Making the [Least] of Social Media

Last week I attended a lecture on social media for photographers. This is my response:  

I love social events. 

There is something invigorating about a group of people with a common interest all joining together for a night of inspiration. 

I knew that APA’s little event was not Salesforce’s world famous conference, but on the evening going into “Modern Marketing for Photographers,” at Left Space Studios in the Mission, I had this excited feeling that my notes were going to help change my career, that I was going to leave with numerous contacts to exploit in the near future, and maybe even a free neon colored backpack stitched with an embarrassingly large logo.

After signing in and beautifully writing my name on an obnoxiously sized sticker (which I had a problem finding an attractive placing for on my shirt,) I walked into the darkly lit high-ceiling event room filled with socially awkward photographers in odd patterns and cargo pants. With my optimism still high, I made for the bar making eye contact with the gentleman opening a new bottle of red wine. Turning around, glass in hand, I faced my unknown new friends.

Usually, I am very good at sneaking my way into conversation, but my tricks failed me with these shy artists. Everyone stood lonely in their own clusters. Imaginary force fields keeping them tied to their iPhones and looking aimlessly at the empty white walls. A few brief exchanges of uncomfortable handshakes, a woman who gave me a free screen cleaner, and annoying name droppings from a man who tried to pick me up after the lecture with the line “hipster girls like you look good on the back of my bicycle,” was all the social excitement I received before they asked us to sit down. 

pre event bathroom selfie

I sat in the third row, first seat to the isle; not too close to be a geek, but close enough to express interest. 

A balding man took the mic, introduced himself, and made a joke about tequila that no one laughed at. Recently having watched a documentary on the founder of Apple, I sat eagerly hoping to be inspired with the same majestic feeling that Steve Jobs delivered with his sly smirk before a crowd of high waisted khaki wearing nerds. Sadly, my disappointment settled in heavily right about the time we hit slide three.

Nicely put, I wasted two hours, fifteen dollars, and three squirts of perfume last Tuesday evening. I walked out of the building with an empty notebook and an appreciation for one minute long “how to” YouTube videos that would give me the same amount of information in a shorter time and while wearing my pajamas. 

The slideshow was slow and the presenter read it word for word. 

Now I know I am no expert in the art of presentation, but what I do know is you have to be interesting. Your slides should be bullet points for your speech. If we wanted to read about the topic we would have picked up a book, but we wanted personality and elaboration on experiences, at least, that’s what I wanted. 

The facts on the slides were incorrect and gave a “do it my way or fail” vibe that put a panicked pursed lipped look on the mouth of the woman seated in front of me. The examples were not relevant and up to date on the changes in layouts and guidelines of most of the social media applications talked about. The questions asked at the end were responded with a “um..” or “well I don’t use that” response that left the presenter looking uneducated and rude and the questioner annoyed. I couldn’t wait for it to be over. And nearing the end, the only thing that kept me staying was the devilish hope of snagging a bottle of wine on my way out. 

I picked the lecture because I found the topic relevant and interesting, but was incredibly disappointed. Ultimately, Tuesday evening, I lost time, patience, knowledge, and a follower on Instagram.

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" 

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 

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.

right as rain

I write a lot when it’s raining.

It is just something I do – along with writing in coffee shops, about the coffee shops, while it’s raining.

No, this post is not being written at coffee shop, but it is raining.

So yes, it kind of fits in the theme.

I am sitting in my bed.

For those of you who have just caught on to this sensation, or for those of you who forgot, my bed is located underneath some else (it’s a bunk bed. I’m not literally sleeping underneath someone’s bed) and that bed also occupies a room with three other beds. I am the only one awake, which is a surprise because usually computer screens light up the small corners of the room way passed this hour.

It’s raining outside, rather hard actually. I can tell by the blur of the orange light on the building across the road and can hear the deep sloshing of fast paced vehicles on the busy streets. I wish I could throw all the windows open and write this while sitting in the middle of the room with the only light being the criss cross stripes of light from the windows on the walls.

My roommates do not believe in fresh air.

They also do not believe in opened blinds passed five o clock.

I think I write when it’s raining because the rain makes me nostalgic. It doesn’t make me sad.

 It makes me remember.

Remember the good times, the rough patches, the moments I wouldn’t change anything, the times I wish would have gone differently. This nostalgic feeling makes me feel like I need to share something. I don’t really want to share those memories though. So I come here, to this public domain, and describe in detail the objects around me. (We all remember the coffee garden posts where I pick apart the tastes, the smells, and the sites. Or how about me sitting at the dining room table talking about the lights and how bright they are against my parent’s studious faces.)

