The horrid painter..
by , 05-15-2007 at 09:09 PM (2116 Views)
It's all Jackson Pollock's fault. Yes indeed. Oh, I suppose I will have to explain that.
So a few semesters ago, I took a class about American Art. Winslow Homer, Georgia O'Keefe, Mary Cassat, Edward Hopper...some other artists and of course Jackson Pollock. Pollock did a lot of abstract impressionist type works and his technique of pouring and dripping paint is considered to be the origins of the "action painting".
His work may or may not be people's cup of tea. I like some of it, but I can't say that I love it. Okay, so during the course of this class we have tests and papers. I do well on the tests, but one of my papers comes back with a grade of....B minus.Oh, dear, that will never do. I freak out, as I am often prone to doing. I know you who read this blog will find the whole idea of my freaking out to be utterly shocking, but there it is...
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The professor shows a clip from the 2000 film Pollock and tells us we can write a short essay on the film and earn extra credit. I, of course, am all over this prospect. I rent the film at the library, watch it (it is pretty good), write my essay and get my extra credit. It's all good, right?
Wrong...I misunderstand the librarian and return the film late. Books have a two week limit, films only have one. I returned the books and the movie all at the same time, after two weeks. I browse around, select more books and plunk them down on the counter and the librarian announces in a loud, piercing tone that I have a fine of 17 dollars due. I am dumbfounded....What? 14 of the 17 dollars is for the Pollock film. Apparently, each day the movie is late back a two dollar fine is assessed.
I am caught by surprise which is never pleasant and I am totally taken aback and shamed. I have issues with shame. She asks if I am going to pay the fine (if a library patron has a fine over five dollars, they are not allowed to take books out) and I mutter something...I can't hear what I said because the blood is pounding in my ears and I feel nauseous. I leave the books I wanted on the counter, turn and leave the library and go home, vowing never to return. At least I got a 4.0 in that art class. (A plus)
The decision to never return, of course, harms no one but me. I just feel too stupid to go back....which is stupid. Layers and layers of stupid and guilt, what a mess. Kind of like an "action painting"... Rather than blame myself, I have decided to put the blame where it belongs...on Jackson Pollock.
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Oh, dear, that will never do. I freak out, as I am often prone to doing. I know you who read this blog will find the whole idea of my freaking out to be utterly shocking, but there it is...
