carve san francisco

Today I adventured to the Marina District for Carve San Francisco. It was a little sand sculpture festival celebrating artist from all over. I just had to share a few of amazing "sand castles" I witnessed. Also, no Grandmother, I did not make them. : ) hehe. 

Do you know what this gets me excited for?
 The Olympics - get ready for me to analyze those athletes and their sexy "man butts" 

inside scoops to my education this semester

This semester I am taking four classes and all of them are photography based. There are absolute pros and cons to this: I get to focus on my favorite subject across the board, but it also involves me being on my creative game constantly and producing excellent work four projects at a time. It has been a challenge, but the challenge is making me a stronger artist - at least I feel like it is. : ) 

I start to the week off with Color Photography taught by D. Jones. Honestly - I wish this class was stronger. The curriculum is there, the ideas are fun, the assigned reading is interesting and helpful, but the teacher cannot teach. She is a nice lady (once you get passed the fake high pitched enthusiastic voice and yoga-bun-spice girl's mom haircut) but she cannot teach. There is that stupid quote that goes along the lines of "those who can't, teach." Well I am here to testify that teaching is a very hard position and not everyone can do it. Take Miss Jones for example. She is an established photographer, clearly knows how to work a camera, gets paid to do some weddings, (i may disagree with her stylistic choices, but that's an opinion,) but goodness gracious that woman cannot teach photography for the life of her. Most of what I have taken from this class as been me spending hours trying to decipher what she was showing us in class and accidentally stumbling on some other technique. It's sad because I think color photography is very important and very interesting, but I am not getting what I need to from that class. I am learning more color theory from my other teachers as I go to them for help and advice about this class. Oh well. Because I do not know what I am doing in this class, it has led me to experiment and explore my tools (my camera & photoshop.) Look at me, trying to turn a negative into a positive, again. Goodness Audrey - stop being so optimistic. : ) Heehee. (D. Jone's photography: http://www.photosdiannejones.com) 

this was a play with white balance and setting your own custom.
*it happened on accident - the learning part came after  

this was the most recent assignment: developing a concept map.
yes, this is something you have been doing since you were little with bubble charts.
it is for an upcoming shoot for my midterm project. i am really excited for this shoot so i put i little extra time into the map than i think most people are going to.
oh well. : ) i like it. 

Tuesday, which is my favorite day of the week in general, holds the spot of not only my favorite class but my favorite professor. A little white bearded biology major named D. Wasserman teaches Concept & Design. This class is a work out. Photographically it is pretty easy, no fancy technical work (unless you want to count the endless photoshop youtube tutorials I have had to watch to figure out of to remove subjects from backgrounds in three simple steps without crying,) but the key to this class is creative, simple, ideas that get your point across instantly. Oh dear. I have never stressed so much about what idea or emotion i can provoke with one object and one photograph. I freak out, call my parents and beg them to give me the answers, text my sister pointless ideas until she says she likes one, and spend too much time googling the words "apple" and "matches." I have gone on day long journeys to find a same-sex wedding cake topper (not as easy as it may seem here in the good ol' SF.) I have printed and reprinted until they kicked me out of the lab at 11:00 pm. BUT the weird thing is after all this work, I go to class excited and I love how it turns out. I actually have confidence in my pieces and that is an excellent feeling. It also helps that my teacher adores me (in a student teacher appropriate way of course.) He is very critical and honest. I love the way he writes on my pictures and pin points the exact points that you went wrong AND THEN TELLS YOU HOW TO DO BETTER. He is engaging, to the point, and funny. Also, he has good taste in music and I have recently turned him into a Trampled By Turtles fan. I love his class and never want it to end. (For some reason I cannot find his website, but here he is: http://www.cactitransects.com/index.php#mi=1&pt=0&pi=2&s=0&p=0&a=0&at=0) 

The following are images from the project from hell. The assignment was to take three objects and following the formulas: A + B, B + C, and A+B+C come up with something conceptually different using on those three objects. I over though this assignment like none other. In fact, I had this elaborate complicated idea completely finished and ready to turn in, but I hated it. My heart wasn't in it, so at 9:00 the night the before it was due I changed my direction. Lucky for me, it was one of best in the class. (I don't want to boast and say it was the best incase my classmates read this - i am still trying to make friends. heehee.) 

