A Dash of London

The National Gallery is home to my favorite painting, Botticelli's Venus and Mars, so naturally we went for a visit.

Marcus looks dubious.

Discovered at the tube station: an infinitely more accessible version of my painting. And there are christmas presents in that bag, so no peeking.

Home soon.

Thumbin' My Way Down to North Caroline

It's been two weeks of work, work, work, and now I'm throwing things into a suitcase to make my way back to sweet North Carolina. I schlepped to the library this morning to turn in a pile of books with names like Ancient Coffers and Cupboards and Regional Furniture Styles. Oh, what a semester it's been!

I'm flying to London tomorrow, spending the weekend with Marcus (do I see a theme?), and flying home next week. My US phone kicked the proverbial bucket, so if you want to get in touch with me I'd say that email would be your best bet.

Caleb just came over for his nightly visit. We are discussing pressing issues like what pizza to get and the econometric regression of the determinants of male earnings. That's how we roll.

We're off to get pizza and celebrate the end of classes. I am happy to say that I will miss St. Andrews very, very much these next few weeks.

See some of you, my dear ones, very soon. My friends here: be happy and well in all of your various travels and I can't wait to see you in 2007!

love Lauren

Royal College of Art (The Remix)

I panicked because I saw that someone from RCA had looked at my site, so I yanked down my rather... erm... condemning post about my recent visit.

And then I thought "Screw It." So here it is again! Thanks for visiting, RCA Administration!

I travelled to London last weekend to, among other things, attend an open day at the Royal College of Art. I've been idly shopping around the internet for postgraduate programs in museum studies and RCA's one year masters program in Curating Contemporary Art piqued my interest.

Let me preface this by saying that art schools are typically my own personal hell. I hate the way the students slink around the sleekly modern halls, squinting in the even, diffused glow of postmodern self-aggrandizement. They are all dying for their art and here everything is Art: stacks of bowls, bunches of multi-colored wire, piles of lint... Walking through rows of these "installations" tends to make me violently misanthropic, so I will spare further description and instead refer to this gem from one of my favorite webcomics:


toothpastefordinner.com

I should say that my main reason for disliking art schools is that I feel like their only purpose is to provide an inclusive environment for people who should be working individually. When all these "individuals" get in one place they start to lose their own voice; corners get sanded down and creative expression becomes a muddled, joint effort. Art schools to me are the antithesis of art. They are capitalist, greedy, and self-promoting. They flood the market with coddled "artists" who are trained to think that their work should sell, and when it doesn't they are all like WTF, WHY AM I SO MISUNDERSTOOD. And this attitude irks me.

Anyways...

Marcus agreed that spending an afternoon exploring the egotistical minefield that a ROYAL college of art would no doubt provide promised to be high comedy so we pulled on our head-to-toe black and took the Tube over to South Kensington.

Walking to RCA from the South Kensington tube station is a lesson in contrasts. First we passed the swank and efficient looking buildings of Imperial College, Marcus' university, where clusters of asians wearing mini-backpacks run around carrying gargantuan textbooks with names like General and systemic pathology, 332nd Edition. Imperial makes me feel like the only woman in a biker bar: noticeably out of place and a little bit scared.

We passed through Imperial and walked up the hill towards RCA past The Royal College of Music and... wait for it... The Royal College of Organists. Marcus made a joke about the place a few hours earlier and I recall laughing, thinking "royal college of organists? Yeah right! That is hilarious. Marcus is so British and so funny." Turns out yes, it really exists, and Marcus is still British and funny. The RCO, for all of its hilarity, is housed in one of the most beautiful buildings I've ever seen.

Ok, RCA: We walked in to the reception and there was an older gentleman sitting at a little desk talking on his cell phone. He looked up at us in the way one might look at a telemarketer who calls during dinner (if only you could SEE them) and abruptly finished his conversation. We asked nicely how to get to the CCA open day and he sighed and said "for the NINETIETH time, THROUGH the door, DOWN the stairs, and ACROSS the road." Marcus and I were not impressed.

We walked slowly into the bowels of RCA through a long room packed with rows of dreaded INSTALLATIONS. There they were: stacks of bowls, bunches of wire, bundles of sticks wrapped in hair; anemic looking girls with angular haircuts darted down the rows of installations spackling on extra hair and scattering garbage across the floor. I've never seen so many pairs of dark-framed glasses in one place. Marcus started to get noticeably panicked, and I don't blame him seeing as even I was starting to feel like a clumsy pariah in a sea of militant Artists [capital A].

