Signs of Change

Just a hunch, but I think things might be a little different in the near future. Just judging by a few

scenes I've noticed around. You'll have to take a look and tell me what you think.

Let's visit this apartment...or maybe live there.

Cream puffs. Home made!

That's a pretty post. New bed!

Ooo, sparkly...

Pretty, pretty flower.

Who is that?

Hey, he makes me smile.

Yeah, I think he's kind of important.

Yep, I think I could get used to this. Change is scary and we naturally resist it. But I think this will be a good change. At least, so I've been told. So....here goes! New people, new experiences. Level up. :)

My Sculpture Affair

In honor of the birthday of Auguste Rodin, I thought I would take a moment to show you my favorite pieces of his and a little of my thoughts and experiences from the Rodin museum in Paris...my, has it already been two summers ago I was there?! Time flies.

One of the first pieces at the museum that struck my fancy was The Gates of Hell, a depiction of Dante contemplating the depths of the underworld and the anguish of the sinners doomed to there spend their existence. I of course thoroughly enjoyed my perusal of The Inferno back in high school and so I appreciated the opportunity to inspect this depiction. And who doesn't love another round of "Be the Statue"?

The Gates of Hell, with Samantha as The Thinker

The Thinker is probably one of the best known works by Rodin, but it is not commonly known that he is part of the above larger work. A nice reminder that sometimes we just need to ponder about life. Funny story with this one: we almost skipped it entirely, as Lauri was so anxious to get to the next site, the tomb of Napolean Bonaparte in L'Hôtel des Invalides. I wasn't in any particular mood to trek down the long stretch of path to inspect it up close, nor did I have a desire to battle the hoards of little red-capped school children who at that moment were flocking the base, so I contented myself to hang back with Lauri and admire from a distance as our comrades sallied forth. As we were thus standing, she made mention of her mental rush. "Man, I was just so focused! 'Gotta get to the tomb! Get the people to the tomb!'" I quickly responded, "The universal march." The hilarity of the exchange sunk in afterward and we made quite a scene, cackling uncontrollably as we were. The next hour was punctuated with giggles and guffaws on its recollection. Wit is so much easier in Europe!

The Thinker

The Burghers of Calais was a really touching story for me. During the Hundred Years' War between France and England, the latter laid siege to the port city of Calais. Philip of France ordered the town not to surrender, but failed to lift the siege and so the town was forced by imminent starvation to succumb to the English. Edward of England offered to spare the people if the town fathers would surrender themselves, sacrificing their lives for those of the innocent. This piece depicts them as they go willingly to their demise. It is incredibly fascinating to inspect the various figures, as each has a different nuance of emotion - some are resigned, some hesitant or in shock, still others seem to be mourning the wicked state of humanity. Every time I thought I understood one face, it would seem to change and present a nuance I hadn't before considered. Even now, they each say something different to me.

The Burghers of Calais

Happily, the queen of England learned of the Burghers' plight and convinced her husband to let them go free, valuing their bravery and sacrificial humility. But the figures here do not yet know how the story ends. That, I think, is part of it's greatness.

This one was incredible to me just for sheer craftsmanship. You can really only see it from this side, with the light shining through to outline the figures. That, my friends, is marble. Marble! And yes, it is paper-thin to allow that light through. Simply stunning...or, as Lauri would say in her simple stating-the-facts manner, "Beauty."

Nymphs Playing

This story is touchingly depressing. Camille Claudel began working with Rodin at age 18 and was quite talented. The two had a passionately stormy relationship; long story short, she gave her whole soul to him, but he would not marry her because of a woman named Rose, whose relationship to Rodin is not quite clear. Claudel became pregnant with Rodin's child, but had an abortion which sent her into a downward spiral of depression and other mental illness until she was put in an assylum. L'Age Mûr depicts Claudel as "l'implorante," begging the man she loves to stay with her whilst he is being whisked away by Rose, a grisly specter reminiscent of a siren. Though she never knew the love she longed for, she went on to create some of the most well-known and romantic pieces of the period, which for a time were attributed to Rodin, the very cause of her anguish.

L'Age Mûr

I read somewhere that Rodin believed that the emotion of the entire body could be depicted through the hands alone. I wonder if he really thought that, or if it was indeed Camille Claudel, as it is likely that it was she who supplied the hands and feet for most of his sculptures. Either way, from works like this one, I am inclined to believe it.