object: B

object: C

object: A

B + C = segmentation

A + C = imprisonment

A + B + C = "hardcore" 

M. Sims has gages and tattoos. He may be only five foot seven and sometimes I think he is wearing a bit of eye liner. Somedays I think he is straight. Somedays I think he is gay. This is my wednesday morning Photoshop Level Two class professor. Last year my photoshop class was long, a bit boring, and tedious. I walked out of that class only knowing three fourths of what I was supposed to know and only knowing the basics of those three fourths. This semester it is fast paced, but Sim's is thorough. We learn four or five tools a class and for some reason I walk out confident in all of them. He has a style of making sure we grasp everything in depth and with multiple examples. Its crazy! My love/hate photoshop relationship is mostly made of love this semester. It has made me excited to try out some ideas and shoots. Last class we learned the "liquify" tool. This is the tool that makes your boobs bigger and your stomach smaller. But the first thing we did in class was learn how to make you look like an alien with huge bug eyes, teeny lips, and no nose. Mine kind of looked like Voldemort (GG be proud!) Our assignments are both technical and creative and we get to work on our own images. This is something we didn't get to do until the final last year. I find it helpful because I am actually utilizing the tools in my own work and therefor are more interesting in learning them. Why make someone else's picture look good when you can do it to your own? (he is so cool: http://www.flickr.com/photos/michaelhughsims/) 

here are some image composites and portrait retouching i have done for class: 

sutro baths: before

sutro baths: after

miranda: before

miranda: after

My last class is People Photography. I hate to use the word stalking, but ultimately that is what I love to do. For anyone who has seen my instagram, I am completely fascinated with people. I take street photography seriously and this class utilizes this obsession of mine and directs it into actually thinking about what I am shooting and why. I used to look at street photography as just capturing the instant. It is something that is here one moment and gone the next. This class takes that element and expects me to compose it correctly in seconds. I am not only taking pictures on the street, I am taking photographs of the city around me. See what i did there? My teacher has a thick New York accent and every time M. Hirst says my name I cannot help but laugh a little because it sounds more like Ohdray than anything. He is like your favorite grandfather. He has been around for a while, knows what he is talking about, likes Jack Daniels, loves his children but thinks they are crazy, and goes off on tangents about random things but somehow always ends the run on sentence with a life lesson. This class is pure critique so it is a bit long (going through everyone's photographs can put a cramp in your legs and your bum falls asleep,) but it is always an entertainment. (he is old fashioned - he doesn't seem to exist on the internet.) 

"creative use of street light"

"unique angle"

So there it is. My classes in a nutshell. I have already signed up for spring semester - i know right, don't let me even breathe. I am also considering taking a few graphic design and film classes in the future. I have become very interested in producing work that included some design and film but do not know where to even began. That is the problem with an art school - i want to try it all! 

Have a lovely week my friends. : ) 

xoxo 

from hell and beach in five months and one week.

Today marks the forty third day I have lived in my new apartment. 

Located in the foggy Sunset District of San Francisco I sit in my kitchen reminiscing. This view of the ocean from Rivera Street did not come easy. All summer long I desperately wrote email after email to the quirky, sophisticated, blunt, and often a little odd ads that I found on craigslist. At least ten emails a day were sent by me. At most, zero answers were ever received. Things were getting desperate. As I scrolled through numerous people renting their couches for $900 a month, their bed's for $400, and their garages for something in between, my sense of hope was slipping six feet under. Every once and a while a glimmer of hope would shine through. Someone would respond, there would be a perfect place, or a perfect roommate, but because of the distance between Salt Lake City and San Francisco I didn't stand a chance to the hundred already at the door with cash in their hands and "winner" on their foreheads. 

Five months later I found myself a week before school started and homeless. Shit. 

With the help of my Father, Mother, and Sister - we pounded the pavements of every neighborhood in SF. Open houses and interviews were continuous. I could not believe I was auditioning for a place to live. There I was standing in a living room with ten plus other homeless students trying to win the hearts of biology majors from SF State. I was listing my qualities left and right, even making some up. "Yes of course I can cook delicious meals." "Yes I love family game night." "That's my favorite TV show too!" It wasn't working and I was getting emotional. 

I think I can honestly say that I cried in every restaurant or cafe we sat down at. 