We made it unscathed through the exhibition hall to the second layer of reception where we were greeted by a tiny room full of eager open-dayers and an equally unpleasant receptionist. My hatred for art schools is tempered only by my love of people watching, and let me tell you that there is absolutely no better place to observe human interaction than at an open day -- specifically an open day for curating.

The group was all female except two notable (and ambiguous) exceptions. Everyone was decked out in their finest take-me-seriously-yet-don't-overlook-my-personality garb. My personal favorite was a girl in head to toe houndstooth with an arm full of silver bangles. She must have been about seven feet tall. That was a lot of houndstooth.

[I think it may have been about this time that I remembered in a FLASH that I hate contemporary art. Yes, I want to be a curator, but NOT in contemporary art. How can something so obvious been so grossly overlooked!? Well, there was no turning back. I went from eager to annoyed to belligerent in the space of ten or twelve seconds.]

We filed through reception to a back room, and the deeper we got into the school the more visibly uncomfortable Marcus became. The last door revealed a small room with a large round table -- the last straw for my poor scientist friend. "They are going to ask me questions, I have to leave" he whispered frantically, and high-tailed it for the safety of Imperial and the familiar world of molecular biologists. Looking back I wish I had followed suit, but that is neither here nor there.

I spent the next hour sitting around a large table with 25 people dressed in various incarnations of Topshop's fall line. The director and his number two spent a long time describing the curriculum, the benefits, and the expected outcomes of the course. I was astonished at how often the Tate was referred to as a the end-all be-all of art museums... and at the end of it I could only assume that RCA is a glorified think-tank for the Tate. RCA accepts ten students every year and out of those numbers an EXTREMELY high proportion are now employed in one way or another at the Tate. This doesn't seem right to me. Where is the exchange of ideas, of cultures? So I asked.

I lead with this:
Me:
So, the masters in CCA is essentially a vocational degree, correct?
Director:
That is where I'll have to disagree with you. Har har.
Me:
Ok, regardless, I get the distinct impression that RCA is nothing more than a breeding ground for Tate curators. I'm just wondering if, you know, you are open to institutional criticism? I mean, how much of your class discussion is geared towards critiquing the establishment? Or is that even a consideration?
Director:
Hairs on a bobbin! We are an amazing school and you would be lucky to be here. Brakhegum...hack..arg...
Me:
Ok, thank you.

So maybe it didn't go exactly like that... but everything except the Director's second response is more or less verbatim. I left a few minutes later and walked quickly back down the hill, past the Royal College of Organists, to extract Marcus from Imperial and head home.

I guess it's just as important to figure out where you don't want to go as it is to figure out where you do. But I think the most important thing to learn is that no matter what happens you should always speak your mind, even if it means asking the director of RCA if he is open to institutional criticism.

Photos Before I Go-Go

Time's Winged Chariot

As the end of term draws closer and academic pressure increases I find varied and creative ways to pass the time on the internet. BEHOLD: my latest project, a map showing all the countries I have travelled to in vibrant Red. I wish they were blue; but there I go waxing political again...

When you look at it this way I haven't really been a lot of places. That travel bug sure does itch sometimes.

In other news: I will be back in North Carolina in a week.

Job Interview Blues

I've had lots of requests for an update regarding the JOB INTERVIEW DEBAUCLE of last week. I won't say what museum I interviewed with as I'm seriously concerned that I could be found on the internet, and seeing as I haven't heard one way or another I'm pretty positive that would be a bad move on my part. SO: here it is; the job interview blues.

I'm basically at a loss seeing as I'm pretty sure I blacked out after the first 45 minutes and when I woke up I was walking out of the interview with my coat in my hand thinking "WHAT JUST HAPPENED?!"

I got there at 9 am for a tour of the museum. It was great -- the little old lady who is the secretary of the board took me around. She showed me all the "behind the scenes" bits and was very pleasant. She let me wander around for a while and then at 9:30 the vice president of the board came across the lane to get me for the interview. I was led into the "annex," an under-heated croft house that has been transformed into offices and storage for the museum. I came in through the door and there was a PANEL -- a TABLE FULL-- of 50-60 year old men and women, all in suits, with clipboards, staring down their noses at me. I immediately went into turbo-charge, introducing myself, etc. So at this point I pretty much blacked out, used the word 'ostensibly' wrong, and offended them by saying that the website is bad (it is!). I did, however, have some good ideas for fundraising and for future exhibits (for instance, they were pretty enthusiastic about my experience with oral histories and my ideas about integrating them into an exhibit).

