Here is the link to the blog post. As you can tell from the picture, I still need to finish the hair and background, but I wanted to get you enough to get in a grade. Cat is helping me collect ideas and materials to get as much work done towards Capstone as possible. This one should be fairly complete by the time I leave. Thanks for giving me a little extra time. This past week was insane.
Blogpost
Tuesday, July 11, 2017
Saturday, July 8, 2017
Mountains
During this art seminar I enjoyed the art I saw in every reading, but the one I liked the most was our first reading A Meditation of Fire. I felt a huge connection between James Watkins and Texas that I decided I wanted to do something similar to what he did. His vision and sensitiveness to nature was so powerful that I felt I needed to learn to appreciate nature more.
When I moved to Lubbock I found out that one of the things I missed the most from back home were the mountains. I lived in Juarez until I was 14, then moved to El Paso so I have always been near mountains. Another thing that influenced my final project are the Guadalupe Mountains, every time I go back home I have to go through those mountains and I can assure you those are one of the most beautiful views I have ever seen. Mountains in my personal point of view are wonders and full of meaning. I see mountains as a representation of our own life, it takes so much to get to the top (time, willingness, effort etc..) but once you get to the top there is a sense of freedom and you are so proud of how far you have come. For my final project I decided to build something that represented the mountains that are important in my life as of today.
Since I am an architecture student I decided to make a model since it is something very important in my life. I made a cardboard model that starts from higher to lower representing going from Juarez to El Paso, from El Paso to Guadalupe Mountains and from Guadalupe Mountains to Lubbock. So basically as I get closer to Lubbock the mountains disappear. The brown cardboard represents the earth and the paths you have to take to get to the mountains and the white is meant to represent the mountains and my personal goals (which is to eventually get to the top of the mountain).
"May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds." Edward Abbey
Homeland
My first two figurative attempts were not working for
me. I first tried using Tinkercad, to
create a 3D sculpture, but I am not experienced enough making figures. The failed
and abandoned Tinkercad file is figure 1. I found out polymer clay is not my thing. Abandoned polymer clay projectk, See figure 2. None of those I could get to speak to my
identity, although it could probably be achieved with more experience,
patience, and time.
This piece is titled, Homeland. It is a file for a 3D print, see figure 3. My identity has everything to do with where I
am from, where I have been and the migrations of my ancestors.
The heart is for the Rio Grande Valley where my parents were
born, where my ancestors settled to, and where I spend most of my childhood and
currently live (although I am in school in Lubbock). The RGV is my home. But I was born in a suburb of Chicago, as
were all my sisters. My dad worked at a
steel mill, was an auxiliary police officer, a paralegal, and tax processor,
and my mom was a full-time care giver, and still is. When he retired we went back to the RGV. My sisters moved to the Valley, but the
Chicago girl in them never left them. I
was too young to be a Chicago girl.
My maiden name is Alvarado.
I’ve been doing genealogy for almost four years. I have dipped as far back as the late 1600’s
and early 1700’s on some lines. I have a
method for this research, and I triple check my facts. I have listed all my grandfathers and
grandmothers that I have unearthed and put them across Texas, and I included my
parents. See closeup in figure 4. That is four years of
research. I have the spiritual belief
that we carry ancestral memory. Texas
was Northern Mexico, and before it was Mexico it was indigenous land. For hundreds of years my ancestors lived in
Nuevo Leon Mexico. That is what the NL
stands for. They were campesinos,
laborers, and perhaps they couldn’t leave.
During the turmoil of the Mexican Revolution, they decided to migrate to
the Rio Grande Valley, where they could find work.
I wish I could find and identify the indigenous peoples that
I come from. If I had to guess, it would
be either Coahuiltecan or Comocrudo, or Chichimec. However, the Spanish effectively eradicated
them in Nuevo Leon and throughout. It’s
hard to tell, but the only thing I came close to in my search is “raza indigena
blanca.” That translates to indigenous race,
but white. According to Chicana poet Carmen
Tafolla, this meant that they were mixed with enough Spanish to function in
society, as opposed to those with stronger indigenous genetics.
Across Texas I placed Alvarado, my maiden name, right in the
spot Lubbock would be. I’ve probably stated
this before, but last fall I found out my great grandfathers Marciano had died
in Tahoka, Texas in 1941. I knew he had
died while he was working, as they were migrant workers following the cotton
harvest. I had no idea that he died near
Lubbock. This had a profound effect on
me. I feel like I am here because of the
sacrifices that my ancestors made to make a better life for their children. My dad, had a dream of being a lawyer, but
got drafted and never got to finish his degree.
