More Quizzes

Your result for The 3 Variable Funny Test...

the Wit

(67% dark, 35% spontaneous, 32% vulgar)

your humor style:
CLEAN | COMPLEX | DARK



You like things edgy, subtle, and smart. I guess that means you're probably an intellectual, but don't take that to mean pretentious. You realize 'dumb' can be witty--after all isn't that the Simpsons' philosophy?--but rudeness for its own sake, 'gross-out' humor and most other things found in a fraternity leave you totally flat.

I guess you just have a more cerebral approach than most. You have the perfect mindset for a joke writer or staff writer.

Your sense of humor takes the most thought to appreciate, but it's also the best, in my opinion.



You probably loved the Office. If you don't know what I'm
talking about, check it out here: href=http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/theoffice/>http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/theoffice/.



PEOPLE LIKE YOU: Jon Stewart - Woody Allen - Ricky Gervais







The 3-Variable Funny Test!

- it rules -

Take The 3 Variable Funny Test at HelloQuizzy

Your result for The Commonly Confused Words Test...

English Genius

You scored 100% Beginner, 100% Intermediate, 100% Advanced, and 80% Expert!

You did so extremely well, even I can't find a word to describe your excellence! You have the uncommon intelligence necessary to understand things that most people don't. You have an extensive vocabulary, and you're not afraid to use it properly! Way to go!

Thank you so much for taking my test. I hope you enjoyed it!

For the complete Answer Key, visit my blog: http://shortredhead78.blogspot.com/.

Take The Commonly Confused Words Test at HelloQuizzy

Fairly accurate...

I took a short personality test similar to the Myers-Briggs tests. Last time I took one, I was in high school and I got an INFP. Things have changed a little. It seems very accurate in some aspects, but also a little disturbing... I mean, I know I'm neurotic, but... Damn. It seems to skew all of the characteristics that have to do with not liking crowds and massive amounts of social interaction as though they're going to completely cripple me for life. Those attributes can be assets sometimes.

INFJ
"Author" Strong drive and enjoyment to help others.
Complex personality. 1.5% of total population.
Free Jung Personality Test (similar to Myers-Briggs/MBTI)

Introverted (I) 61.76% Extroverted (E) 38.24%
Intuitive (N) 50% Sensing (S) 50%
Feeling (F) 78.13% Thinking (T) 21.88%
Judging (J) 57.58% Perceiving (P) 42.42%

creative, smart, focus on fantasy more than reality, attracted to sad things, fears doing the wrong thing, observer, avoidant, fears drawing attention to self, anxious, cautious, somewhat easily frightened, easily offended, private, easily hurt, socially uncomfortable, emotionally moody, does not like to be looked at, fearful, perfectionist, can sabotage self, can be wounded at the core, values solitude, guarded, does not like crowds, organized, second guesses self, focuses on peoples hidden motives, prone to crying, not competitive, prone to feelings of loneliness, not spontaneous, prone to sadness, longs for a stabilizing relationship, fears rejection in relationships, frequently worried, can feel victimized, prone to intimidation, lower energy, strict with self

favored careers:
psychotherapist, artist, art curator, bookstore owner, freelance writer, poet, teacher (art, drama, english), library assistant, professor of english, painter, novelist, book editor, copywriter, philosopher, environmentalist, bookseller, museum curator, opera singer, magazine editor, archivist, music therapist, screenwriter, film director, creative director, librarian, social services worker, art historian, sign language interpreter, photo journalist, makeup artist, photo journalist, homemaker

disfavored careers:
airline pilot, race car driver, businessman, information technology consultant, executive, administrator, supervisor, bartender, lab technician, restaurant owner, strategist, ceo, bar owner, marketing specialist, business consultant

Mid-Semester Breakdown

Why does everything have to be so goddamn hard for me?

On top of a mounting backlog of schoolwork (two essays, three reports, and numerous journal entries, among other things) every other aspect of my life seems to be in the toilet as well. I've spent so much of my life trying to autopsy my half of failed friendships--relationships that I thought were so great then something happened, and communications stopped for whatever reason. I ask if I did something wrong not because I'm being a smartass or playing dumb, I honestly don't know. I try to be conscientious and a good friend, I'd never do anything to deliberately hurt my friends because I'm... y'know, a halfway decent human being. Everything I say that might be interpreted as being hurtful... Well, chances are that I'm being glib or I'm responding to something else that's going on in my life.