We were running out of time. The long weekend was coming to an end. My Mother and Sister were flying home in the morning. My Father had to change his flight in desperation to find his first born a place to live that wasn't on a bench in Union Square. Time was running out. I had one last open house of the day. 

I walked in to the apartment. It was quaint. Quite large in space compared to what I had been used to seeing for a similar offering. The host was a sweet Japanese couple. I felt like we hit it off when we first shook hands, but then again, I felt that way about every person who was offering a solution to my housing problem. Inside, and already filling out applications, were men and women who spoke Japanese with the owner. I didn't stand a chance. A native language is something personal - they were connecting and I was just here to witness it. Tears nearing my eyes as I filled out the application I exchanged a few words about my current educational situation with the land lord. He shared a similar experience with his daughter moving to LA. 

I didn't realize it then, but looking back now, that was my key in. Here I was - hopelessly trying to find a house, in order to continue my education, with my father, something that he had just been through. 

On the bus ride back to the hotel, feeling hungry and defeated, I received a call offering me the apartment. 

I almost screamed and then passed out in the smelly Muni bus bumping down VanNess street.

That night we celebrated and cried. I had a place to live. My Mother and Sister wouldn't get to see it or move me in - something all of us wanted to do together. It was a bittersweet toast over pasta in Little Italy. 

Forty three days later I have a new bed, dishes of my own, a few bottles of wine on the shelves for special occasions, a striped shower curtain, and even a walk in closet. I live a few blocks from the beach and can hear the waves roar back and forth against the sands early in the morning when the streets are still. To my left is the beautiful Golden Gate Park and to my right is SF State and The Zoo (sometimes you cannot tell the difference between the two.) It takes me forty minutes to get into the city, but it is an easy ride. I take this time to read books that I usually wouldn't make time to read. 

The walls in my apartment have many pictures hanging up, but still a lot of white space. I am going to take this opportunity to let you help me decorate. Send me letters, photos, anything! I am not asking you to go out and buy me an entire collection of Rolling Stone Magazine posters, but rather something that will make me think of you! (Unless you want to buy the posters - i am not stopping you.)

 If you do not feel like sending a letter, send a package, or better yet - come visit me! : ) 

Coming up next: How to deal with the best semester of classes you've ever had. 

My computer has been replaced by a fancy new MacBook Pro and I am still obsessed with Instagram.

I woke up this morning grumpy and my bangs in every direction. It was the kind of morning that I should of washed my hair, but didn't. It was the kind of morning where I didn't realize my bra strap was broken until I was running to catch the train (aka MUNI for you bay life readers) into the city and the bra almost ended up at my ankles. It was the kind of morning that the little crosswalk sign decided to skip the counting and go straight from white walking man to green light for traffic speeding my way. It was the kind of morning that they were out of pumpkin spice syrup for the seasonal Pumpkin Spice Latte at Starbucks but refills would be here "in thirty minutes" when I had class in twelve. It was the kind of morning that Alanis Morissette would write a song about while using the wrong definition of ironic multiple times. Luckily for me, mornings only last until noon. 

It has been a while, but like I always say, it is good to be back and I don't know why I leave so much time in between writing. 

The last time I posted was in the hazy Utah summer talking about my love for rooftops and the men that joined me upon them. Incase you didn't know, since then I have moved back to San Francisco, continuing my education in photography at the Academy of Art University. I now live in a studio apartment by the beach and am newly employed. My computer has been replaced by a fancy MacBook Pro and I am still obsessed with Instagram. (@audreyrotermund)

Do you feel caught up? I didn't think so. That is why I have devised this devilish plan. I am going to take the next few days to completely update you on my life going from new house, school, boys, employment, and anything in between. I could make it into one large post, but as I sit here and consider readers like my hard working Mother, who do not have time to read novels, I have come to the conclusion that smaller ones would be easier and better for everyone (including myself.) Consider them like chapters. It makes it easier to take a snack break in-between and it always leaves you wanting more. Also, I know those who receive these posts as emails would much rather see my name in their inbox more than once! (right Tommie?) 

Coming up next: How to find an Apartment in SF in Five Months and Seven Days 

xo 

a rose is a rose.

Walking toward the cafe, after a slow traffic drive sound tracked by the lyrics of Bob Dylan in my black convertible bug, I stain my lips a deep red, check my bag for an extra camera battery, and unwrap a piece of Orbit wintergreen gum that I promise myself to spit out before entering the venue. The air is dry, nearing about one hundred degrees at eight-o-clock on a Tuesday evening.

