My senior year of college I took an art course titled Topics. By the name itself you wouldn't think much of it but it was a coveted course and many enthusiastic art majors yearned to take it in their final year of overpriced highfalutin private liberal arts education. The draw of this course is that it is a precursor to your final senior art project in which your art is displayed in the pristine galleries of St Olaf College's famous Dittmann Art Center – a state of the art art facility with one of the best and fanciest ventilation systems you'll find in the nation. Topics is basically a semester long course to either test-drive an idea you have for your final senior show or to do something completely wacky and maybe piss off some people in the process. Or maybe I was the only one that wanted to piss some people off but I felt like it was my right, okay?
A Canoe in the Gallery, normal normal
An added mystery about Topics is just that; the topic. And the professor holds all the power to decide what the year's Topic will be (every year is a new topic.) John Saurer was one of my favorite professors up until that point because he liked my drawings and prints. (I mean, who could blame him? I'm like the most amazing artist ever in the world, amen.) He had a goofy demeanor and manner of speech. One thing he said all the time which I often repeat...to myself...is “Isn't that nice?” and he'd say it as he was carefully pointing at someone's interesting drawing. His curly mop and intense eyes only added to the effect. He is the quintessential “Art Teacher.” However I could say that about every single one of my art professors. There was the dreamy art professor that every girl (and boy) looked at all googily-eyed while he explained power tool safety in sculpture class, there was the turtleneck-sandals-with-black-socks-wearing professor that loved everything ever in the world especially if it vibrated with bright colors, and there was an art history professor that spoke with a such a slow droning robotic like voice that it put you right back to sleep during your 8AM class (I mean, come on! And the lights were always dimmed for the powerpoint presentation. This was before I knew how to drink coffee...)
The one and only Professor John Saurer
Prof J. Saurer, St. Colin Weaver, and Dreamy Prof Irve Dell
And back to the point. I had high hopes for the topic. We all did. We were all anxious to know the topic and create mind-blowing art that so perfectly expressed the topic through our own eyes that we'd simultaneously start a brand new groundbreaking art movement in the process. Because isn't that what every art major wants?
And then Professor John Saurer stands in front of the chalk board and slowly writes:
A....
Sense...
...of.....
…....Place.
Okay, I'm sorry but, what the feck? I was not impressed. My friend Loocis and I were not impressed (but we were kinda the misfits of the already misfit ridden art major scene.) I guess I never really took a lot of time to think about “a sense of place” or “my sense of place” in the world, in life, in the universe.
I do, however, have an extreme passion and love for the best place ever: the great city of Minneapolis. I have a strong sense of Minneapolis Patriotism. Does that count for “a sense of place”? For a while I made a point of saying I was from Minneapolis “proper” because there are many imposters out there claiming to be from “The Twin Cities.” But the problem here is that when some smear says they are from “The Twin Cities” they usually mean they are from some crumby eyesore of a suburb like Hopkins or even worse, Minnetonka. If you would, please, take a moment to think about what the word “twin” means you'd remember that it is something containing or consisting of two matching or corresponding parts. TWO. Not two plus 20 inferior, sidewalk-less parts. So let's just stick to “The Twin Cities” representing the two cities only, Minneapolis and St Paul.
And I'm done with my rant.
Maybe.
A sense of place can be good...
I was feeling awfully snarky my senior year of college and my response to the topic, A Sense of Place, was that I transcend place. I'm so just fancy, aren't I? I don't have a single place. I don't need a single place. I don't get attached. I just ride on. And I depicted my transcendence with detailed drawings of bicycle parts and my trademark doodles intertwined together. Aaaaand a ridiculous bike sculpture that was thrown away, probably by the groundskeeper when he tired of mowing around the awkward “art” piece in the lawn. John Sauer thought the drawings were “nice” but had a hard time grasping my interpretation of A Sense of Place.
Pah! Typical! Adults never understand. My artist's statement was a direct jab at him and a pretty vulgar one at that.
I mentioned my hyena pseudo-penis, if that says anything...
Ridiculous bike sculpture buried in the snow.
the bicycle drawings.
I've grownup a leeettle bit since that attempt at rebellion.And I've been away from home for almost 2 years now. What being away from home for this long has taught me is that I DO have a place. I have a great sense of place and it's home.
Minneapolis.
My parent's house.
In the perfect South Minneapolis neighborhood right on the Minnehaha Parkway.
Home is beckoning me. Home is haunting me in my dreams. When I have idle moments during the day (let's be honest, the whole day is a big idle moment) I imagine my neighborhood. Very particular parts of my neighborhood that for some reason stick out more than others. The hill along the creek that nestles all the geese and ducks. The parkway in my front yard. The bridge that my friend Annie and I climbed on like a jungle gym all summer long when we were still wearing matching pink overalls. I imagine taking my dog Beau for walks all the time. I imagine swimming at the little beach on Lake Nokomis, trying to re-re-teach myself to swim. Walking by the Mississippi River where the Minnehaha Creek spews out into it, the water disconcertingly foamy. Running down the path toward Lake Hiawatha; no feral dogs to worry about.
the creek and ducks.