Posts like these are not really for you.

They are not informative about my life or the latest tunes those cool kids are listening to these days.

Posts like these are really for me.

They are something that the minute I start to write, usually introducing it with a poorly executed introduction, I cannot stop. My fingers constantly clicking keys, pressing onward quickly, not thinking about what I am going to write next, just writing down the thoughts as they present themselves no matter what shape or form.

My spelling is even more atrocious in these posts than usual. The page of text, first written in Word Document, is lined with red and green squiggles under misspelled words and unorganized thoughts. As my spelling gets worse, my vocabulary heightens and I randomly through in words like “executed” and “atrocious,” These thesauruses like words are often used wrong, kind of like my speech when I am nervous or not thinking before speaking.

It takes longer to spell check the document than to actually write it.

There is no music playing, no headphones on, no bar’s stereo turned up to loudly, but yet a song is tuning through my ears. It’s not a particular artist, chorus or key, but a combination of the rain, the street side laughter, and the quick click of the keys.

I hope my music isn’t disturbing my roommates.

I think this post that was originally brought on by the rain, which brought on the nostalgia, was also brought on by the idea that I will not be home for thanksgiving.

In Italy, I didn’t really notice that I missed it.

Yes, I took in the fact that my entire family was joining together to eat and laugh and unbutton their pants secretly at the table. But I was in a country who didn’t know what the holiday was and the time difference made the at home celebration seem like something that happened while I was sleeping and I just missed it.

That I just didn’t wake up in time.  

Not here. Here I see everything. Plans about where everyone is going and whom they are spending it with. I understand the reasons for me not going home – I don’t have a break from school and it isn’t worth it. But I still feel a bit homesick. I miss the company and warmth my family contributes. Even Skype sometimes can radiate their heat just by seeing their smiles.

Rain is my favorite weather. It is cleansing, simple, illuminating, and crisp. It is new. It is familiar.

I like to write when it’s raining. To me, it is inspiring.

Goodnight/Good Morning.

Have a wonderful Sunday.

I miss you.

Xo 

i am afraid to merge

Where do I start? I am sitting in Sugar Café, two doors down from my apartment, next to a fireplace that some how is lit and flaming over little pebbles that are over glossed in whites and blues. I feel disconnected, which is probably the worst time to write in a public blog, but I can’t help it.

School has been going great. The semester is currently approaching midterms and I can hardly believe how fast two months have gone by. Cliché, but it seems like just yesterday I left my empty room in Salt Lake. Digital photography is pretty basic, but I think I am finally getting a grasp on shutter speeds and aperture. This concept is hard and opposite and is not just common sense like I have been told for the passed few years. It’s amazing that I called myself a photographer before when I didn’t even know how to use manual setting. I was stuck on settings with pictures and I strayed from letters. Boy, have I come far.

Fundamentals of photography is my favorite class, hands down, no arguments. I think it is my favorite because we actually get to create, print, and critique. Some people are afraid of critiques, worry about how to present their art, nervous about what people say, and argue any sort of criticism. Not me, I thrive off of it. I love the thrill received when you lie out those fresh prints, stand in the back as twenty new pairs of eyes glaze and analyze. I actually stand there hoping they say something negative, hoping they have some way to push me, something for me to re think and try again. I like a challenge in my art, but more importantly I like redemption. Our class is working of a “Day in the Life” project. Paired up with someone in our class, our task is to document their life in an interesting way. You know, make breakfast seem as exciting as firefighters washing trucks shirtless. I am working with Jordan, a red haired volleyball playing beauty from Santa Cruz. So far, so good. I had an in progress critique today, which helped generate some ideas to make my collection of five photographs even stronger.

History of Photography is like every history class possible. You pretend that you do not like it, that you dread going, but the entire time you are attentive and listening because it is incredibly interesting to see where your absolute passion stemmed from. Film History is my second favorite class; mostly because I love the enthusiasm my teacher carries with each step. He loves what he does. He is not there for the money (though that may help) but rather he is there to share his favorites films with us and make us connect the themes in the films to our own lives.