So I think of my ancestors when I
drive to and from Lubbock honoring their struggle. The “Alvarado” is the signature of my great
grandpa Marciano on his WW I draft registration card when he crossed in 1918
with his family to make a new life in the RGV. See figure 5.
I left my project to print on Friday, but the print would
take over four hours. The printing lab
is closed on Saturdays. I have included a clip
when it began printing.
Fig. 1 Tinkercad figure.
Fig. 2 Polymer clay sculpture.
Fig. 3 3D Print in printing software.
Fig. 4 Ancestors names on 3D print.
Fig. 5 My great-grandfather's signature.
Video clip of Homeland being printed.
Friday, July 7, 2017
Classified ...
"Classified" is a photographic series depicting discrimination in various forms. The disturbance of being "graded" on the basis of origin, the color of skin and gender, in the western world, left a deep impact on my life. It shows the journey, starting with a deep desire to be recognized, trying to blend in, the fight for equal opportunity, the need to prove significance and the search for identity. The idea of struggling to break free from the constraints of pre-conceived notions, which would, outweighs merits.
Anywhere on This Road
Because film is the art form
closest to my heart, I chose to think at this project as to a very short film,
composed of scenes of my life. And because writing about film is what I usually
do, I wrote about it. I hope you will be able to see it as it was intended. The
numbers in front of each paragraph represent my age when every scene took
place. There is no specific order, they are just glimpses from my past trying
to say something about who I am today.
3 Me sitting on the potty and
looking at the television screen where Nicolae Ceausescu, the “beloved father
of our nation”, was delivering his every day discourse. “You are a piece of
shit” I suddenly say. I can still see my mother’s expression, wide-eyed with
fear. “Roxana, how can you say something like this? Do not ever repeat these
words in front of somebody else”. Even a little kid could smell the lie we were
all living in, the parody of a life you were told is the happiest of all, but
which was in fact a long series of humiliations. The censored book you were
forbidden to read, the radio station nobody should know you are listening to (although
everybody knew that everybody was listening to it), the endless and strenuous
manifestations of joy and love for the party and his great leader, where you
were feeling like a clown agitating a placard for hours, the delight produced
by a bar of smuggled Polish soap, waking up at 5 o’clock in the morning to wait
in line to buy a bread or a piece of meat, being denied to travel outside the
country because you might get intoxicated by Western rottenness… all part of
Ceausescu’s grandiose Golden Age. Everybody knew that he was a piece of shit,
but everybody was silenced in fear.
12 Me reading for the first time my
paternal grandfather’s memories. A priest in love with philosophy and art, who
wanted nothing but a peaceful corner to read his books and a church full of
honest people. A man whose children were persecuted by communists only because he
was a religious person. The grandfather I idealized for a very long time,
regretting his early departure and missing the opportunity of a quiet chat with
him. Me, hungrily devouring his thoughts and the moment when I found out what
nobody had told me, that Tartar blood is running through my veins, concocting
with Ukrainian and Romanian blood, and echoing the turbulent past of the land
where I was born.
25 Me on the stony road of an
isolated village in Maramures, Romania. Just one of the many travels,
hitchhiking, carrying a backpack, walking for miles, then knocking at a door
and asking “How are you? How is your life?” Being offered food, a pillow to
rest my head on, and the stories… There is peaceful beauty in this place,
wherever I turn my eyes I see the green of the hills, the smell of grass and
wild flowers is making my happy… The houses are far apart one from another,
some of them are deserted, the trees bore fruits which now are covering the
ground, they are slowly decaying and there is nobody to pick them up… There are
no fences, no signs of property… Next to a house a child is playing with a pig:
“Good day to you, do you know where Toader Dunca lives?” “You follow the road
and… do you see that hill on the distance?… behind that hill is where Nea
Toader lives”. There is still a long way until there, but time and distances
are different in this place… the city is far behind, and heaven is above…
6 Me in the ringing frost of a
Romanian winter, dragging a big wooden sled through the snow banks formed on
the road. Upset that nobody wants to come and slide on the small hill behind
the houses, I stop and take out a small egg cup that I’m usually carrying in my
pocket. I start to make snow eggs, dozens of them, and I carefully arrange them
on the sled in a pyramid. I am so caught up in what I am doing that I don’t
even notice that I’m freezing. “A glass of warm milk is what you need”, says my
grandma who was searching for me for some time. Christmas is getting closer, we
must take out the old ornaments from the wooden box that stays under the bed;
the lights in the shape of small hand lamps need to be fixed, are we going to
use the cotton balls again? On Christmas Eve I will go and sing carols at my
neighbors’ windows. They will give me walnuts, apples, cookies, and maybe some
money. I will watch Disney cartoons on TV, winter break is the only time of the
year when the national television is allowing us to watch these for a couple of
hours during weekends. And I will eat bananas and oranges; we can buy them only
around Christmas and a week has already passed since we put them on a paper, on
top of a cupboard, to get ripen.