But, despite my good intentions, I seem to have pissed off a lot of people I considered to be friends. Communications have ceased and I'm being ignored. This leads me to wonder, are friendships really that disposable? Or is it just my friendship that's so expendable?

I've had a lot of friends over the years who have been for "respecting life," which is commendable, but what about respecting the living? What about respecting your fellow human and telling them what the deal is instead of simply cutting them loose or ignoring them without any explanation?

So, I've been at home since Saturday because it seemed to be a better idea that staying in Chicago for the weekend when no one there is talking to me. At least here I have a few allies. In the meantime, though, I'm getting behind in my painting, but even if I were in the studio, I'd be obsessing over all of the other work I have to do as well as continuing to wonder what I've done that's so horrible that people who were once friends have now stopped talking to me.

I'm going to have to go back to Chicago sometime soon, but for what? To face a mountain of work without anyone on my side anymore. I've tried so hard to be a good friend, supporting my friends when they've needed my help, but I've been left high and dry when I need someone in my corner. All I need is for someone to drop me a line, throw me a bone, do something that will let me know that you're still there for me. If I've done something, if I've inadvertently hurt someone, talk to me about it, don't assume I know because, chances are, I don't. I just need someone to talk to me because I'm feeling more and more like I live on a deserted island in downtown Chicago; I'm surrounded by people I know but I'm still utterly alone and yearning for some sort of friendly human contact.

Relief... For now...

Well, the midterm crit went much better than I thought it would. I learned that my paintings are doing what I want them to do. I've been so exhausted after stressing out so much, though. When I went in on Wednesday, I had pretty much resolved in my mind that I'd done my best and that was all I could do; I couldn't change what I had or hadn't done, so I decided that I wouldn't be worried. Then, I walked into the first crit (late, of course--it's my new habit this semester, since I only have to walk about three blocks to class instead of six) and panic washed over me. The art on the walls was super-conceptual, nothing like mine. I listened to the artspeak that was being tossed about and, as we went from crit to crit with all of the more conceptual, slacker artwork, I began to worry. With one exception, I was probably one of the most figurative, realistic painters in the class. What would people say when I put my paintings up? Was I going to be told to work more loosely? To go more abstract?

I hung my paintings while the class was on another floor doing a different crit. (We alternated crit spaces to expedite the turnover, so we didn't have to stop and wait for the next person to install their work.) My paintings, which all seem rather large in my studio space, looked altogether pathetic on the large white wall, but, I told myself, there was nothing that I could do about that now. So, with time to spare, I went to the other crit space and caught the tail end of the crit before mine. As a class, we returned to the space where my work was and as people began to walk in and examine my paintings, a new burst of adrenaline was pumped into my system. Suddenly, the paintings on the wall were my paintings. I saw all of the flaw, all of the places where things weren't resolved, all of the minute problems where the image on the canvas differed from the vision in my head. Of course, I knew that only I could see these things, but I still had my doubts. What if this was one of those instances when I wasn't being over-self-conscious and those problems were not only visible but strikingly obvious to everyone else? My hands began to shake as I sat back and watched my fellow students examine my work. I tried not to think about all of the unfinished parts. This wasn't a jury for an exhibition; it's midterms, the work doesn't have to be finished.

I had written down what I wanted to say about the work beforehand, because I knew that once I was asked to say something, coherent thought would take a coffee break and I'd stutter and stumble, grasping for the words that had come so easily only moments before when no one was looking at me. I managed to explain that these paintings were more or less meditations on my diagnosis of Asperger's Syndrome; that they were about feeling isolated and alienated, but with the knowledge that there was hope that it wouldn't always be that way, though, at the same time, having a sense of solace in the knowledge that the problems caused by the Asperger's are real and not just me being a crazy, neurotic lunatic.

