of the naked blogging project and check out the gallery of photos.
Of course, the advantage of rooming with a poet is that those creative types will do anything for art.
Fire Ant, which is the pseudonym my roommate uses on her blog, was busy writing a blog post on my laptop computer when I decided that it was time to inform her that she had to pose naked for my blog. She didn't really have a choice. My blog is, after all, the number five hit for the google search "photos of naked middle-aged women." I have a reputation to uphold. (Readers who want to know the history of this tradition can check it out here and here and here and here.) She reads my blog, so surely she knew what she was in for when she agreed to share a room with me.
I announced, without preamble, "I need to take a naked photo of you. For my blog."
She didn't hesitate. Without even looking away from the screen, she stripped her shirt off, flung it onto the floor, and kept on typing. "Let me just proofread this, and I'll take off my pants."
The room we shared was something leftover from the seventies, complete with mood lighting, funky furniture, and a weird pattern on the carpeting. The little table near the window looked just like the pedestals I'd seen the day before in the Museum With Statues of Naked Folks. "Hey, climb up on that pedestal," I said, inspired. "We can take a classic shot! A silhouette in the window."
Fire Ant stopped typing. "I'm too tall. My head will be higher than the window, and the silhoutte will be headless."
"But you could be a Greek Goddess."
The blue light from the computer screen glowed in her eyes. "I could be ... Aphrodite."
Of course, she couldn't resist. I grabbed my camera, and she hopped up on the pedestal. Or at least, she tried too. It turns out the fancy flimsy pedestal was not meant to hold any kind of goddess. Fire Ant screamed, grabbed the curtains, and came tumbling down, which completely ruined the shot and possibly the curtain rod.
As I stepped back to look for other possibilities, she sat back down to continue writing. That's when it occurred to me that I should just take a photo of her writing a blog post. I mean, who needs to be Aphrodite when you can pose as That Naked Blogger? It's the perfect new pseudonym.
"Just keep typing," I said, picking up my camera.
That Naked Blogger looked over her screen at the office building across the way. We'd both been fascinated at how we were able to look right into the offices, seeing every detail in each room. By the third day of the conference, we felt a kinship with the guy in the corner office, who came to work so promptly, and the two guys in the narrow office, who both seemed to spend most of their time on the telephone.
"This is ridiculous," she said. "Here I am, stark naked, and not one of them office workers have so much as looked up. What's up with that?"
Read more about the history of the naked blogging project and check out the gallery of photos.
February 03, 2008
Bigger than ourselves
At the Museum of Cool Contemporary Art, part of the fun was looking at the people who were looking at the art. Some would study each work seriously but briefly, while others moved rapidly, stopping only when they came to certain pieces. One couple kept turning to each other with incredulous looks. One young girl with her father was so excited when she came to a Rothko that she yelled to him across the room, disturbing the church-like hush that usually fills the space. The people moving through the museum, whether they were walking up staircases with glass on either side, or lying on black couches that can be seen from above, or moving their bodies through a room filled with crazy sculptures, became part of the art, part of the experience.
The one difficult part about this museum is that the art comes in all kinds of textures, and I find it hard to resist touching rough fabric or shiny metal. I could feel the eyes of the security guards watching me every time I edged near something woven or hammered: they knew I had sticky fingers, just dying to transfer some of my skin oil onto these precious works. Somehow, I managed to restrain myself. I wandered about for hours, without getting kicked out, and even saw only a fraction of the museum. It's a big museum with clean line and big empty spaces — long corridors of space, big white walls of space —room for all the art that hasn't yet been created.
Father and daughter, looking at a Rothko.
February 02, 2008
February 01, 2008
Afternoon in the art museum
I spent Wednesday morning wandering around city neighborhoods and parks, taking photos, looking into windows and peeking through fences. My father, who lived in Big City Like No Other as a young man, always says that if you want people to leave you alone in the city, you need to dress "one step up from homeless." I've always just shrugged off his advice, but as I glanced in the mirror before leaving my sister's apartment, it occurred to me I had probably achieved the right look. It's so much warmer in the city that we were getting a misty rain, so I had abandoned my wool winter coat for a wrinkle purple raincoat, with all kinds of things like my camera and wallet and cell phone stuffed into the pockets, over a red fleece with a long knitted multi-colored scarf and — naturally — sturdy hiking boots.
After wandering around for hours, I stopped at my favorite Big City Like No Other Cafe, which is conveniently just a block away from one of my favorite museums. It's a cafe that holds memories — I've eaten there with Wild Curly Hair, who first introduced me to the place, with Urban Sophisticate Sister, of course, and with Artist Friend. I've many times sat at one of their little tables, just staring out the window and writing in my journal. I am a creature of habit who loves to go back to the same place over and over again, even when I'm just visiting. I fortified myself with hot lentil soup, grilled vegetables, and bread that was so good I wanted to steal some to take home to Shaggy Hair Boy. And then I went to the Museum With Many Rooms of Amazing Art.