            The Rose Establishment, which usually closes at five, has an odd sense of life and smiles decorating the outdoor patio. Bicycles are lined against the wooden fencing and the faint "clink" of coffee mugs and PBR beer cans greet each other. The handshakes are sweaty and warm as I introduce myself to the people amongst the stairs. Awkward exchanges of false compliments are heard between jealous girls in neon lipsticks and the men discuss a new brand of mustache wax that isn't sticky or female repellant. A drink is placed in my hand as I connect with a familiar face.

            Chuckling at a recent joke about Reese Witherspoon and stating my feelings on the change in the climate, I follow the fashionable crowd to the rooftop. The climb, taking three flights of wooden stairs, passes by flyers for events around the city next week. Taking my seat in the scattered second row, I breathe in deep, notice the sunset to my left, and begin to disappear from reality as the introductions of the first act begin to take pitch on the microphone. 

            Seated on the wired framed chairs is a couple. Genevieve Smith, a young girl with soft makeup and pin curls in asymmetrical positions. A light sundress hides behind the large cello that lies in her lap. Her partner, James Miska, a man who seems around the same age, is dressed in a grey vest with what I believe is a butterfly pin hanging over his heart. He cradles an acoustic guitar in his hands gently. The couple introduces themselves as Wing and Claw, the voices already harmonizing without a melody. Their sound is an intoxicating mix of moonshine and mason jar glasses. Instantly I am transported to countryside, sitting on a white chipped porch, the sun setting in the background. The crowd around me is taken by the same swoony romance as I am, our bodies swaying as our toe taps in the rhythm of the James’s foot. Unique lyrics traveled through each song starting with “freight” and ending with a rebel Bonnie and Clyde-esque “Criminal.” As they say their goodbyes, giving a shout out for future shows, a slight moan from the group echoes the desperate want for more.

            By this time the sun is hidden behind mountains and empty office buildings, the only light is given through a string of red LED lights that snakes through the chairs, microphone, and speakers stands. A foreigner takes a solo stance in front of the eager crowd. He tapes a book lamp to the microphone, pointing it like a spot light up to his face. He is well dressed, his leather boots pointed at the tip. Thick lips speak his name, Vikesh Kapoor, followed by his origin, Oregon. As he begins to play his acoustic guitar his personality shows through. Stories of snowstorms and famous contributors book end each song. He is humble. Nerves shake his hands slightly as he stumbles over words addressing the large foreign crowd. How hard it must be to stand before an audience without knowing a single person, but he treds through the passion of music translating through large smiles and closed eyes as his head throws back gently with the chorus. He finishes strong, wishing the crowd fair well in a tone that speaks happiness with a touch of relief.

            Without notice, the crowd stands up and begins to head downstairs. Lucky for me, I am more of a follower than I leader so I gently stepped down the wooden planks to the main floor. The lights of the little café have been dimmed and in the corner, nestled under the windows, is the final act. 

The Circulars, made up of Maxwell Ijams, Sam Burton, Cathy Foy, and Dyana Durfee, are positioned with their instruments. They are local band, made up of faces from familiar other groups. The laughter the members as they take their positions, collecting their instruments, and combing back their hair with a few fingers, highlights that they are strong friends, coming together to do what they are passionate about. Without introduction or even the slightest hint of a beginning, the bass and drums take off. Must different from the previous sounds, The Circulars evoke a sense of sadness hidden by the synth of the piano and the up beat cords of Sam’s acoustic guitar. The only source of light is the snake of red crawling beneath their feet. The band never stops to introduce a song. I believe at one point I heard them announce their name, but the sound of cymbals was still echoing against the wooden frames so I was left hesitant. The crowd is scattered through out the café. Seats are found upon countertops and floorboards.

            The evening comes to a close with their final number. It was a softer song, easing us all into goodbyes and exchanges of phone numbers. Many “thank you’s” and a few “come home with me’s” were heard through The Rose as I exited back onto the deck that began my adventure. The air was cooled by the night’s whisper as I walked to my car, the tune of local talent ringing in my ears.
 

Daft Punk: Get Lucky or Not?

