The Avenger at the Tate Modern

May 24, 2011

The Tate Modern in London

The fluid cape, the outstretched run, the terror stricken face. 'The Avenger' was mesmerizing. At first glance, he looks as if he is avenging a loved one- maybe his daughter, wife, sister, mother. But on closer inspection, it is found that he was sculpted by German nationalist Ernst Barlach in 1914. This pro-war sculpture seems contradictory because of the really extreme emotion on the man's face. This emotion is what struck me most, because in many modernist paintings and sculptures, the true meaning is not readily understandable- the reader/viewer must grapple with the meaning of the image. I think in this sculpture, the emotion cast in bronze contrasts with the fierceness of his weapon, a sword. The very obvious emotion is itself a mystery. The sculptor was aware of the trenches- I believe that the emotion is a mixed one; love for his country and fear and dread of the trenches. the conflict was not about the fighting itself- it seemed that the conflicted mind is pro-defense, pro patriotism, but shocked and afraid of the new warfare tactics. It's as if the modernists' distaste for the city and war are the same, and this man is possibly a new thinker who was not a conscientious objector to war. It would be interesting to see the sculptor's history. His views may have changed after seeing the terror of trench warfare.

The fluidity of the sculpture was wonderful as well. If the face draws you in, the cape flowing behind him keeps your eye there and draws your gaze to the very tip of the sculpture, where his bare foot is up after bounding with his other. The cape and pointed foot elongate the sculpture, making his run even more crazed and intense than before. The fact that he is barefoot is odd- for a war sculpture, you'd imagine it would be a depiction of warfare itself, with a pair of boots, a uniform, and maybe a helmet. But this man has a sorrowful, angry face with tears, a long cape, and a sword, which is a bit antiquated. Is it possible that the sculptor is sad at the new technology and wishes for the old war tactics? If so, that seems Victorian, but then again, the dignity and respect that is present in older warfare and Victorian times is lost, and this desire for both a German win and a return to dignity and respect for others is the conflict that the sculpture is meant to display. If so, this sculptor seems to understand the power of a tear on a man's face.

My grandpa

Yesterday, my parents, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, and my poor old grandmother were all present when the doctors took the respirator off of my grandfather. He died around 12:45, and almost all of us saw his heart rate fluctuate from 105, to 50, to 80, to 45, to 60, to 20...eventually down to zero. It was terrible and necessary for me to see that. To see the grief that shook everyone, and the physical pain it caused nearly everyone. Death in itself is a sad, necessary part of life, but the fact that it has now happened to the patriarch of my family is terribly sad. There's a childish part of me that needed to see that montior show zero, as if it wasn't true if I wasn't a witness to that.

I think the worst part of this is not so much the fact that a part of our family has died, but the person he was. He was a big man, 74 yrs old., and was always smiling. He had become sweetly emotional, even though most of his time was spent teasing or picking on my grandma. He always looked his best and kept a comb in his back pocket to make sure his silvery white hair was in place. It was a tiny comb with a fingerhold, like a pad with tiny bristles on it.

He loved his family, and his favorite times of the year were when he had a family reunion to be at or a holiday to celebrate. He and my grandmother went everywhere together, despite their constant bickering, and their usual haunts included hole-in-the-wall bars, like the Tall Texan on North Main or tiny game rooms all over the Northside. They also hung out at the same taqueria every morning, Kukos. Not to be mistaken for Los Cucos, the big chain restaurant. Kukos served my Grandma breakfast everyday and will continue to do so, but my Grandpa's visits at least twice weakly will be missed.

I really hate the thought that he will never smile at me again. He would tell a joke, and then look over at one of us and wink or have an expectant look on his face. He'd say something to tease my grandma and then look at one of us and smile. If someone was falling asleep, he'd roll up a napkin and stick it in their ear- or just use a finger to scare them back awake.

There are tons of memories that I'll remember over time, or that will come back with time. But the times that I'll remember most are the times his voice would falter in the middle of a Christmas speech, telling us all how much he loved us, or his huge smile and twinkling eyes right after he'd cracked a joke. I will never forget that face, and I just wish I'd seen him more in my short life.

I realized after the fact that my dad has the same inflections and pronunciation as he did. This makes sense, as he was his child. But it doesn't seem to be shared with the other kids. My dad says ambulance funny. he stresses the 'lance' instead of the 'am', like my grandpa did. I also remember that my dad says 'mayonnaise' funny, like 'may-nase'. Just the things he says are wonderful. like, "What's going on?" in a silly way, or the way they say they love us.

I don't know how long I'll miss him. I don't think I'll ever stop. One thing he reminded me of is how lucky I am to have all the people I do, as well as how much I have to lose.

Journals from LONDUB

I have decided that I'm going to post some things I wrote while on my trip from May. I always knew I'd be sad to come back but I actually seriously miss Dublin in particular.