I always take one of the floor maps, but I am completely incapable of following it. I am too easily distracted, moving from sculptures to pottery to landscape paintings to photographs to stained glass windows. There's a rhythm to my wandering, really. When I'm tired, I'll find a bench so I can sit and gaze at a painting that takes up a whole wall. Once I've rested, I'll peer into glass cases to admire intricate details.
I do often read the little white signs next to works of art: I always want to know the story behind the piece. But the narrative is sometimes disappointing. I saw a Pieta, for example, in which the Blessed Mother looked like she was about to slap her dying son. I went over eagerly to read the text, wondering what artist finally dared to show the Mother of Christ with a righteous edge, but the text didn't mention anything about the raised hand.
As I wandered through a room filled with sculptures of naked men and women, I couldn't help but think about a friend of mine, who back in the 80s when his son was born, kept trying to convince his wife that they should circumcise the child. He kept arguing that he's been on all kinds of sports teams, and he had never seen an uncircumcised male. Clearly, he should have been looking in art museums instead of locker rooms.
My wanderings led me eventually into a maze of dark green rooms, filled with masks made by the Kwele people of Africa. I found a comfortable bench set in a dark alcove, where I watched a film about initiation rites for adolescent boys. I loved the chanting, the words, the symbolism. Perhaps, I thought, we need more rituals like that in our culture, ways to guide the energy of young people and help them make the transition into adulthood. The masks themselves, lit by spot lights in the dim room, were eerily beautiful.
When I glanced at my watch, I realized that hours had gone by, and it was time for me to get my suitcase from my sister's house and take the subway to mid-town to check into the conference hotel. I left the museum at the same time as a school group, a whole gang of teenagers and their weary-looking teacher. The teenagers were bumping into each other and teasing each other and jabbing each other with rolled-up umbrellas. I walked amongst them, absorbing all that energy and feeling right at home.
After wandering around for hours, I stopped at my favorite Big City Like No Other Cafe, which is conveniently just a block away from one of my favorite museums. It's a cafe that holds memories — I've eaten there with Wild Curly Hair, who first introduced me to the place, with Urban Sophisticate Sister, of course, and with Artist Friend. I've many times sat at one of their little tables, just staring out the window and writing in my journal. I am a creature of habit who loves to go back to the same place over and over again, even when I'm just visiting. I fortified myself with hot lentil soup, grilled vegetables, and bread that was so good I wanted to steal some to take home to Shaggy Hair Boy. And then I went to the Museum With Many Rooms of Amazing Art.
I always take one of the floor maps, but I am completely incapable of following it. I am too easily distracted, moving from sculptures to pottery to landscape paintings to photographs to stained glass windows. There's a rhythm to my wandering, really. When I'm tired, I'll find a bench so I can sit and gaze at a painting that takes up a whole wall. Once I've rested, I'll peer into glass cases to admire intricate details.
I do often read the little white signs next to works of art: I always want to know the story behind the piece. But the narrative is sometimes disappointing. I saw a Pieta, for example, in which the Blessed Mother looked like she was about to slap her dying son. I went over eagerly to read the text, wondering what artist finally dared to show the Mother of Christ with a righteous edge, but the text didn't mention anything about the raised hand.
As I wandered through a room filled with sculptures of naked men and women, I couldn't help but think about a friend of mine, who back in the 80s when his son was born, kept trying to convince his wife that they should circumcise the child. He kept arguing that he's been on all kinds of sports teams, and he had never seen an uncircumcised male. Clearly, he should have been looking in art museums instead of locker rooms.
My wanderings led me eventually into a maze of dark green rooms, filled with masks made by the Kwele people of Africa. I found a comfortable bench set in a dark alcove, where I watched a film about initiation rites for adolescent boys. I loved the chanting, the words, the symbolism. Perhaps, I thought, we need more rituals like that in our culture, ways to guide the energy of young people and help them make the transition into adulthood. The masks themselves, lit by spot lights in the dim room, were eerily beautiful.
When I glanced at my watch, I realized that hours had gone by, and it was time for me to get my suitcase from my sister's house and take the subway to mid-town to check into the conference hotel. I left the museum at the same time as a school group, a whole gang of teenagers and their weary-looking teacher. The teenagers were bumping into each other and teasing each other and jabbing each other with rolled-up umbrellas. I walked amongst them, absorbing all that energy and feeling right at home.
Meeting Ianqui
We met in the Village, of course.
She took me first to a crowded coffeehouse that could have been a television set because it looked exactly like a Big City Like No Other coffeehouse should look. The big room was filled with young people, some with laptops, some with books and papers, some gathered in talkative groups on comfy couches. They had pushed the chairs and couches around, clumping and crowding them together, in the way that people do when they feel at home. They drank coffee and talked and worked on their computers, and the energy felt much like the energy in my own living room when all my kids and extras are home.