The pinnacle (or low point as it were) of the interview was when they placed three objects from the collection in front of me with a pile of different gloves (latex, nitrile, and cotton) and told me to "pick one and tell us a bit about it." So, I'm assuming that was a test of whether I had objects handling or not (I did! Thanks Renee!) and my knowledge of their collection. I picked a sampler and bumbled my way through it by talking about materials, etc. Basically I had to compose an object description on the spot with zero research... and it was definitely lacking. I depended mostly on Antiques Roadshow. Is that bad?

I really have no idea how it went. It was so good and so bad at the same time. When I left, the director said "I'll be in touch soon," so I guess that's a good sign? I felt very young and wildly under-qualified while I was sitting there. The five poeple who interviewed me are collectively on the board of Oxford, Cambridge, the Maritime Museum, and one is an ex-Victoria and Albert curator. Goodness!

I saw my furniture professor (who is one of the trustees) for tutorial this afternoon and he asked me how it went and I said "grueling." He said "good, if it was grueling that means they are really interested in you."

So, anyways, cross your fingers. I will remain positive? Regardless, the experience was a good one, and now I know how to prepare for similar interviews in the future. I will start reading up now.

A Plea To Americans In London

When you are on the Tube, or on the sidewalk, or in traffic, STAY TO THE LEFT:


If I see one more yokel in a flesh-colored moneybelt trying to fight upstream on the tube like a salmon ready to spawn I will have to hand in my passport.

That said, I may or may not have been almost flattened by a bus. And I've been here three months.

London: Salsa, Thanksgiving

The rest of my weekend in London was good, solid fun. On Saturday we went to Club Salsa and danced the night away. Doug caught me WORKING IT on the dance floor in my trademark subtle and cool style:We also celebrated belated Thanksgiving at Marcus' flat. Gabriella took an epic bus journey to be with us as well. It was just like Thanksgiving at home, only with less turkey and more British people. I made roast chicken, stuffing, sweet potatoes, cheese biscuits, Mama Dip's green beans, cranberry, and cheese cake. Gabriella's face in this picture pretty much sums it all up:

Ovens in England are fan-operated. Who knew? I miss the good ol' clunker at 600 N Greensboro. Remember when it caught on fire? Good times. I am happy to report that I survived cooking thanksgiving in England; temperature and measurement conversions included. Hurrah!

I Say A Little Prayer For You

There is only one week of classes left before we all go home for the Holidays. Where has the time gone? I leave St. Andrews in a week!

In other news, I have figured out how to embed video into my blog, so expect an even more exciting multi-media experience from now on. This little gem was shot last night during our post-work (Julia) and post-interview (me) party. It wasn't so much a party as it was an hour or so of dancing to sweet tunes selected for us by Pandora followed by fourteen solid hours of sleep. I am EXHAUSTED... or is it just seasonal depression?

I am loving it here so much these days.

Flatalicious

Pictures of the flat due to popular demand... it took me a while, but that's because I was waiting for sunny days to dispel rumours that I am huddling in an ill-lit cave eating gruel. Here it is!

Stairs up to the flat. Penthouse? I like to think so.

Room with a view.

The world's largest bed in the world's largest bedroom. I can see the beach from that window. I can also see lots of the goings-on of my neighbors.

The kitchen has some lovely Scandinavian art on the walls.
It is also very white and begs me to spend money on cleaning supplies.

Caleb lives on my windowseat. He also likes this picture because "you can't see my face." Oh, and it's dark at 4 pm.

It's that big: the world's largest bed. Oh, and it came with approximately 94 pillows of various sizes. None of them fit my pillowcases. See also some more Scandinavian textile art. Oh, and those are my clothes drying on racks. How old world, you might say.

And here's a picture of an academic family crammed in a phone box, just for good measure.

I have my interview at the museum tomorrow morning bright and early. Once I finish with that I will sit down and write a proper entry about the weekend. Funny stories for sure. Stay tuned.