           Originating from France, Thomas Bangalter and Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo’s Daft Punk has not only shaped and changed dance music since 1993, but has dominated it. This duo is the leading name of electronic dance music with their heavy bass drops and quick beat synthesizers. Daft Punk’s past three studio albums have held the reputation of the “robots” scientific, futuristic, sound. Even the album cover’s all share the same thick point italic Sharpie font. But, the fourth studio album “Random Access Memories,” released May 2013, is a foreign sound to what Daft Punk fans are used to. No longer are the heavy electronics, but rather soft 90’s pop guitars and poetic lyrical voices singing full verses instead of the trance like repetition of a single word. Even the album cover and font express a rebirth. No longer is there the simple title in the center in a vibrant color. “Random Access Memories” is written in the same font as Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” with the famous helmets glistening and newly polished in the center of the black square. This new renaissance by EDM’s top contributor raises the question: Can Daft Punk abandon all they are known for, alienating their original sound, and still keep their fan base, fame, and fortune? 

            “Random Access Memories” “exposes the human side of their musical impulses (Ken Tucker, NPR Music)”. Daft Punk has finally removed the helmets and reveled their inner nostalgia for the older generation of music.  In a Rolling Stone Magazine exclusive interview Bangater exposes the motives behind the new sound: “We wanted to do what we used to do with machines and samplers, but with people.” The duo and their “robot” collaborators stressed to experience the difference between technology and humanity, answering the question how do you feel true emotions in a high strung technological world where “ILY” replaces “I love you” easily as a quick Siri conversation? They have achieved this feeling. Listing through the album, songs like “Fragments of Time” would make you believe for all four minutes that you are not listening to Daft Punk. The smooth, jazz, sound transport you back to the days of slow dances and sways instead of high-strung clubs with half naked women and acid.

            This old school sound has scared some Daft Punk fans away. Diplo, a harsh critic writing under Stoney Roads, referred to the album as it “… makes [him] feel like [he’s] alone at waffle house and the jukebox is broken and only Micheal McDonald plays out of it’.” Another angry fan remarked “When I first heard daft punk I was in my teens and going to my first parties that played dance music.. With no words.. That was new world to me.” Disappointed avid listeners are turning away from the new album with disgust that Daft Punk would even consider trying to change their sound. They are known for the bouncy electro hype, not easy listening driving down a palm tree sweltered 80’s LA rode in a white convertible and loafers.

            “Random Access Memories” proves that Daft Punk remain masters of their domain, unafraid of making drastic direction changes in their art. The soft strings, the simple drum kits, and of course, the children’s choir, were not expected to come from the French electronic duo, but somehow it all works and we cannot stop listening. Time Magazine’s Dan Pfleegor wrote, “In 1968, Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey taught that man became who he is by mastering his tools, not by being a slave to them. Perhaps too, robots can only pretend to be human for so long before parting from their synthetic origins and embracing the tangible.” Daft Punk’s fourth studio album “Random Access Memories” is a standstill between old and new, but they “robots” have not lost their charm and technique. 

 

to trouble your mind with the childish design of how it all should go.

            This semester has honestly kicked my ass. Pardon my blunt language (sorry Grandmother,) but I honestly have not been able to see a light at the end of the tunnel until now. I sit here, the Sunday night before finals week, completely exhausted and proud of myself. I have worked hard and I think it finally shows off in my projects and photographs. Finals in art school are different than what my friends in the state universities suffered through. See, I do not need a textbook or notes to study. It does not all come down to one written final exam or a five paged report reflecting my knowledge from the course subjects. I have one assignment that is large enough to bring my grade from an A to an F by something simple as bad exposure. I have four bodies of work that reflect everything I am as an artist. Sometimes I think I would rather take the bookwork, but then I remember that I love what I do. My finals are painful, but they are completely worth it because through the blood, sweat, and tears, I am smiling.

            In Photoshop my final was to take eight different photographs and completely “fix” them. This means spotting and repairs, taking out tourists, replacing skies, coloring trees and mountains, turning roads into rivers, and ultimately creating a new image. I did most of mine from my time spent in Italy. One, because I am constantly feeling the need to go back, and secondly they needed a lot of work.

Firenze School Days, Before 

Firenze School Days, After

            For my Composition for the Artist class I wrote an art review about Cristobal Hara’s photograph: N1 Alava, Province Spain, 1995. It was nice to focus in on one particular piece and dissect the hell out of it. It also improved my own photographs because now I look at each one and decide what it all means and what will my audience get from it. The following is an excerpt from my essay titled:  “Blood Red and Slightly Tainted.”