The paintings were well-received. That is, they were received the way I had intended them to be. Words like "eerie," "dangerous," and "mysterious" were all used. Prague and Vienna were mentioned and I hadn't said a word about having gone to Europe, so I was glad that the work still had a sense of place more than a year after having been there. The film Amadeus, one of my all-time favorite movies, was mentioned and that made me happy. There was also a lot of talk about theater sets and non-narrative narrative painting; the feeling that the actual narrative was happening just around the corner. I found the mention of theater very interesting as I love the theater and have been thinking about set painting/design and production design as a possible career. I was also surprised that when theater was mentioned, it wasn't used as a pejorative as it has been in the past to describe some of my work. And, to top it all off, I don't recall the word "illustration" or any of its cognates being used once!

Animation and film was mentioned, which was also intriguing because, about a year ago, I had a bit of a breakdown because, being a storyteller, I began to realize that maybe I should have gone into filmmaking instead of painting since it was a less static form of expression. The thing was, I had already invested myself so much in painting... To switch majors, especially without any knowledge about filmmaking would be academic suicide. So, I kept painting, hoping that the passion I had for it would drive me to something that would be meaningful. And, apparently, it has, because I'm finally beginning to feel as though I belong in the studio. I'm being true to myself and the product of that has been accepted without me having to build up some conceptual facade to try to appease everyone else.

I am aware, however, that this could all change at the final crit this semester. I've seen it happen, where, you're told that the work it great halfway through the semester then when it comes time for finals, everyone turns on the work and tears it to pieces... So, I'm cautiously optimistic. I know that, no matter the consequences, I have to keep making my work and being myself because everyone else is already taken.

Eek! Midterms Today... Wish Me Luck

Today we're having midterm crits in advanced painting. I've got a lot to rant about from the last couple of days, but I've been too angry to type. Instead, I'm going to see what happens today then get back and rant like a madwoman.

I will say this, though, I am so sick of the pretentious, pseudo-high-minded bullshit that's been going on at my school and I've looked at more slacker art that anyone should have to stomach. I slave over my art like... well, a slave. I swear, if I get totally trashed today... Well, depending upon how much of my sanity is left by the time my turn to be critiqued rolls around, but there may be a total art school meltdown. (Or maybe that'll be at the end of the semester.) I almost wish, though, that the meltdown would happen already; then everyone would know how angry I am, how sick I am of damn near everything. Once that happens, I feel as though I'll be free of this double life I've felt the need to live; I'll be able to do the art I want and people will realize that I'm going to be meticulous about my paintings no matter what the subject is. I'm idiosyncratic, isn't that supposed to be "in style" right now?

Anyway, more later... I've gotta go prepare myself for all of the art speak today. (I have a list of "critique" words and I tick them off each time I hear one.) So... epic levels of bullshit today, I'm gonna go get my boots and a shovel.

Getting Better (A little better all the time)

I feel like I'm finally beginning to get stuff done. I'm still way behind with journal entries for my Oceanography class and I have yet to turn anything in for my humanities class, but I feel like I'm in a position to approach the work without being completely overwhelmed by even the most Mickey Mouse of assignments. I know I set the bar way too high for myself sometimes.

I have a new theme song for this point in my life; actually I have two: "I Stand" and "Defying Gravity" both by Idina Menzel. These songs, for me, strike the perfect balance by being optimistic and hopeful but not too peppy. They have great melodies and are great to listen to when I first wake up in the morning. I love it when I hear a song just at the right moment in my life, a piece of music that touches and motivates me; it's as if Providence has waited until that moment to allow me to hear that song because, before that moment, it wouldn't have meant anything to me. Anyway, great couple of songs; check them out if you haven't heard them and/or need a little shot in the arm to propel you up out of a slump.

Today was the most laid back day of my painting classes. The Tuesday teacher (Scott) is totally cool with just about anything, he doesn't try to force his personal aesthetic down the throats of students--at least, he hasn't tried to do so with me. It's also the day when only half of the Advanced Painting students are in the studio (the class is divided into two sections with two different sets of instructors, the other section meets on Thursdays instead of Tuesdays). All day I worked on my beloved architectural details on what amounts to something like twelve square inches of canvas. I tweaked some other things, too and applied some glazes, but mostly, I spent my time on the twelve square inches of canvas. The painting now looks lopsided because, as far as detail goes, I'm working from left to right. The reason for this is that I'm right-handed, so that means that I lay my wrist on the part of the painting that isn't as finished as the rest; therefore, if I smear, scratch, scrape, or otherwise mar part of the painting, it won't be a part that I have already slaved over for hours perfecting the detail. Anyway, Scott said that he now understood why I had this strange purple and yellow light in the windows--I just painted in the "panes," or rather, the wooden frames around the panes of glass. I paint back to front, so I first paint in the light in the windows then add the window frames. I have a habit of assuming that people realize that I'm painting in this fashion and that I'm going to add the details in last, but I'm realizing that not everyone's aesthetic is as exacting and meticulous as mine is. Instructors don't assume that I'm going to get as anally-retentive with my details as I do because, from what I've seen, that sort of attention to minutiae isn't exactly en vogue at the moment.