First, Creative writing from Kew Gardens. I loved Kew Gardens so much. This is some stream of consciousness writing, which I'm not very well practiced in. But I think it came out well, and so did my professor.

The Water Lily House at Kew Gardens

The purple lily stood tall above the water, soaking in the humidity that the green house gave. Looking up at the glass ceiling, its petals curved out and up, wishing for a drop of rain. Its stem desappears into the glass water surface and grasps onto the base of the pond. The little boy's elbow broke the glass surface as he strained to reach the red center of a spiky arches, nearly closing in on itself. His arm dripped as he brought the arm back to swipe at another flower, this one purple with yellow innards. As his fingers closed around the petals, his mother saw him, scolded him, asking him what his father would say. He released his grip and the flower stretched its petals, trying to regain its former glory. The petals reached back up toward the glass ceiling of its home, which reflected the people circling the pond. The glass mother grasped her upturned son's hand and leads him to the next awaiting blossom. The building itself holds its breath as the son trails his hand along a line of lilies in the planter, but his fingers lay unstressed on the top fringe of leaves. The iron grip of the frame of the building kept its hold on the glass as it tried to hold the glass tight in its fear. The protective glasshouse knows it has no control, but the iron frame knew its fear and held steady. Another voice floated up to the glass roof, but this was more comforting, "I could cry over the beauty of this place." With a tremulous finger outstretched, it stroked the petals of the flower so softly that it barely moved. The speaker was actually talking to themselves, ulike the mother who was scolding her son as she did every hour or so. Sometimes she wondered about him and whether he were worth the effort she always put forth. The boy was only 7 but was already nearly too much to handle. And his actions sometimes worried her, like the nearly crushed flower of a few m inutes before. She is constantly worried about his lack of friends but hopes it will get better as he gets older. At least her excursions to the lily house were enough to satiate her desire for comfort of some kind. The massive lily pads really calmed her because they let her imagine that they were a tiny boat just for her to play in, rest in. With tiny barriers between the world and her, it made her realize that even as she felt alone, she wasn't really separated, as she would be in the lily. But her appreciation of they lily pond outdoes her apprehension for her son's future, at least for a little while.

She gripped her son's hand, and with the sense of reassurance that is only created by a reminder of peace, she bent to show him yet another flower- this time, a lotus.

It's been a long time

It has been about 7 months since I posted on here, and I am always encouraged to find a topic to write about on a blog, and then publicize it as much as possible. I don't have a focus like other people. I feel like I'd rather be a sponge- read and understand as much as I can about other people and respond to that as constructively as possible.

So I'm job hunting right now. I've applied to about 15 jobs in the past couple of weeks. They have mostly been technical writing jobs, proposal writing jobs, and admin assistant jobs. I just want to find something. I have way too many things to pay for lately.

Also kind of a lot has been going on. Work has changed a bit. I've been to Florida and London and Dublin since I last posted, which has greatly increased my interest in learning more about the histories of LonDub, as well as more writers, artists and such. But I also feel awkward bringing it up. "When I was in London..." I feel like I'm being a jerk, or a showoff. But sometimes I just feel repetitive. I hope those I talk to most can understand that I associate a lot. So when I visited Kilmainham Gaol in Dublin, and found out that U2 has performed there and recorded there, I would want to share this whenever I heard U2 playing in the US.

Anyway, point is, I hope I can find a focus that has to do with my interests and not just something that will pay bills, as well as find people who don't find my repetitive musings annoying.

I wish upon a star.

My year in thoughts

Here's a nifty little thing that Facebook people came up with.

Unfortunately, I post lot so this is almost a book. But it's about what I'd type if I just wrote a blog, so read it anyway.

2 Months

It's been that long since I've seen Cameron in person. I've lived in our new apartment alone for a little over two months, and he's only lived in the apartment for about 2 1/2 weeks. That's so lonely sounding. I know it'll work out and that we're going to be together and everything great like that, but I suppose I'm just thinking out loud.

On a happier note, I am almost done with my 10th straight semester at UHD and I have one more left. I am almost out the door and I can't believe that I've gone so far. I still feel so young sometimes, and others I just feel like a world of time has been born and lived in the 5 years since high school.

I am supposed to be writing 3 different assignments right now, two of which are due tomorrow morning. But if I can just get these papers out of the way, I can relax and ace my finals.

I love being an older student at a school that is so close to Downtown. This alone fosters a kind of relationship with people I would have never dreamed of being friends or even acquaintenances with.

Anyway, time is running out and these papers won't write themselves.
Goodnight.

winter depression

I love Houston, but if it were at least cold it would work better. I'm super bummed and sleepy.

The time change means it should be cool.
My parent's good friend passed away yesterday. Cameron won't be here for Thanksgiving, and now we don't know when he'll be here. I have a bunch of schoolwork and just feel like I don't have the energy to do it.

I know I can, but I can't seem to get it going.

I'll work it out.