            Death is unavoidably attractive. It sparks curiosity, heightens all five senses, and pulls unforgivable emotions forward. N1 Alava, Province Spain, 1995, by Cristobal Hara, is a “highly evocative” (Howarth & McLaren, 77) photograph of the minutes following a fatal car accident. The centered vehicle, flipped over, horizontally frames the death of a young man trapped inside, while a woman reacts only feet away from her bloody passenger seat. The choice whether or not to help or click the shutter as a spectator is a tantalizing decision for a photographer. Does one capture for documentation/art and risk a life or future negative repercussions or do you let the perfect shot slide out of frame because it is the “ethical” choice to make? It is unclear whether or not Cristobal Hara approached the victims of the accident before or after taking the photograph, but his choice to capture the moment as a quiet observer approaching the scene sealed the emotional impact of the tragic event in a subdued manner. Hara’s use of subject matter, perspective, and color, generates an overwhelming sense of loss and a respectful gesture of privacy.

N1 Alava, Province Spain 1995 by Cristobal Hara

            Visualization brought the most creativity. With an open concept requirement I developed “Paper Faces.” While studying, living, and thriving, in Firenze, I learned the importance of body language through the Italians boisterous hand movements and my desperate need to communicate with a foreign tongue I only knew vaguely. It was during this time that I developed a fascination with the human body and human interactions. I became obsessed with observing people; loosing time in coffee shops to watching the customers come and go, taking note on how they stir their coffees or the detail in their wrinkled hands, and writing on sticky notes about how the boy next to me had an eyebrow that resembled that of shower curtain rod because of the ten plus ringed piercings that lined it.
            What I have learned is that facial expressions are the ultimate form of non- verbal communication as well as one of the most evident descriptions of our personalities. Whether it the natural part in your lips or the squint of your eyes when giggling, your face articulates emotions. So what happens if we remove all of that? Then what does your face say about you? Ultimately, that is the answer I searched for with the creation of “Paper Faces.”

            After sending out mass messages on various social media networks, calling all friends/enemies/met you oncer’s, and pulling random people out of the hallway, I ended up with twenty four individuals willing to model.             Over two days, the only light source being a large soft box, I photographed each person as if I was shooting a mug shot: please face me; now please turn for a profile. I did not ask them to do anything particular, wear anything special, or even brush their hair. I merely sang, “Come As You Are” by Nirvana.

            I edited each image to black and white, printed them, and played a game of matchmaker putting together his profile with her forward, her forward with her forward, his profile facing away from his profile, and so on, until I came up with a match for everyone and as many different combinations as possible. Taking the twenty-four couples, I narrowed it down to the best thirteen, in which I removed the face from each individual using an Exacto knife, a handful of patients, and a few Peanut M&M’s.

            The final step was to find a collection of different pieces of text (from magazines, books, newspapers, etc.) and pair it up with the coupled pairs, replacing their face with the words of someone else, and as an end result giving them a new personality. I took SF Weekly & the Guardian on Wednesday; thrift store shopped on Polk Street Thursday afternoon, and begged my friends to give me their old novels on Friday.

            I ripped pages, cut sides, and pasted carefully each text behind an anonymous headshot. The text, to me, was to replace one way of communication with another. After removing the face, the only way to know who these people are and what they are like is by their clothing, posture, and what the text tells us to think. Today most of society’s communication is done through emails, phone messages, letters, and so on. Have we lost our personalities because we no longer need face-to-face responses to communicate ideas? “Paper Faces” address the importance of facial features and expressions while highlighting the dangerous media repercussions our society faces with a growing number in advancing technology.

            *The final has yet to be re-photographed and made digital.

headshot sorting. 

removal of the faces.  

matchmaking. 

            Quality of light was my technical class of the semester. For every artistic choice you wanted to create, there was a rhyme, reason, and three strobe lights to do it. It was this class that I spent long nights and never ending days in the studio. I cannot complain, but I missed a lot of sunlight and fresh air because of the class – I can tell you that honestly and my skin is pale enough to stand as an example. For my final I was asked to create twelve studio portraits with at least eight different lighting styles. There had to be a simple concept to flow it together so I chose “black and white.” Although this one was not as much thought, it was a lot of work. I have to thank everyone who put in time to help me out. Thank you to my models (those of you I know and those of you I met briefly.) Alicea and Jasmine were my go to girls the entire semester. And most importantly Alex and Nic – without whom I would of probably knocked myself out with a boom or set the seamless on fire.