As a twist on my "ending with a quote" tradition, here are the lyrics to Idina Menzel's "I Stand."

"I Stand"

When you ask me, who I am:
What is my vision? And do I have a plan?
Where is my strength? Have I nothing to say?
I hear the words in my head, but I push them away.

'Cause I stand for the power to change,
I live for the perfect day.
I love till it hurts like crazy,
I hope for a hero to save me.
I stand for the strange and lonely,
I believe there's a better place.
I don't know if the sky is heaven,
But I pray anyway.

And I don't know
What tomorrow brings
The road less traveled
Will it set us free?
Cause we are taking it slow,
These tiny legacies.
I don't try and change the world;
But what will you make of me?

'Cause I stand for the power to change,
I live for the perfect day.
I love till it hurts like crazy,
I hope for a hero to save me.
I stand for the strange and lonely,
I believe there's a better place.
I don't know if the sky is heaven,
But I pray anyway.

With the slightest of breezes
We fall just like leaves
As the rain washes us from the ground
We forget who we are
We can't see in the dark
And we quickly get lost in the crowd

'Cause I stand for the power to change,
I live for the perfect day.
I love till it hurts like crazy,
I hope for a hero to save me.
'Cause I stand for the power to change,
I live for the perfect day.
I love till it hurts like crazy,
I hope for a hero to save me.
I stand for the strange and lonely,
I believe there's a better place.
I don't know if the sky is heaven,
But I pray anyway.

Unteachable?

It was one of those days that, in retrospect, is just a blur. I woke up this morning and got ready for class. I was a little late because I couldn't find these thirty percent off coupons for Utrecht that I use to buy one tube of Old Holland paint at a time. Unable to locate the bundle of fluorescent yellow coupons, I finally cut my losses and left for class, deciding that I just wouldn't go to Utrecht today. (I still can't find the Goddamned things and I've looked everywhere.)

Anyway, I got to class and just as I started to get into my painting,, of course, the teacher has to come and gather everyone up for the 10:15 class meeting (a.k.a. the most mind-numbing waste of my time imaginable.) Today we talked about the "presence" of a painting. Okay, I understand what she was getting at, but she had some students bring out their art as examples. She said, "I'm not anointing these, but..." (In journalism school, they teach you that when you say the word "but" it negates everything said before that word; I've paid attention and this rule holds true in just about every instance I've come across.) Anyhow, the paintings she used as examples... well, let's just say that they didn't exactly appeal to my personal aesthetic tastes and leave it at that.

Before that, though, Anne (the teacher) announced in front of everyone that she and I were going to the museum. I kind of cut her off, saying I didn't feel like going (I did have a wicked sinus headache, so I wasn't completely bullshitting her.) She replied with something like, "Well, we've been planning this for two weeks..." Blah, blah, blah. Make me look like a totally flaky asshole, why don't you? I asked her if we could discuss it later, in private because I didn't feel like sharing my health situation in front of the whole class.

So, after losing an hour of my time that I'll never get back to Anne's preambles and her digressing and quoting from an article that I thought she had meant to read, but never did, we were finally free. That was the good news. The bad news: it was noon and half of my day was down the drain. And I had yet to talk with Anne.

