Urban Art Walk

One can find graffiti in every city. Nowhere in the dictionary does it tell us that grafitti is a negative thing; it is simply defined as writing or drawing on the wall. I would define it as an expression of oneself or one's culture. Then, why can't graffiti become art? The painted mural called Yesturday's Tomorrow by Brian Holderman in the Cultural District of downtown Pittsburgh reminds me of graffiti art because it lays over a tall, brick building. The sky blue paint at the top of the mural blends in with the sky I see between and above the buildings. The only difference is, the real sky appears to be in motion. I think of my recent trip to Spain, where graffiti art is quite popular. Each city we entered had entire walls dedicated to graffiti. These were not necessarily run-down places, though they could have been temporary. (These are two pictures from Spain. They are both very interesting to me and open to interpretation. The second is actually poem-like but also pretty disturbing to consider).

The Liberty Avenue Musicians by James Simon were in my top three for most visually stimulating. They were grand, green-ish statues of men, one with a guitar, one with a trumpet, and one with an accordian. The description provided for the art doesn't answer my questions about it: why are they so caricatured? what ethnicity was he representing? what made him put lizzards on the accordian's tie; why is there a phone in the trumpet player's pocket; why the rings on the guitarist's right hand? They are interesting characters to say the least, and perhaps there is some deeper significance behind these musicians which could be applied to Pittsburgh's history.

I must admit my favorite work of art was Magnolias for Pittsburgh by Tony Tasset. These were two bronze trees with 800 petals each. The pink buds looked real, as well as the bark. However, there was something disturbing about the facade these trees presented. The intention was to lend Pittsburgh some magic and fairy-tale, according to the artist. But how long ago did we build this city, thereby destroying the trees (regardless of their origin), only to bring them back again in an altered form, not rooted in the ground. Then again, I'm being a hypocrite because the vision of these trees, real or fake, was appealing to me.

Eden Hall Farm

Today is my day off, and I have woken up feeling sick. It feels like a stomach flu of some kind, so I dig into some chicken noodle soup and saltines which taste like the plastic that contains them. I feel the hypocracy of the situation, as I am filling up on Campbells condensed. Maybe it is the green movement, but I am beginning to tire of eating all things packaged. After volunteering some time at Chatham's branch campus, Eden Hall Farm, I am reminded that food is not meant to be contained; it is meant to grow in the dirt or from a tree. My first trip to the farm was spent weeding along the garden's fence. As I delved into the dirt with my pick-ax, and dirt crowded the underside of my nails, I was taken back to childhood when my parents asked me to weed the stone patio or the flower garden and sift dirt with my hands for a smooth topsoil. I realized how long it had been since I'd done this, and the disconnection I felt. I ripped roots out of the soil, using all the muscles in my body to remove their hard appendages. I was reminded of Nancy Gift's book and felt a slight guilt in their removal as I pursued control. Then, Lynne suggested leaving the morning glory (if I'm remembering correctly) because it would wind itself to the fence and bloom purple buds. She shows me the wilted and brown stems of last year hanging on the wire. I felt balanced again. I ask if "this" is something important, pointing to a plant that looks headstrong. And when she tells me that's mint I recall a childhood memory once again: my mother picking mint from the hillside and making iced tea. Being near this plant, which Lynne says is extremely invasive, is like being reunited with my mother, who is also invasive; many mothers are.

Eye Level View

It's around 5:30 on Thursday. I don't usually come to the pond this late in the day. Pete and his fellow ducks are nowhere to be found. I see one or two splashes of orange, but the fish don't appear to be traveling in schools right now. I've never thought of a fish like that, alone, lonely, unless he was on the end of my pole. A bird flies into the low branches of the tree. It sits there for two moments, looks around, then flies to somewhere more interesting. Imagine if that is how we gaged our lives, our time, searching for interesting places and people. I think of how I'm always so bored and unsatisfied, yet there is loads to be grateful for, tons of blessings sprinkled on me every day. With sympathy for my yearnings, I see that the bench at the pond has been moved to the left and sits at a new angle. Although the pond is not swarming with animals today, plenty of students are around. Two girls walk past; they make sure to stay on the stones rather than the grass. This reminds me of my child-like tendency to never step on the cracks in a sidewalk. Not never, but when I'm thinking about it. I avoid them as though they could open up and swallow me whole.