It was wonderful to meet Ianqui for the first time. I began reading her blog before I had a blog, which means I've been reading her blog for more than three years. And I've admired her photographs for almost as long. I still remember the fantastic photos she posted just about three years ago of Christo's art installation in Central Park: the Gates. I didn't make it into the city to see the Gates myself, but I felt like I was there just by looking at her photos. Last year, she did the 365 project: she took and posted a photo every single day, many of them just fantastic photos of life in Big City Like No Other. Her fans include my parents, who check her photoblog everyday.
The wonderful thing about meeting a blogger is you don't have to bother with backstory; you've already read that. We dived right into all kinds of conversations about our lives, our jobs, her pregnancy, my kids. We did the usual obligatory blogger meet-up routine, comparing what blogs we read, which bloggers we've met, which bloggers we want to meet. Influenced perhaps by my bird-watching mother, who has a life list of birds she's seen, I keep a life list of bloggers I've met, and Ianqui is number 37 on my list. (My blogging conference roommate, Often Erotic Sometimes Blogging Friend, has contested the validity of the life list, arguing that four of the people on there are people I already knew in real life before they before they began blogging. But I think, since I started them blogging, I should really get to count them twice. She says that's like taking credit for selling crack cocaine.)
Ianqui and I were so busy talking that I didn't even notice that the place had emptied around us. "I think they are going to kick us out," Ianqui said. I looked up to see that the staff were rearranging the furniture for some kind of event. So we went out into the windy night and walked a few blocks to a restaurant that served what Ianqui called vegan comfort food. In a strange coincidence, the restaurant was the place one of my students had recommended when she heard that I was going into the city for a few days.
By the time we got to the restaurant, we were already acting like old friends, confiding in each other about unbloggable issues. And by the end of the meal, we were eating off the same plate, sharing a huge piece of unbelievable decadent chocolate cake, which the waitress assured me was vegan. By that time we'd been talking for nearly five hours, and I hadn't even had a chance to take a nude photo. We hadn't even taken out our cameras. But I assured her that my conference roommate would cooperate and pose naked, which meant she was off the hook. I said I'd to try to come back in May and take a photo when the weather was warmer. By then the contours of her body will be that much more interesting.
She took me first to a crowded coffeehouse that could have been a television set because it looked exactly like a Big City Like No Other coffeehouse should look. The big room was filled with young people, some with laptops, some with books and papers, some gathered in talkative groups on comfy couches. They had pushed the chairs and couches around, clumping and crowding them together, in the way that people do when they feel at home. They drank coffee and talked and worked on their computers, and the energy felt much like the energy in my own living room when all my kids and extras are home.
It was wonderful to meet Ianqui for the first time. I began reading her blog before I had a blog, which means I've been reading her blog for more than three years. And I've admired her photographs for almost as long. I still remember the fantastic photos she posted just about three years ago of Christo's art installation in Central Park: the Gates. I didn't make it into the city to see the Gates myself, but I felt like I was there just by looking at her photos. Last year, she did the 365 project: she took and posted a photo every single day, many of them just fantastic photos of life in Big City Like No Other. Her fans include my parents, who check her photoblog everyday.
The wonderful thing about meeting a blogger is you don't have to bother with backstory; you've already read that. We dived right into all kinds of conversations about our lives, our jobs, her pregnancy, my kids. We did the usual obligatory blogger meet-up routine, comparing what blogs we read, which bloggers we've met, which bloggers we want to meet. Influenced perhaps by my bird-watching mother, who has a life list of birds she's seen, I keep a life list of bloggers I've met, and Ianqui is number 37 on my list. (My blogging conference roommate, Often Erotic Sometimes Blogging Friend, has contested the validity of the life list, arguing that four of the people on there are people I already knew in real life before they before they began blogging. But I think, since I started them blogging, I should really get to count them twice. She says that's like taking credit for selling crack cocaine.)
Ianqui and I were so busy talking that I didn't even notice that the place had emptied around us. "I think they are going to kick us out," Ianqui said. I looked up to see that the staff were rearranging the furniture for some kind of event. So we went out into the windy night and walked a few blocks to a restaurant that served what Ianqui called vegan comfort food. In a strange coincidence, the restaurant was the place one of my students had recommended when she heard that I was going into the city for a few days.
By the time we got to the restaurant, we were already acting like old friends, confiding in each other about unbloggable issues. And by the end of the meal, we were eating off the same plate, sharing a huge piece of unbelievable decadent chocolate cake, which the waitress assured me was vegan. By that time we'd been talking for nearly five hours, and I hadn't even had a chance to take a nude photo. We hadn't even taken out our cameras. But I assured her that my conference roommate would cooperate and pose naked, which meant she was off the hook. I said I'd to try to come back in May and take a photo when the weather was warmer. By then the contours of her body will be that much more interesting.
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