She came into my studio and I explained that I'd been feeling light-headed and nauseous because of sinus problems and, possibly, as a side effect of a new medication. She was okay with that. I, of course, had to, in the interest of full disclosure, tell her that I was concerned about going to the museum and having a painting that I am absolutely in love with be picked apart in front of me. Every painting that I've had to write a paper about, I never want to see that painting again once the paper's finished. I hate the over-analyzing that goes on around here. It's pseudo-intellectual masturbation and it's a complete waste of my studio time. Anne was dismayed at my concerns about over-analyzing a painting. She proceeded to tell me that she didn't feel like we'd had a very meaningful crit yet this semester and she felt like I held her at arm's length (which is true, actually.) She asked me what I wanted out of this class and I told her I just wanted time to do my work, that I didn't want to have paintings that had hardly even been "born" yet to be critiqued because anything someone says about them leaves me completely self-conscious from then on out. Anne proceeded to pull the guilt-trip, "You're paying a lot of money to go to school here" card. She informed me that I have a lot to learn. (Because, apparently, I didn't seem painfully aware enough of my shortcomings for her liking.) She continued to say, essentially, that I'm being stubborn and that I'm unwilling to learn; that I should reevaluate why I'm in school if all I want is private studio time. Finally, after totally insulting my intelligence and slighting my intellectual curiosity, Anne got up and left, telling me to think about what I wanted from her and that we'd talk more about it later. The minute I was sure that she was gone, tears streamed down my cheeks. I packed my things up and went back to my dorm so I could have a complete breakdown in private.

I'm so fucking tired of being picked on and told that I'm just some upstart who has promise but doesn't know what she's doing. It undermines everything that the teachers who I trust have told me to do; that is, that I have good instincts and that I should trust my intuition, that I should do what makes me happy. Am I really being stubborn by wanting to use my studio time to actually paint instead of go gallivanting around the museum and exposing myself to the myriad of social anxieties that accompany being out in public like that? Am I being unwilling to learn if I need time to articulate my painting before I allow people to go poke and prod it with a critique? I don't think I'm being unreasonable. What I think is happening is that my Asperger's has caused some sort of disconnect with the communication. There's something that I've assumed that she knows but doesn't, or something that she assumes I know but I haven't totally picked up on it because I'm socially retarded. (Literally.)

I was able to use my lunch hour to get my head in order and sort my thoughts out. The way I figured it was that we needed to "start over" in our interactions, but Anne never came back to speak with me today. I was kind of pissed, but it was just as well. I have so much shit going on in my head right now, trying to restructure the lines of communication with one of my three painting teachers. I've got papers to write and my own anxieties to fend off.

Some days are diamonds (Some days are stones)

Well, I've had a hell of a week. Last Monday began with my painting teacher lecturing the class for ten minutes about how to use studio time effectively. All I could think was, "If you want me to use my studio time, why don't you skip this bullshit and let us go back to work." She also let us know that she was going to be a bit fascist about wanting us to be in the studios at nine o'clock sharp even though she said that she didn't want to be a schoolmarm. Whatever. I was overtaken by a sort of malaise that led into Tuesday and Wednesday. Both those days I allowed myself to sleep in but I was really happy with what I got done once I got to the studio. I was feeling better, even though I could feel my annual bout of autumn depression edging in on me. It's taken me a while, but I've found that watching funny movies (I've stocked up on Mel Brooks movies, thanks to a sale at Borders) and listening to over-the-top, Gothic-type music really lifts my spirits. On Wednesday, I actually found myself smiling at Marilyn Manson's music while I was painting; it's just so ridiculous, good music but I can't believe anyone actually takes that band seriously.

Anyway, Thursday rolled around and I really shouldn't have gotten out of bed at all that day. I had a panic attack in class--that's never happened before when I've been taking my medicine the way I'm supposed to, which I was that day. I managed to keep it at bay so I didn't have to leave the room, we were watching a video, so that helped camouflage the anxiety. I fought it off, but I felt like a lion tamer, trying to keep a lion back with a spoon and fork instead of the usual whip and chair. The rest of the day is lost on me, but, from what I can tell, it wasn't much better than the beginning. Friday's class is always enjoyable, but I still had this uncharacteristic anxiety waiting in the wings for me. I went to my favorite used bookstore in the afternoon and got a book on Chicago cemeteries because I thought that it would be cool to go tour graveyards Halloween weekend, but life seems to have other plans.