38 Me at the baptism of Rose Anna,
my youngest daughter. Two orthodox parents, two little girls in traditional
Romanian costumes, baptized in the Catholic Church, friends coming from different countries and
religions… smiles on our faces, peace in our hearts, we are all thankful for
having each other.
10 Me in my grandparents’ house
wondering why the radio has stopped broadcasting the regular programs and plays
classical music instead. Bitu, my grandfather, suddenly entering the room and
turning on the TV. He was riding like mad his old bicycle, abandoning
the shoe repair shop where he works during the day. The first images of freedom, people yelling deliriously”
We won! We won! People won! Ceausescu has left!” Conflicting news about
terrorists shooting people on the streets, the army switching sides, Ceausescu
and his wife being judged, then executed, mothers searching for their sons and
daughters disappeared in the chaos of the fights… A revolution broadcasted live
for several days, days when we didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, didn’t do anything, and
only riveted our eyes on the TV screen like never before.
24 Me at one end of a table in an
interview room, after passing all the required pretests at a radio station. At
the other end, two famous local voices, sitting relaxed and making rakish
gestures: “Ooooh, look at her… just look at her how pretty and innocent she is…
And she wants to work here, with us!” Hysterical laughing. Feeling like the
joke of the day and not understanding what has just happened, but knowing that
I will fail the job interview. Why?
11 Me preparing to go to the
seaside with my parents, after watching Kazan’s They shoot Horses, don’t they?
Gulping with sadness, I feel like weeping. How can life be so cruel? My father
rushes me to the train station, he is worried that we will not have enough time
to get the luggage and ourselves in the train in those two minutes that we have
while the train stops… We have a long journey ahead us, 10 hours, 8 or 9 people
in a small compartment… you cannot sleep, it’s hot, you don’t feel much like
talking… the train arrives late, maybe because my heart is so heavy, or maybe
is just the regular delay of a train teeming with people anxious to spend their
annual two weeks of vacation at the seaside.
28 Me in the middle of the room, besieged
by enormous piles of books, waiting to be carefully sorted and arranged on
shelves, shelves that doesn’t exist yet, and how do you make and install
shelves anyway? I will figure it out, I will get rid of this mess, but I have
to do it quickly, Thank God I am not all alone in this… Trading old books, this
is my business… I love the books, I love to discover them in old attics and
dirty basements, I love to save them from oblivion and find them a good owner…
but I know almost nothing about how to run a business, I guess I will learn on
the way… Every inch of my body hurts and I am struggling to move and create
corridors through the books; the dust quietly bestows on their covers, the
future seems bleak, my shoulders are not strong enough…
27 Me in a splendid autumn morning,
walking in the bright sun on the alleys of Cetatuia Hill, stepping on leaves,
and listening to their golden rustle. I have been walking on the streets for
several days, refusing to speak, refusing to eat, numbed by sudden emptiness
and estrangement. I have been left alone. Thinking about my parents, the lie I
have kept them in for so many years, the burden on my soul, what was the
purpose for all of this? It was useless, love cannot grow in shadow and
everything disintegrated in a nightmare. The very moment when I knew I should
stop asking myself why, and the sudden realization of freedom. The weight that physically left my body.
Knowing that I can go on with my life, and that everything is going to be alright
now. By all means, it could have not been alright… but it was, it was just
right.
7 Me on the Easter’s morning, with
my new dress and my new shoes, swirling like crazy in my grandparents’ garden,
among peonies and marguerites, under my mother’s apple tree which was planted
when she was born. "Hristos a inviat / Christ has risen!" says a neighbor passing
on the alley. She is wearing her best clothes and her face is alight with joy. "Adevarat ca a inviat / Truly has risen!" I answer, continuing to swirl. Earlier
in the morning I was visiting the neighbors, collecting dyed eggs in a small
basket. The houses were all smelling of fresh baked Easter bread and people
were preparing to celebrate after fasting for six weeks. Like every year, my
family is gathered around the table talking and eating the food that was taken
to the church at sunrise for the priest to sprinkle with Holly water. The crack of eggs shells that my grandma dyed
using papery layers of red onions and leaves to imprint the patterns. The
laughing: whose egg was the strongest one, who wins this year’s contest? The
clang of small glasses filled with homemade plum brandy that my grandpa is so
proud of: may we all have luck and a good health! Me… so happy in my new Easter
clothes, untouched by any harm, dizzy by swirling, but not wanting to stop, in
the warm sun of a Romanian spring in Bukovina….