I have neglected a little bit of extreme thank you’s. First off, thank you to Aunt Michael for the Wicked t shirt and the New York skyline paper cut out sent all the way from NYC. I wear the shirt all the time, can you say softest shirt ever? Oh, how I am jealous that you got to experience it. I need to give a big thank you to my Grandmother for the little slipper shoe things. I have been desperately looking for a pair of these just to roam around in the dorm with. They are perfect. Thank you to my sister for the constant Halloween goodies and surprises. Thank you to my Mother for the Halloween decorations. Some parents send food, some send money – mine sends bat stickers and paper foldouts. I am so grateful. Thank you all so much for all the fun surprises. I cannot tell you how good it feels to get a package in this lonely city with just the touch of home.

On Friday I have a meeting with some girl named Monica to schedule and register for next semester. I cannot believe it is that time already. It stresses me out. Everything is starting to feel permanent. When I went to Italy, I knew I would come home in four months and never be back (well hopefully one day I will go back, but you get my point,) the University of Utah was the same way – I would be done in a few months. My summer job, I knew it would end. I have not had anything permanent in my life for a while. Everything is changing. I am scared to commit. I won’t lie. I do not know how to explain it. The best way to describe it is I am “afraid to merge” (Less Than Zero, Brett Easton Ellis.) What an incredible opportunity I have to live here, but why doesn’t it feel like home.

I think I am going to stop before it gets dramatic and I start rambling. Have a good night.

xoxo  

time is such a hungry beast

title: "waltz for pony" by boy

I write to you frustrated with the current situation my fellow students have present in a college setting. This last week we received an assignment in my Fundamentals of Photography class.

The assignment was simple: photograph a subject (that cannot move or be moved) in different ways, do not edit, change all to black and white, print a contact sheet with twenty of your best images, print one of those images, bring to next class to critique. There were no hidden rules, confusion in the details, or misleading statements. It was crystal clear. Elementary my dear. It was even printed word for word in full paragraphs on a hand out and in our syllabus received on the first day. No surprises.

Today in class, I was one out of five people in a classroom of twenty who did the assignment.

Out of those five people, I was the only one who followed the directions.

I sat there astonished as the excuses poured out of mouths around me.

“I did not understand it”

“I was busy.”

“I could not get my hands on the paper.”

Silently I answered them all in my head.

What did you not understand? If you were confused, you could have either called one of the numbers of the students in the class we exchanged on the first day, or you could have emailed our professor who stressed the importance of not being afraid to use his email and ask questions.

What exactly were you busy with for a whole week that you could not find the time to shoot at least twenty photographs of any object of your choice? I find this hard to believe because as beginners we are all in the same classes. I have the same workload as you. I had time to spare, even after doing homework for our other three classes, and spend a whole day walking from one bridge to the other. Did I mention I also had time to go to the movies?

I will agree, finding the paper was hard, but with an entire week, a cell phone, and Google, you could have found the paper is six different locations just on Main Street alone. If that wasn’t possible or maybe right now you cannot afford it, you could have dug up that contact sheet previously mentioned and asked a classmate where they got their paper or if you could borrow a few sheets. I know I would have said yes. Maybe you were too busy, that’s what happened wasn’t it?

Seriously, ladies?

We are in college. Not only are we in college, we are all adults. Legal adults. Adults who can take care of themselves, who know we have to pull our own weight, adults who can solve a problem when it comes up, an adult who knows what is expected of them and does what is expected.

Every time you show up to class unprepared you are not only throwing more than two hundred dollars out into the crisp wind, but you are wasting your time. Have you ever thought about how your lack of preparation affects my learning? Have you ever thought about how it makes Tim, your educator, feel that you do not take his class seriously or have the respect to follow through on little things he asks? Do you realize these projects and lectures and classes and textbook readings are not punishment or busy work, but actually have meaning that will help you in what is supposed to be your career choice?

I actually feel bad for you.

After brushing fifteen unprepared students to the side, I focused my attention on those who were prepared. They did the assignment; they deserved feedback, respect – just like I expected to receive in return. Critiques are the best way to learn and to grow. I learn from you, you learn from me. That is why I go to onsite classes and do not just sit home online in my pajamas and a bucket of ice cream.

The first to present set up her work. Her prints were in color. Her subject placed in different places around the yard. Her subject was in different positions. The only part that followed the instructions was that she printed out her work. The class responded to the colors of her work in excitement. They were drawn to it. As my teacher said “let’s pretend that it is in black and white and focus on the image and what she could do better” the next comment to follow was “I really like the colors of the garden and how it brings out her subject.” Did you really not just hear the words that came out of his mouth? He is done with the color. He wants to know about composition, about lighting, about anything other than the color that is not supposed to be there in the first place.