Saturday was so-so. I got started on several different papers I need to write, but got sidetracked. Today was good, I got together with a friend and had a lot of fun. Tonight, though, I'm exhausted and antsy with anxiety about not having finished the papers I started and class tomorrow. I'm supposed to go to the museum with my instructor to see the Rossetti painting, my favorite painting in the museum at the moment, but I don't know if I want to have her pick it apart in front of me so that I'll never want to look at it again. All week, I've been having sinus issues that have left me light-headed, shaky, dizzy, and occasionally nauseous, so I'm considering playing the "I'm not feeling so hot today and I'd rather stay in the studio, lest I vomit on your shoes and subsequently pass out" card. I started a new painting last Wednesday, so I'd really rather not waste the morning at the museum learning to hate a painting that I once loved... I'll see how I feel in the morning.

What I'd really love is to just be left alone to work. I don't wanna be critiqued and have people harp on areas of my paintings that aren't resolved yet, telling me either to "leave it that way" or that they don't like that. I say, "I know, I'm not finished," and they reply with, "Well, I'm just telling you what I think." I really wanna respond, "Well, don't," but my mother raised me better than that; I'm only impolite behind peoples' backs. I know I should stop anticipating the worst-case scenario, but I find that in the heat of an argument (or just passionate critique) I can't think on me feet; my Asperger's makes it so that I have to have a "script" of sorts prepared to defend myself and my art. Otherwise, I find it difficult to clearly communicate what I'm trying to get at and be a bit of a smartass at the same time.

I'm exhausted after a day of running around and being out in public and on the streets without my headphones to block out all of the stimuli that comes with being in a busy city while concentrating on talking with a friend and trying to work out all of the social interaction things that don't come as naturally to me as they do to most everyone else. I've also been stressing about this work I hafta do and anticipating tomorrow, not to mention all of the worries I have about my communication skills, or lack thereof. Things that I think I've communicated to people aren't always picked up and I don't always catch on to some of the things that I need to "read between the lines" to get. George Bernard Shaw said that, "The single biggest problem in communication is the illusion that it has taken place."

Who to please?

I should be working on papers for my Oceanography and Paradise Lost classes, but I've gotta get some stuff outta my system in anticipation of class tomorrow.

I've been thinking about my conversations with my painting teacher last Wednesday. It just pisses me off that, when I try to assert my individuality, I get shot down and guilt-tripped with the, "Well, you're paying a lot of money to come to this school and hear my opinion," reply but, then, that is immediately followed with, "But I'm gonna say what I'm gonna say and you're gonna do what you're gonna do." Which is, essentially calling me stubborn and unwilling to learn. (At least, that's my interpretation. Maybe I'm taking it too personally. But, as far as I'm concerned, everything about my work is personal and I can't separate that personal element from the work or it would cease to be my work.)

Anyway, I can't determine whether I'm being told these things to try to get me to think, to make me wanna fight. Is this all some type of game to "toughen" me up? I feel like I've had to fight throughout my life to be able to do what I want, to do the things that make me happy. I've been bullied, I've had to take arms against demons both seen and unseen, and I don't need this bullshit. I can't make my work to please anyone other than me. If I can't be happy with what I'm doing on the canvas, I might as well give up the very expensive pursuit of painting and fill out an application to work at Wal-Mart. I am able to take advice, I am able to learn; it just takes some things a while to fully process and become "second nature" when I'm painting. I've been accused of having a "formula" when I paint--that all of my paintings (recently, at least) are repeating themselves. This may be true, but this is how I work. It's like a musician who plays the same piece on the piano over and over until she hits each key at the exact right time and that note has the perfect relationship with all of the other notes in the piece. I have to repeat myself, this is how I explore what I'm trying to get at. I'm trying to get at that perfect balance between warmth and darkness, between romance and suspense, between alienation and hope for an end to the loneliness. I'm also, with the subject of my paintings (architecture and city streets at night,) trying to figure out why it is that I am so attached to these "old-world" settings. I've always been fascinated with Europe, I gain a lot of inspiration from it. At the same time, these streets are what I imagined when my mother would read abridged versions of "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" and Edgar Allan Poe's short stories to me before I went to bed at night. (No, I didn't have nightmares.) These settings and moods I'm trying to create are something that I connect with and have for a very long time. I don't know what to do when people challenge these very primordial feelings which are the basis for my work.