Tom Baboin, No Contrast Lighting

Alexander McNally, Rembrant & Backlight (Jesus LIghting) 

            The end of this semester doesn’t just mark the end of my full year at the Academy, but also the end of my time staying at the dorms (praise Jesus.) I have been incredibly lucky. My room was perfectly sized and had a lovely view down on the busy Sutter Street. I had two (& a half - Love you Phoebe) charming roommates. I couldn’t of asked for a better group of girls to start my adventure here with. We laughed way too much in room 501 and I will miss that. But goodness, I will not miss sharing my bathroom with thirty girls who don’t know how to dye their hair without dying the wall. Showering without flip-flops? I forgot what that was like. Let’s not even talk about the kitchen and worse – the café food. BUT overall, I am thankful for this learning experience and memories made at old Howard Brodie.

Kayleigh, trying to pack herself up on a Tuesday night.  

            Going home to Salt Lake City will be a heat wave. Not only is the temperature already twenty degrees hotter than it is here, but also I will be working as a breakfast waitress again at The Market Street Grill Downtown (so come and visit.) I will also be taking two online classes and hopefully receive an internship/volunteer opportunity through SLC Photo Collective. Then of course the minutes in between all of that I will be playing hard with my family, closing Coffee Garden with countless conversations, and dancing hard at the Twilight Concerts. See you there?

Fog from Caleb & Shawn on Vimeo.

This is a little video I stumbled upon. Not only is it breathtaking to watch, but the song ("Gracious" by Ben Howard) is my recent addiction. (Also, the lyrics are the title of this post.)  Enjoy. 

http://vimeo.com/57878898 

Have a wonderful week & wish me luck. Ciao, Ciao.

from smog to fog, or so i thought

          The summer before I moved to San Francisco from little Salt Lake City was the summer I grew up and fairy tales were no longer just in storybooks. I experienced lip-swelling kisses, sunset slow dances, and midnight drives that led to embarrassingly sober car karaoke. As I packed my bags that late August evening, I reminisced and dreamed about the future, thinking to myself “if small town Salt Lake’s boys were that good, San Francisco’s would be ten times better.” This idea was tucked in my back pocket, along with three dollars for “treats on the plane” from my Grandmother, as I bid my farewells to my friends and family at gate F8. This irresistible idea seemed to be on their minds too, because as they were hugging me tightly goodbye, I got more “bring me back a hottie” and “say hello to those Cali boys,” than “Good luck at art school.”

            I landed at SFO with a camera, oxford shoes, and my heart on my sleeve. I walked out of the terminal knowing this is where I was meant to be and in just seventeen minutes, if traffic was good, I would be walking the streets of downtown admiring my future boyfriends. In the taxi I dreamt of Miguel; the Spanish foreign exchange student with thick brown curls, who does graphic design and volunteers his spare time at the troubled youth center on Market Street. Or maybe his name was Jack. The blonde surfer with an all year round tan, who has a secret decadent chocolate cake recipe that he makes the first Tuesday of May, June, and October.  No, that wasn’t it. I couldn’t stop thinking about the Brooklyn based troubled poet named Dean, who takes walks in the rain without an umbrella and loves tasting the lattes at a new coffee shop every weekend. Overall, I had this wild idea that a San Francisco art school would bring big city sophistication with a creative flare in men choice. Now writing this six months later, my relationship status set at an obvious SINGLE, I can tell you that there must have been something other than love in the air of that yellow cab.