Let’s just say, we never got off the color wheel.

I presented mine next. I was eager to hear feedback. I wanted to know what I could do better, what did they notice that I didn’t, how did they feel, what parts they didn’t like. I put my simple contact sheet up next to my one black and white photo. The response was neither good nor bad. Nor was it helpful. No one said anything without exaggerated prompting from my professor. They commented on my model (good, she deserves to be complimented, she is beautiful.) They mentioned my good use of shadow, but did not know what parts were shadowed or why it was good. It wasn’t like they didn’t like it or they did – they were just dead in the eyes, not involved, not wanting to be there. I took down my photographs with no helpful hints except more variation, which was also a positive reaction to my work.

I did a full circle.

Although no one had anything to say about mine, I was still eager to see other people’s work and learn from their experience.

The pieces to follow were in color, some were moved subjects, some were edited on Photoshop to boost the contrast. None of them followed the instructions like we were asked.

I felt bad as my teacher causally said “did I not say to put them in black and white” or “it’s the first time so I can see why you would make that mistake.”

When confronted about their pieces mistakes, lies fled like rivers. “Is this natural lighting?” “Yeah, it’s outside. I did use a reflector, but that’s it.” I do not know much about using my camera to it’s full possibility yet, but I know that you cannot get flawless skin and backdrops with perfect white/black contrast in natural light in the middle of Union Square with a plastic reflector.

Tim knew this too, but he didn’t say a thing. How could he?

His class had played him.

They took his assignment, his tips, his time, and threw it in the bottom of their though pile.

I would hate to have been him, because I hated being in the class.

I know this is my chance to shine. Be the one who does it right, blah blah blah. That doesn’t matter if no one else can put any effort in.

I cannot imagine thinking how the students in my classes act. If you do not want this, then please do not waste my time. If you are unprepared, do not show up. Your money is getting deposited weather you are there warming a seat or you are home being “busy.” Please, do not come unless your attitude toward the class is positive and you want to be there. The school could care less if you showed up. We are no longer in high school. We pay to be here. We go to colleges and university not because we have to, but because we want to. If you do not want to put a little effort in, get out. It’s week three and you have already proven you do not have the motivation to succeed in this program. Stop wasting your parents money, stop wasting your professors energy, stop wasting my time.

Grow up or get out.

Wow.

I feel better.

Goodnight. 

touch me. i'm golden. wild as the wind blows. let's get lost.

I have not stopped smiling. This weekend was complete with too many laughs and too many photographs. 

Lazy days and long nights. 

Friends and strangers. 

Friday night.

Emme, Phoebe, Soli, and I went to the Red Bull DJ Mix Jam contest between two artists from our school and two from San Fran State University. The atmosphere was stuffy and the students that attended created a high school prom junior prom vibe in the classy club, but we still danced in the middle like we were alone in our beds with hair brushes as microphones. 

I don't know who won. We left early. But I am pretty sure the Academy doodled all over SF State. 

All over. 

Saturday. 

There are 5.2 miles between Fisherman's Wharf and the Golden Gate Bridge. 

Five young ladies, all friends, carrying camera and wearing sunglasses and scarfs walked 5.2 miles all day Saturday is the cool heat of the Francisco sun. 

Saturday night involved chai teas, narrated by Band of Horses, watching cute hipsters write papers on their Ipads. 

Sunday. 

Today we worked. I use the word "we" because all of us in room 501 and 502 cowered at our desks and worked. We borrowed each other for ideas, for photo shoots, for approval, for snacks. 

It was perfect. 

My class tomorrow was canceled due to my teacher having to fulfill her civic requirements at jury duty. Also, because the rescheduled class period is scheduled on top of my other class, I now have a one on one teaching session with Sadie on thursday morning. 

Cheers to the weekend. Can't wait for the week. 

Goodnight. 

Also, a little advertisment. I have ventured to the Tumblr world. It is an addicting place and there for I want to invite you into the fun. You can follow Verbaleudette and my photo documentation of the characters of San Francisco through my Species blog. Check out the links below. 

http://verbaledudette.tumblr.com/

http://sanfranciscospecies.tumblr.com/

Carpe Diem.

This is one of those coming to age posts. I know that most of you will leave at this point because you were hoping for more naked men - I understand and respect that.