I hate the guilt-trips about how much I'm paying to go to school here. I hate being told that I'm stubborn and unwilling to learn. I'm stubborn, but only when it counts. I'm not unwilling to learn, though. I am, however, trying to carve out my own path. My art isn't going to go in the same direction as the more trendy, popular art that is up in galleries this minute. My art isn't ready to be seen yet, it's hardly even been born. My time has yet to come. In the meantime, I resent being forced in directions that I don't want to go. I can't change my artwork just to appease one person. (Especially if that person isn't me.) As my trusted academic adviser told me, quoting his grandfather, "A cat is not a dog."

Can't Win For Losing

I, apparently, cannot do a God damn thing right. This school is all about "being yourself," but I keep getting pushed into molds that don't fit me.

I woke up this morning when my alarm went off at 6:45 and decided that I would sleep in today because, for the past two days, I've been taking afternoon powernaps in front of my easel hoping no on would walk in and catch me snoozing. So, I slept in until 9:00 and I woke up and felt great. I went to class and, in the afternoon, when I finally got into working on my painting, I was focused and in the "zone," the instructor came in and, essentially told me that, with my paintings, I'm not saying anything original and my unoriginal paintings aren't done right. So, in response, I argued and told him, essentially, that I'm not making my paintings for him and that if he wants the unfinished painting of mine he called finished to be finished, that he should paint his own damn painting. (That's not verbatim, but that's the sentiment I expressed.) He, in response, pulled the seniority card, saying that I'm paying a lot of money to go to this school and hear what he thinks and that he must know something more than I do. (I realize now how Obama must feel when he debates McCain and McCain pulls the seniority card.)

So, essentially, I got the "Shut up you little whippersnapper and listen to what I have to say because I'm the teacher" speech, which totally took the wind out of my sails for the day. It contradicted everything I've been told by other instructors, instructors who understand me much more. And I can't tell if the teacher today was really being a dick, or if he was just playing devil's advocate and trying to see how much I believe in what I'm doing. I can never tell whether some painting teachers are playing good cop, bad cop or if they're being genuine. Are they trying to get me to get down and dirty and fiercely fight for what I'm doing? When I do respond that way, when I argue and defend my work, I'm told that I'm being too defensive; when I don't argue, I'm a pushover. I really can't do anything right here.

In the end--and I keep telling myself this--I've gotta be happy with what I'm doing and those who aren't pleased, will just hafta move on because I'm not making my art for them. It's hard, though, because, in the meantime, I hafta put up with this barrage of criticism and being told that I'm not original, et cetera.

Again, I'll end with a quote, this time from Woodrow Wilson: "The man who is swimming against the stream knows the strength of it."

Some Random Thoughts Before Class...

I've had some thoughts that have been repeating in my mind since yesterday. I need to get them out, so here they are.

I told a trusted adviser that, though I love painting and making art, I really couldn't care less whether or not I ever show in a gallery or have a career like that; that I could see myself getting married and having kid and still making art because making art is what I do. I can't not make art; it's a way of life for me. I'll have kids and grab a box of crayons and a big roll of paper and be like, "C'mon, munchkins, let's draw some pictures!" I'd be totally happy doing that with me life. In response, my adviser said that that would be fine but not to tell anyone outside his office of those plans. I've been thinking about it though, and who cares what people would think if I told them that? If they judge me for that, then they can go to hell; I don't need their validation and, if they're looking at me with such a critical eye, then they're not going to get anything out of my art nor do they deserve to. It's not that I lack ambition, I think that it would be cool to show my work, but if my life doesn't turn out that way, I'm prepared to accept it. I'm a person of faith, or, at least, I try to be and I'm working on trying to understand and accept that what I want to happen often differs greatly from what God wants to happen.

Graduating scares the hell out of me. I have a hard time seeing what my life will be like after the commencement ceremony. I have my dreams about what I'll do after I have my diploma, but I've learned that my imaginings of my future are usually not the way that the future unfolds. I have dreams, but I'm beginning to realize that it's okay if they don't pan out exactly as I imagine. To paraphrase John Lennon, "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."

Introduction, Part II

This past summer, I was officially diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome (AS). I would go into detail explaining what AS is because it's pretty complex, but to save myself time, I'd suggest that you Google it or look it up on Wikipedia. In short, it's a condition on the Autism Spectrum. It presents differently in different people, some have a mild form and some have a more severe form. Mine is rather mild--mild enough to get into my twenties before being diagnosed. (Given, that eve ten years ago, very little was known about AS even though it was first identified by Hans Asperger in the 1940s.)