            On my first day of class I walked up Taylor Street eager to make new friends, meet the man of my dreams, and learn a bit of photography (if I wasn’t too distracted with my future tantalizing love affair). The air was a bit foggy walking to class, but I could make out a charming boy with dirty blonde hair billowing in the slight breeze, coming down the hill towards me. There was something lovely about him that made me want to know more. I paced myself slower so we approached the building together. His leather shoes stepped to the side as his muscular arm reached for the door. I inhaled the alluring scent of roses and dark chocolate as his lips quietly smoothed out the words “after you, beautiful.” I stepped inside, smiling a playful “thank you.”  I acted like an innocent damsel in distress while I was looking at the lists trying to figure out what room my class was located in. Prince Charming stepped beside me. As if we were one with each other’s thoughts, our thumbs lifted up and pointed to the same classroom in the middle of the second board. It was meant to be. He smiled wide and said “See you there” in a dark enthralling voice as he walked around the corner. My heart pulsed against my ribs as I gracefully gilded up the steps to the second floor. I chose a table with an extra seat for my mysterious new “study-buddy”. When he walked in, without hesitation, he set his stuff down next to me. I didn’t even notice him sit down in the folding chair as his large hands grabbed my neck gently. Pushing my blonde curls behind my ear, he began kissing me passionately like Johnny Depp kissed Juliette Binoche on the boat in the movie Chocolat.

            Before I go on, I should mention that the expectations and the realties of my love life in San Francisco could not be farther apart. What was previously mentioned was not a lie, but it wasn’t completely true. On that first day of school, I really did walk up Taylor Street in the fog, yet the man I saw in the distance was scrawnier and not so billowed. He did open the door for me, and I did say “thank you,” but it was as romantic as stepping on gum in a Bart station. I don’t even think he was wearing leather shoes and he smelled more of body odor masked with Walgreen’s version of “Old Spice” than anything in a garden. Although I was the only one who pointed to the class (with my pointer finger, not my thumb,) he did say he would see me there. If anyone knows me, they know that I do not glide up stairs. I cannot remember the exact way I made my way up to the classroom, but I can almost guarantee that I tripped at least two and half times.  I honestly did think this guy would be my friend, so I sat at that empty table with that empty seat and eagerly waited for my new “study-buddy”. The biggest difference from my expectations and the reality was when my new friend walked in. He immediately set his bag on the teacher’s podium. The first thing his lips did, was not plant a large kiss on me, but rather they spitted the words “welcome to PH107, I am your teacher.” Obviously I was a bit mortified. But I shook it off and dismissed this lack of attention on my first day of class as the build up to something exciting.

            Weeks passed and I finally met a sweet boy in the cafe. He made the first move, sitting at my table nervously, striking up conversation, being interested in everything I had to say. I did not think this could go wrong. As dinner came to a close, we exchanged phone numbers. The minute I got home I told my roommates about the cute boy at the café and how we were destine to be married. He text me later that night saying something sweet like “goodnight” with a few smiley faces. I thought of him as a gentleman and I dreamt of us going to dinner all the time and laughing at each other’s jokes. Oh the conversation would never be weary and he would protect me until days end. In reality, he was the one I needed protection from. Those simple, little, texts soon turned in to a constant plea of attention. He would ask me what I was up to, I would tell him “movie night with the girls,” he would want to know “what movie,” “what girls,” and “where?” Thoughtful consideration about my where abouts soon reached the level of ultimate creepiness. I played it off nicely, until he started asking me to go on walks with him at two in the morning. That was the final straw.

            Then there was the sweet Swedish advertising student who asked me out on a blind date through my Instagram after flirting with me through comments on my fantastic iPhone captures.  I dressed up in my cutest casual chic and walked to the restaurant with the world under my feet. Here was my updated version of Miguel. So what if he wasn’t Spanish, he was still foreign and he still wanted me. I walked in to find not only one Swedish gentleman sitting at a table, but two. At first I thought, “hmm ... I can make this work.” A threesome was never really in my vocabulary, but the idea was tempting now that I was presented with the perfect opportunity and candidates. I sat down, we exchanged introductions and I immediately fell in love with both of them. As the meal progressed I was enlightened with the information that my Instagram lover had a serious fiancé waiting for him back in his home country and that he was not at all interested in dating me but rather loved my iPhonography and thought I would make a good friend to help him with future projects. Oh, and the gorgeous friend he brought along was his roommate, who created masterpieces with his bare hands because paintbrushes are overrated. And who loves to cook for his older boyfriend Sam, that also lives with them.

            Sadly, little upsets to my perfect plan happen more frequently than not. I moved to San Francisco with the expectations of finding true love in an abundance of sexy well-dressed men. Instead, my beautiful dream is contrasted with the harsh reality that I go to very large art school, in a diverse major that seems to be only filled with girls, and the all of the cute boys, in the entire city, are either faithfully taken or devotedly gay.