32 Me holding Sara for the first
time and seeing in the fragile creature struggling to breathe, the one I was
expecting for so dearly, my whole future as a mother, the bond that will never
break, my life which will irreversibly change,
my duties and worries, my joys and rewards… Me immersing for the first time in
the loveliness of babbles and coos, in the melting warmth of this new love.
31 Me looking in my future
husband’s eyes and discovering a world more beautiful than words could ever
describe.
33 Me at the end of one of my first
graduate seminars. I have a splitting headache and I am rushing home with my breasts
full of milk to feed the baby, thinking that I will never, NEVER, be able to catch
up with those people, to fully understand what they are saying, to phrase my
ideas in the same manner, to laugh at their jokes… I feel like hiding in the
darkest corner of the earth, but I will not do that… I will go home and let my man
hold me, I will take care of the baby and everything else, I will fight the
readings, and next day I will be back in the classroom with a shy smile on my
face, straining my eyes while making efforts to follow the discussions.
7 Me watching a Russian version of
Arabian Nights in an overcrowded cinema theater, with my father holding me on
his knees and my mother scared that the rats are hovering around our feet. The
whispers, the stale atmosphere, and the sad look of the decrepit walls. We are
coming to cinema twice, maybe three times a week. Films are local events and
people are cramming in the small theater, with shameless hunger and
unrestrained joy. At a time when the only television channel’s programs are
almost entirely reduced to propaganda, coming to the movies is like a breath of
fresh air, despite the heavy smell which pervades the theater.
37 Me weaving martisoare with my
older daughter for her classmates. A small bracelet symbolizing the coming of
spring, this is what a martisor is. A red thread for health and love, a white
one for purity and peace, a little bead for beauty – together they are meant to
bring good luck. The story goes that on
the first day of March beautiful Spring was walking in the wood when she
noticed a small snowdrop popping up from snow. The envious Winter called the
winds and a hard frost, and the snowdrop froze. Spring tried to warm it up and
while doing so she hurt her finger in a thorn bush. A hot drop of blood fell on
the snowdrop and brought it back to life. It is customary that when you see the
first tree in bloom or a stork to hang the bracelet on a branch. That’s why in
some regions of Romania you can see in Spring trees weirdly dressed in red and
white, a cheerful gathering celebrating the renewal of life.
31 Me and the moment I first saw
the lights of Chicago. A sparkling net covering an unknown territory. My first
travel by plane, the longest distance I have ever covered. The thrill, the
nervousness, the realization that the step was taken and there is no coming
back.
38 Me in the car, returning from a
trip to New Mexico. My husband drives the car in the pouring rain, I am holding
Rosie’s little face in my left palm, protecting her sleep. Thinking about my
friends, my parents, my sweet grandfather who died without giving me the chance
to say good bye… Dreaming about the moment I will be able to go and sit at his
grave, to tell him what I have been doing and that I am thinking about him
again and again… That I am keeping the photograph he gave me, but I don’t have
to look at it to remember his kindness and the gentle tears that were glimmering
in his eyes every time sadness was creeping in our hearts. Thinking about the
road that lays ahead. I love the road… it suits me and keeps me alive… with all
his peaks and troughs, is mine, and I am infinitely grateful that I can share
it with those sitting beside me. Anywhere on this road… I belong.
Thursday, July 6, 2017
Not Neutral - Sylvia's Final Project
Not Neutral.
2017. Polyester beige bed skirt, polyester “Brown Stone” panel curtains, digital
photographs of in-store merchandise.
When I was thirteen, the
first suburban mall was erected in my town. I can remember visiting this new,
foreign land—the total environment that was the mall, for the first time. Being
exposed to mainstream retailers, chain restaurants, and contemporary design
trends on that day lead to my first conscious introduction to advanced
capitalism. In turn, the mall and its fluctuating contents inadvertently rearranged
hierarchal value systems, impacting the materialization of my identity. Also at
this time, newly built houses proliferated like taupe microbes, which seemed to
be comprised entirely of varying shades of beige. I pondered what these new aesthetic
and materialist standards meant, and whether my life emulated any of it.
Over the course of my
adulthood, I have observed the prevalence of neutral tones in design aesthetics
and wondered if the neutrality of merchandise in a capitalist system is actually
intended to function as a “neutral” backdrop for the lives of individuals. Or, oppositely,
do beige people simply desire to disappear into beige walls?
Wednesday, July 5, 2017
Final
Each of you are able to develop a new post...just go to the upper right corner of the blog and click on new post. Then you can tell us about your creative project and up load your images (s). You have till the 8th catch up on the readings and post your final.
Thank you for being a part of this class and sharing your reflections on the books.
Thank you for being a part of this class and sharing your reflections on the books.
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