Asperger's Syndrome is a difference in the brain's wiring, it is not a psychological problem; that is, it is not a problem with neurotransmitters in the brain like depression is (though there is a high comorbidity rate with AS and depression.) The comparison I've used to explain it to people is to think if the brain as if it were pipes: AS is a difference in the pipes themselves, not what's running through them. My brain works just as well as those who are neurotypical, it just works differently.

Anyway, for our purposes here, my own personal brand of AS presents with major social difficulty which has led to anxiety and depression. Though I have fairly good verbal skills, I often have to think for a while before I can put my thoughts together and communicate them thoroughly. For that reason, I will probably repeat myself a lot as I try to type out my thoughts here in attempt to find the right way to express exactly what I want to communicate.

I've felt for most of my life that there was something "different" about me; something a little "off." Nothing bad, just that there was something impalpable that distinguished me from the "rest of the world," so to speak. A lot of people have told me things like, "Don't worry, it's normal to feel different," or, "We all feel that way." I knew, deep down, that they had no idea of what I was dealing with. I usually just nodded and smiled, hoping that they were right and that the feeling of being set apart from the rest of people my age would pass. It didn't, I was left frustrated and confused, wondering what the hell was the matter with me. Am I just being stubborn? Am I imagining things? It has been a relief to finally have an answer. As much as I don't want to be put into a box and pigeonholed, I feel as though I'm seeing the world through different eyes now that I know that there's not going to be some sort of strange, rare psychological disorder named after me or that I'm just a high-maintenance brat, (though I certainly have that capacity.) It's a relief to know that I belong somewhere; that there are other people like me out there, though I have yet to meet any of them.

I've been dismissed a lot, my feelings have been called trite. I've had to fight to make the art I want to make. In this age of "slacker art" and immediate gratification, my painting techniques that involve a lot of layers of glazed oil paint isn't always tolerated. Maybe, though, I'm just imagining that it's not tolerated, maybe I'm being impatient with myself. Either way, I don't mkae art the same way that a lot of other people do in my studio. I can't crank out three paintings a week, I wouldn't be satisfied with the paintings if I did. I'm a perfectionist with very high standards for myself. Sometimes I'm unrealistic about what I want from my paintings, I suppose, but the more I practice, the closer I get to what I want.

It's frustrating when instructors tell me that they don't see "me" in my paintings. I've been told that I'm repeating myself, that the emotions I'm trying to convey are unoriginal or, at least, are portrayed in an unoriginal way. I don't know what else I can do, though. I make the art for myself--I can't make it to satisfy anyone else. I have to be happy with what I do before I can have any hope of pleasing anyone else. And, if people don't like what they see in my paintings, my response is, "I didn't paint it for you." If I'm happy with it and you're not, then, I'm sorry, I can't help you; your best bet would be to move on and find something that you do like.

Introduction, Part I

Hello. Welcome to my blog.

My name is Jennifer and I'm a fourth year painting and drawing student at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. This semester is my second to last at the school and it's my first semester in the undergraduate Advanced Painting Studio program. In the Advanced Painting Studio, I get my own space (shared with another student, but I don't hafta clean up my things and stow them away in a locker down the hall at the end of the day.) I'm required to be in the studio from 9 in the morning until 4 in the afternoon three days a week; in my case, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Each day I'm visited by a different teacher who advises me and critiques my work. Critiques can be very subjective and reflect the viewers unique world view and individual aesthetic. As a result, I tend to get three very different reads of my work, back-to-back, day after day. This often conflicting advice tends to leave me frustrated, confused, and, sometimes, downright apoplectic. I can't always formulate a well thought out response in defense of my work off the top of my head; instead, I ruminate as I continue to paint, which, for me is a very meditative act.

This blog is meant to be a dumping grounds, of sorts, for my thoughts and frustrations; a place for me to suss out what I'm really trying to express in my artwork at this point in my life. I'll probably contradict myself many times over and there will, no doubt, be times when what I type makes no sense to anyone but me. This blog, like my art, is created for myself before anyone else. I'm trying to work things out and help myself here, but anyone is welcome to read it. In spilling my thoughts out here, I'm trying to help myself; if I end up helping someone else who's reading along, I'd consider myself lucky.