I wish a bird would land on my knee and lend me some of its magic. They seem less powerful, small next to my large body. When I wear heels, my best friend and my boyfriend tell me I'm too tall. I'm at eye level and perhaps that scares them. That is the gift that I want, though, to look everyone in the eye. If I could look a bird in the eye what would she tell me? Many of you become birds when you're done. A fish? I can feel every hook, every skillet, every tooth. And swimming alone is hard on my gulls. A duck? I'm a wooden figurine on your shelf and a floating figure in your painting. Leave this body alone.

Annie Proulx, Close Range

Annie Proulx should be admired for her poetic style of fiction writing. With lines like "the dry socket of his heart choked" and "grief like gravel under his kneecaps," she captures my attention and inspires me to read on. Proulx came as a reminder to me that prior to my immersion into the MFA writing program at Chatham, I read fiction more than poetry (which is my concentration), but to this day I cannot write fiction. I delved into writings by Toni Morrison, Richard Wright and Edward P. Jones, all African-American Writers who create an interaction between character and place/environment in their novels, and who are such gifted, poetic writers.

I am also intrigued by Proulx's depictions of womanhood. In "The Governors of Wyoming," which is where all three of these passages are from, Proulx writes, "Bonnie stirred the kids' porridge, looked at a papaya that was shriveling on the windowsill. Why had she bought it? She disliked the womb-shaped fruits with their middles full of seeds." Proulx highlights the parallels between woman and landscape in this fragment where both are feminine, pregnant objects. She often reflects on the subjugation of females in Wyoming, sometimes metaphorically (as in the former passage), and sometimes she forms an argument merely by portraying the disempowerment, which is the case in her short story "Job History."

Although it was not an assigned reading, I took some time to read "Brokeback Mountain," which has been made into a movie since its 1999 copyright. Reading the story is surely more enjoyable, although it did not provoke tears. It is interesting how much I cry when watching movies, but only feel an internal sadness while reading. She writes, "It was his own plaid shirt, lost, he'd thought, long ago in some damn laundry, his dirty shirt, the pocket ripped, buttons missing, stolen by Jack and hidden here inside Jack's own shirt, the pair like two skins, one inside the other, two in one. He pressed his face into the fabric and breathed in slowly through his mouth and nose, hoping for the faintest smoke and mountain sage and salty sweet stink of Jack but there was no real scent, only the memory of it, the imagined power of Brokeback Mountain of which nothing was left but what he held in his hands." She is skilled in portraying imagery which will represent the feelings of these men who love each other but are not allowed to love, of a torn shirt, as these two men are torn away from each other by the expectation to be normal. She displays the importance of a shared landscape, a landscape which hides intself within the memory once it is no longer revisited physically. As many writers describe, we often return to a landscape that lies within our imagination. Typical of the relationship between these two men, Proulx craftilly chooses the title of the meeting place as Brokeback Mountain. It seems like an easy choice in depicting their love and the rough landscape, but as I am working on my fiction essay for class, I remember that writing takes time to come together so smoothly, and it takes extreme effort as well. However, place can truly inform a set of characters as well as a lovely story.

The Stone Footpath

It is Sunday at the pond after a long day at work. I stood at the bar all day without customers, until the least convenient moment, which was during the Germany v. Austrailia World Cup game. I missed every pivotal moment, the four goals scored by Germany for their win. Now that my legs are settled in the grass, I can punish thoughts of work to the back of my mind. Pete is not alone after all! There are two female mallards here today. If you look closely, the male and female duck have a singular feather in common. It is a deep purple sandwiched by bold white lines. As I take pictures of them, they simultaneously nuzzle their beaks into their rumps. An itch perhaps? Their necks are bendable like rubber toys; they rotate like globes of spinning continents. The water sounds like an African drum today, beating on hollow leather. Moss grows on the moist metal fountain, making it more beautiful than its altered metal, man-made face. It's funny how the footpath of square stones leads nowhere. It wraps around the pond and simply stops. At the other end, it leads to the walkway at Mellon Board Room. Stone leading to its other half: cement. I notice this because sometimes I have the same feeling. Where is my life leading? Where will I go next? When will I arrive? Who will walk across my hard surface and who will see underneath? There's something about stone that brings a building closer to nature. It is made of wood, of trees, but it is the stone that forces me to remember that it was once individual pieces buried in the ground, and now it stands upright, sternly staring at me with slate gray emotions. My mind wanders back to my to-do-list and I have to hop in my blue-green jetta, the color of Pete's oval head, and drive into the darkening air.