The day my hair decided to be curly, my life hung a Larry. Big time. Bizarre things happened. Directions changed. Mentalities adjusted. I even spent a solid hour alone in a white and wood room sitting in an Eames rocker. The perfect chair, designed beautifully. What a day. Those damn curls, they threw me right into it. Into what, you wonder? I have no idea! All I know is that last night, I was IN it. Today, after one clipped conversation on my unmade bed (I never have an unmade bed), things were said and affirmed and just like that--decisions slid down and out of my grasp, morphing into ideas much bigger than anything I could suppress any longer. Boom. I am going. Boom. It is time.
My application is in. It was just a matter of time. I was shocked when initial joy wore off and the realization of time, along with the crushing weight of portfolio construction (on all fronts), turned from exhausting and terrifying into something bigger than I thought. Now there is a rush from the rush of it all. I have always worked better under pressure, so this is not that shocking. I was flailing for a few days in despair as what to submit and how to submit it. Even the idea of presenting an entire body of humble work (scattered work) based upon one million rolls of film and hundred of prints to a panel that I will never meet, is bizarre to me. How does one wrap up all of one's hopes and desires for academia inside a portfolio? The selection process has been much more difficult that I thought. It's good though, I like it.
Other than my close pals, I am unsure as to who reads these posts. Whomever you may be, thank you. It must be said, I am very much on the train for art school now that things are in motion. Suffice is to say, in order to be held accountable in areas of time management etc, I am going to write about my quest for art school, whether I get in or not. It will be a mellow recount.
If all goes to plan, I should receive a letter (of rejection or acceptance) with Concordia's university crest in the right corner while I am in the throes of bush league living. I can just see it happening: open Chainsaw boots and flying hair, black tights and the most savagely stained white Lobsterfest t-shirt known to mankind, my mom in one ear tearing open the letter that may or may not decide the course of the next 3-4 years of my life, and the wind and the townspeople in the other. That goddamn Dairy Queen phone booth in Dryden, Ontario will pitch my life in motion yet again. Perfect. And so, once in a while (specifically in the next few weeks, I am going to write about building a portfolio). I have no clue as to how to do it, but I am willing to share the experience with anyone who is interested even if it makes me look like a fool.
Either way, it came to me this evening after being in the country for Sara's perogy birthday. It being the way I am going to build it. Awesome, I am feeling very calm now that I have feet like roots/acorn boots in a solid idea. One thing I will say is that I have a SHIT TONNE of printing to do in the next four weeks. If anyone is interested in coming down to the shop while I work on my portfolio, I would be more than happy to host. Details to come.
Loco, I wrote you a letter to your Hotmail account. Check it, get back to me when you can. Rags and Scotch, thank you for letting me cry at your gorgeous table.
There are going to be some interesting projects in 2010. My Grandpa just picked up a box of cameras for me and the first plan involves 8mm film and the wild woods and fifty people running around a fifty foot bonfire in PPE. Whatever 2010 may bring, I am psyching myself up for anything interesting.
Ready or not, Busy.