Just wrote a manifesto about my feelings/reflections on my school/district/education experience, especially ap classes. Might post here for reference.
I love this.
The subject of the weather has long shaped the content of everyday conversation. The eighteenth-century writer Samuel Johnson famously remarked ‘It is commonly observed, that when two Englishmen meet, their first talk is of the weather; they are in haste to tell each other, what each must already know, that it is hot or cold, bright or cloudy, windy or calm.’
In The Weather Project, the fourth in the annual Unilever Series of commissions for the Turbine Hall, Olafur Eliasson takes this ubiquitous subject as the basis for exploring ideas about experience, mediation and representation.
In this installation, The Weather Project, representations of the sun and sky dominate the expanse of the Turbine Hall. A fine mist permeates the space, as if creeping in from the environment outside.
Throughout the day, the mist accumulates into faint, cloud-like formations, before dissipating across the space. A glance overhead, to see where the mist might escape, reveals that the ceiling of the Turbine Hall has disappeared, replaced by a reflection of the space below. At the far end of the hall is a giant semi-circular form made up of hundreds of mono-frequency lamps.
The arc repeated in the mirror overhead produces a sphere of dazzling radiance linking the real space with the reflection. Generally used in street lighting, mono-frequency lamps emit light at such a narrow frequency that colours other than yellow and black are invisible, thus transforming the visual field around the sun into a vast duotone landscape.
"aesthetic" is a very good word, important word. "i love the fifties." no you don’t the fifties kinda TOTALLY SUCKED for many human beings in America. "i love fifties aesthetic" well then, awesome. go you with your bright blocks of color and cute skirts and mini jackets and hair poufs.
NO “TELEPHONES”. TALK TO EACH OTHER. FACE TO FACE ONLY. WRITE A LETTER. SEND A TELEGRAM TO YOUR MOM. PRETEND IT’S 1860. LIVE.
NO ‘WRITING’… TALK TO EACH OTHER. THROW A ROCK AT YOUR MOM. PRETEND IT’S 10,000 BCE. LIVE.
URGGA. ROU GRAAURH. RUH.
<SMACKS HANDS ON WALL WITH PAINT.>
NO ‘HIGHER BRAIN FUNCTIONS’ …USE YOUR REPTILIAN BRAIN
EAT YOUR MOM’S CORPSE SHE DIED TO PROVIDE YOU WITH SUSTENANCE
PRETEND YOU HAVE JUST AROSE FROM THE SEA
NO “MULTICELLULAR TRAITS”….. USE YOUR SYMBIOTIC MITOCHONDRIA
REPRODUCE ASEXUALLY, YOU’RE YOUR OWN PARENT
PRETEND IT’S 2BYA
NO “LIFE.” USE FUNDAMENTAL PHYSICAL FORCES TO FORM SPHERICAL OBJECTS REVOLVING AROUND ONE ANOTHER IN SPACE.
FUSE HYDROGEN INTO HELIUM USING GRAVITATIONAL PRESSURE TO PRODUCE HEAT AND LIGHT.
PRETEND IT’S 4.5BYA.
STABILIZE INTO EQUILIBRIA
NO “MATTER”. EXIST IN THE VOID WITHOUT PURPOSE OR MEANING.
THERE IS NO “YOU”, ONLY THE VAST CONCEPT OF NOTHING.
TIME DOES NOT EXIST.
Imagine having a daughter.
Imagine the first positive pregnancy test, a CVS-brand in your office bathroom because you’re probably just paranoid and it’s probably nothing, and seeing the plus sign. Calling the doctor, making the real appointment. You’re eight weeks along.
Imagine months of watching your skin stretching. Sonograms. Sharing your food, your blood, your oxygen with another person sitting in your midsection and not paying rent. Feeling the first kick. Puking on your morning commute. Sitting down for a night of TV and watching a tiny elbow press out against your skin. Getting used to it, kind of. Thinking of names.
Imagine childbirth. Imagine a pair of human shoulders passing through your junk and imagine pooping on a table in front of a room full of people while you cry, but none of it mattering because here is this person you’ve been dying to meet. To touch. To see blink back.
Then imagine your daughter growing up to actively participate in the Instagram romance tag.
What a fart into infinity. What a pube tumbleweed on a bathroom floor.