Lives are like novels. As cliché as it may sound, we spend each day writing a chapter. In each chapter we introduce new characters, dive deeper into others, take adventures, or just keep traveling on the same path. In Mrs. Funston’s freshman English class, I learned that the climax of a story is when something happens in the plot that changes it so dramatically that you know nothing will be the same after. In other words, everything will be different.

 In life stories, I don’t think the climax is one certain event. It may be in yours, but not in mine. In my life, my climax is a series of events. I think the climax of my life, so far, was this last year. I learned so much about myself, I grew up, I took chances, I felt risks, and I accepted consequences – good and bad.

Before I moved to Italy I had never been on my own. I had not been to camp and I rarely had sleep overs, always making up excuses on why I could only have a late over or calling my mom in the middle of the night to pick me up. I had gone on the skateboarding tour for months away from home, but I always had (at least) my Father present. I graduated from high school and leaped into a surreal experience. I went from always holding my family’s hands, to flying my way to a foreign country where I did not know anyone, the language, where to go, or what to expect. I was pushed out of my comfort zone. I was scarred, but never did I ever regret doing it. Italy changed my life. Of course the culture and aspects of a foreign country were striking and eye opening, but suddenly I was forced to make decisions between good or bad, motivate myself to succeed at school, fix my own meals, and wash my own clothes. It sounds silly, but I was forced to grow up. Forced to experience. Forced to find out who I really was. In Italy I realized what mattered, what made me who I was, what I wanted to be, and how lucky I am.

 

This summer I discovered a lot about myself. I took my mindset from Italy and become conscious of where I stood. I had my first real job - and Market Street will never be the same. I made new friends and created stronger friendships with the old. I also lost a few. I gained confidence as I stood up for myself. In my favorite book The Perks for Being a Wallflower, Charlie says, “We accept the love we think we deserve.” I finally learned what that meant, that I deserve the world and not to let people pull me down or make me think otherwise. I realized who made me feel good about myself, who I could be myself around, who I could trust - and who didn’t/couldn’t.

In Love is a Mixtape, Rob Sheffield wrote “She worried way too much what people thought of her, wore her heart on her sleeve, expected too much from people, and got hurt too easily. She kept other people's secrets like a champ, but told her own too fast. She expected the world not to cheat her and was always surprised when it did.” It was on page thirty-one that it dawned on me that this is exactly who I was.

Now look at me.

(please note that the stress from packing did not result in alcoholism.) 

 Ha. But really. Tomorrow I leave to San Francisco to study at the Academy of Art University.

When you are little you talk about what you want to do when you grow up. You draw pictures of your dream room in notebooks, you plan your prom dress, go from wanting to be a princess, to Hannah Montana, to a teacher. Then one day, you realize that you REALLY can become anything you want. I cannot tell you the exact day I figured out that I could be a photographer as a career, but I can tell you that once the seed was planted in my head I could not stop feeding it nourishment. I kept telling myself the negatives: the lack of pay, the uncertainty, what will people think of you choosing art as a job? Will they think you took the easy way out? All of those are still in the soil of my ambition, but they are pushing me harder. Prove them wrong. Be happy every time you go to work. Put your best out there. Make someone notice. That small seed that once sat in the back of my mind is now a tangled vine, large and ever growing. Consuming.

Some gardens grow forever without being taken care of. I sit here saying that I am so fortunate to have the full support of my family to chase this crazy dream of mine. I hear the stories from people who graduated from high school with me about how they went to college because that is just what is expected of them, status quo, what else would they do? My parents sat me down when I graduated and told me to enjoy it. They believe that education is important, but take my time. If I don’t go to school right away, that is fine, but make sure that whatever I am doing, I am doing with my whole heart and taking advantage of every day. How many people can say that their parents want them to be nothing but happy? My Mother comes from a family where the in state University was the only choice and if she wanted to go, she was going to pay for it. My Father moved across the country because he wanted to ski and Utah had better slopes then Michigan. Two completely different outlooks, backgrounds, and stories – but they both agree on doing whatever they can to make sure my life is perfect. I could not be anymore grateful for what they have done. My parents have (and constantly continue) to support me finically, emotionally, and confidently. Here is a shout out, because I could never thank them enough for everything they do for me. I want to be them when I grow up. 

Thank you for the constant support, love, friendship, and help from my family and friends. You are the true reason that I have the opportunities I do in life.

San Francisco: I hope you are ready.

Here is to this crazy thing called life and how addictive it is to live it with arms wide open, Carpe Diem.