Cathedral Hands

The Waltz

Camille Claudel knew the face of Rodin so well that she was able to create this from memory. Compared to Wikipedia's photo, I'd say she did rather well indeed.

Bust of Auguste Rodin

There you have it - some of my Rodin highlights, a touch of humor, intrigue, and romance. Thank goodness for beauty in the world.

Funny Story...

So I'm walking home from the library at midnight Monday night (Tuesday morning? Either way...) I would have still been there, but they kick everyone out then. I was working on this heinous paper and ended up spending ALL night on it. But that is beside the point. Back to the story, I had parked my car in the graduate parking garage, which is down this ramp next to the business building. At the top is this sign:


Ok, so maybe this isn't the exact sign, but it gives the same message. So there I go, minding my own business, trying to stay positive about my paper progress when I hear the noise of a coasting bicycle. I was about 3 feet from where the ramp connects to the parking complex so I decided to take 2 steps to my left towards it to let the bike pass. Poor moment of judgment on my part. Next thing I know I am listening to squealing brakes, a male voice exclaiming, "Oh, shoot!" and a dramatic crescendo of the violin section as I found myself tumbling to the ground. Yes, you guessed it. I was run over by a bicycle! I'd wager I'm am going to be champion of "Have you ever" from now on. :) After a 5.2 second self-analysis, I concluded that I was not seriously injured, scrambled slowly to my feet and turned around to survey my assailant. He turned to be a very attractive boy. I begged his pardon for getting in his way and he sincerely apologized for being so reckless. (Ok, not in so many words, but he was truly sorry) He asked if I was ok: yup. I asked if he was ok: yes, yes. Ok...now what? For a split second I thought about giving him my insurance info, but I didn't think the situation was that drastic. So I just walked away with "Have a nice night!" Ignorant me, I didn't even get his name. But the next time I decide that the eyes in the back of my head are better than the ones in the front of the extremely good looking cyclist's head and end up putting myself right in the line of fire, I will have a much better game plan prepared. Hopefully my keester will be on board with that.

Ode to Socks

Ah, laundry. That cyclical household chore. It's an interesting thing. It's one of those things that you don't really think about as being on your to-do list (at least if you're a college student like me whose to-do list consists of homework and ways to recuperate after completing it), yet you always have to do it. And for what ever reason, I really really dislike it. Dread it, if you will. I may even go so far as to say that I hate laundry. Though I'm not sure it merits such as strong word. But close. Every once in a while I get up enough gumption to do it and it ends up being this huge, all day process. Probably one of the reasons why it is so distasteful to me.

Anyway, I was just finishing up my socks and got to thinking what it would be like to be a sock. (I know it's weird; don't judge me, just hear me out) I mean, think about it. Every time you get washed you get folded together with your partner (provided he wasn't eaten by the dryer) who is only your partner because the two of you look exactly the same. You probably didn't get to pick each other. You were just made as identical copies and then flung together for the rest of your smelly, foot-covering lives until you are worn too thin and just can't take it anymore and then you are just unceremoniously chucked in the trash. It's really a shame about socks. So as I was contemplating and feeling very blessed not to be a sock, I saw the most curious thing in my laundry basket. About half a dozen of my socks had had a meeting in the dryer and decided they were sick of it and were going to revolt. There they were, in this strange lumpy mass, all twisted and stuck together with a strange combination of fibers they had probably heisted from the lint rack, determined not to be separated from their unconventionally chosen partners. (Sorry I don't have a picture of it, my camera is currently on strike as well.) I must admit, I admired their spunk. Unfortunately, as much as I can now sympathize with socks, I can't bring myself to be the kind of person that wears mismatched socks. Colorful socks, yes. Socks with character, yes. Crazy socks, yes. But I'm just not cool enough to throw all my socks in one drawer and just dive for two before heading out for the day. I just can't do it. So I gave them a moment to say their last goodbyes to each other while I went to get the scissors. In my defense, I really do take great care of my socks, probably more than most. I still have hope for that growing pile of unattached singles, even though more likely than not we will never see their partners again and I also give even the dying socks more of a chance than they probably deserve; as long as they still cover at least one toe they may still live in my drawer.

So there you have it. All you probably ever wanted to know and more about what goes on in my head in relation to socks. You are now free to either have your own meditative moment about the stockings in your bureau...or you can just write me off as a loony and go on with your sensible laundry-cycling lives.