Mr. Beau takes a walk!
You guys, I'm really excited to go home. I never realized how important home was to me until I left it completely.
The Minnehaha Falls.
Minnehaha and Hiawatha, I presume.
A Canoe in the Gallery, normal normal
An added mystery about Topics is just that; the topic. And the professor holds all the power to decide what the year's Topic will be (every year is a new topic.) John Saurer was one of my favorite professors up until that point because he liked my drawings and prints. (I mean, who could blame him? I'm like the most amazing artist ever in the world, amen.) He had a goofy demeanor and manner of speech. One thing he said all the time which I often repeat...to myself...is “Isn't that nice?” and he'd say it as he was carefully pointing at someone's interesting drawing. His curly mop and intense eyes only added to the effect. He is the quintessential “Art Teacher.” However I could say that about every single one of my art professors. There was the dreamy art professor that every girl (and boy) looked at all googily-eyed while he explained power tool safety in sculpture class, there was the turtleneck-sandals-with-black-socks-wearing professor that loved everything ever in the world especially if it vibrated with bright colors, and there was an art history professor that spoke with a such a slow droning robotic like voice that it put you right back to sleep during your 8AM class (I mean, come on! And the lights were always dimmed for the powerpoint presentation. This was before I knew how to drink coffee...)
The one and only Professor John Saurer
Prof J. Saurer, St. Colin Weaver, and Dreamy Prof Irve Dell
And back to the point. I had high hopes for the topic. We all did. We were all anxious to know the topic and create mind-blowing art that so perfectly expressed the topic through our own eyes that we'd simultaneously start a brand new groundbreaking art movement in the process. Because isn't that what every art major wants?
And then Professor John Saurer stands in front of the chalk board and slowly writes:
A....
Sense...
...of.....
…....Place.
Okay, I'm sorry but, what the feck? I was not impressed. My friend Loocis and I were not impressed (but we were kinda the misfits of the already misfit ridden art major scene.) I guess I never really took a lot of time to think about “a sense of place” or “my sense of place” in the world, in life, in the universe.
I do, however, have an extreme passion and love for the best place ever: the great city of Minneapolis. I have a strong sense of Minneapolis Patriotism. Does that count for “a sense of place”? For a while I made a point of saying I was from Minneapolis “proper” because there are many imposters out there claiming to be from “The Twin Cities.” But the problem here is that when some smear says they are from “The Twin Cities” they usually mean they are from some crumby eyesore of a suburb like Hopkins or even worse, Minnetonka. If you would, please, take a moment to think about what the word “twin” means you'd remember that it is something containing or consisting of two matching or corresponding parts. TWO. Not two plus 20 inferior, sidewalk-less parts. So let's just stick to “The Twin Cities” representing the two cities only, Minneapolis and St Paul.
And I'm done with my rant.
Maybe.
A sense of place can be good...
I was feeling awfully snarky my senior year of college and my response to the topic, A Sense of Place, was that I transcend place. I'm so just fancy, aren't I? I don't have a single place. I don't need a single place. I don't get attached. I just ride on. And I depicted my transcendence with detailed drawings of bicycle parts and my trademark doodles intertwined together. Aaaaand a ridiculous bike sculpture that was thrown away, probably by the groundskeeper when he tired of mowing around the awkward “art” piece in the lawn. John Sauer thought the drawings were “nice” but had a hard time grasping my interpretation of A Sense of Place.
Pah! Typical! Adults never understand. My artist's statement was a direct jab at him and a pretty vulgar one at that.
I mentioned my hyena pseudo-penis, if that says anything...
Ridiculous bike sculpture buried in the snow.
I've grownup a leeettle bit since that attempt at rebellion.And I've been away from home for almost 2 years now. What being away from home for this long has taught me is that I DO have a place. I have a great sense of place and it's home.
Minneapolis.
My parent's house.
In the perfect South Minneapolis neighborhood right on the Minnehaha Parkway.
Home is beckoning me. Home is haunting me in my dreams. When I have idle moments during the day (let's be honest, the whole day is a big idle moment) I imagine my neighborhood. Very particular parts of my neighborhood that for some reason stick out more than others. The hill along the creek that nestles all the geese and ducks. The parkway in my front yard. The bridge that my friend Annie and I climbed on like a jungle gym all summer long when we were still wearing matching pink overalls. I imagine taking my dog Beau for walks all the time. I imagine swimming at the little beach on Lake Nokomis, trying to re-re-teach myself to swim. Walking by the Mississippi River where the Minnehaha Creek spews out into it, the water disconcertingly foamy. Running down the path toward Lake Hiawatha; no feral dogs to worry about.
the creek and ducks.
Mr. Beau takes a walk!
You guys, I'm really excited to go home. I never realized how important home was to me until I left it completely.
The Minnehaha Falls.
Minnehaha and Hiawatha, I presume.
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