Brown Eggs and Moore
"The sensitive observer must feel shape simply as shape, not as a description or idea. S/he must, for example, perceive an egg as a simple solid shape, quite apart from its significance to food, or from the idea that it will become a bird." Henry Moore.
Is this possible? Can we find an object, an article of clothing, the human form, or a text pleasing to the eye without thinking about the societal expectations, or even our own life experiences, placed on the object? If I almost drowned when I was little in a lake or if I grew up by the ocean with nothing but incredible memories of the beach and sand and swimming, will that not taint my view of water--will I not see it either as an abyss of fear or a warm memory of pleasure?
But then, we don't realize how much our outer, our visual world effects our thoughts. "We will be going to different places, locations, and write and explore and then discuss our writings and ramblings, whatever they may be, because *place* effects not only how you view the world, but the very thoughts you have." My writing professor tells us this. And it's true. If I were sitting in the coffeehouse with a new laptop, surrounded by gray-haired people after church on Sunday discussing their grandchildren, it would undoubtedly effect my writing about shapes or design or whatever.
But I'm not sitting in the coffeehouse today. Today I am sitting at my computer, sitting in a chair that I got from a dumpster on Main Street a year ago, surrounded by my piles of books not yet read, wondering where my cat is hiding, only hearing the tapping of my fingers on the keys.
This seemingly simplistic location greatly effects my thoughts. I am saturated in familiarity, comfortable and safe. What is the risk in staying safe? I wrote this question 3 years ago referring to relationships, but really, it can be applied to most anything, even my location and place, in the middle of a cornfield in Normal, IL. What is the risk in staying safe?
Everything here has sentimental value whether I want it to or not. My somewhat stolen chair, my computer that I stole from my dad's house, my books that I bought at an independent bookstore in Minneapolis.
Even the brown egg in my refridgerator reminds me that's it's cage-free, that I bought it at Wal-Mart, that this irony became a spring-board for me to write about, and ended up in one of my earlier pieces. Sorry, Henry Moore, an egg is not an egg is not an egg. Its form, its color, its location in my fridge, its origin, all effect how I view the egg. I cannot look at it as a separate entity, void of meaning, stripped of my experiences that I so intimately attach to it.
And then, what is the risk in denying our experiences with our objects, with our lovers,
with our words, with our eggs?
Can we have love affairs with the unknown,
find a woman merely aesthetically pleasing,
enjoy words for the sake of their placement or rhythm or font or size or color or shape?
Meaning is still attached to the unknown or the woman or the words, though. Even if it's just a little idiosyncratic moment or adventure that we had with the color blue
or a brunette woman
or the word intrigue
or a brown egg.
Is this possible? Can we find an object, an article of clothing, the human form, or a text pleasing to the eye without thinking about the societal expectations, or even our own life experiences, placed on the object? If I almost drowned when I was little in a lake or if I grew up by the ocean with nothing but incredible memories of the beach and sand and swimming, will that not taint my view of water--will I not see it either as an abyss of fear or a warm memory of pleasure?
But then, we don't realize how much our outer, our visual world effects our thoughts. "We will be going to different places, locations, and write and explore and then discuss our writings and ramblings, whatever they may be, because *place* effects not only how you view the world, but the very thoughts you have." My writing professor tells us this. And it's true. If I were sitting in the coffeehouse with a new laptop, surrounded by gray-haired people after church on Sunday discussing their grandchildren, it would undoubtedly effect my writing about shapes or design or whatever.
But I'm not sitting in the coffeehouse today. Today I am sitting at my computer, sitting in a chair that I got from a dumpster on Main Street a year ago, surrounded by my piles of books not yet read, wondering where my cat is hiding, only hearing the tapping of my fingers on the keys.
This seemingly simplistic location greatly effects my thoughts. I am saturated in familiarity, comfortable and safe. What is the risk in staying safe? I wrote this question 3 years ago referring to relationships, but really, it can be applied to most anything, even my location and place, in the middle of a cornfield in Normal, IL. What is the risk in staying safe?
Everything here has sentimental value whether I want it to or not. My somewhat stolen chair, my computer that I stole from my dad's house, my books that I bought at an independent bookstore in Minneapolis.
Even the brown egg in my refridgerator reminds me that's it's cage-free, that I bought it at Wal-Mart, that this irony became a spring-board for me to write about, and ended up in one of my earlier pieces. Sorry, Henry Moore, an egg is not an egg is not an egg. Its form, its color, its location in my fridge, its origin, all effect how I view the egg. I cannot look at it as a separate entity, void of meaning, stripped of my experiences that I so intimately attach to it.
And then, what is the risk in denying our experiences with our objects, with our lovers,
with our words, with our eggs?
Can we have love affairs with the unknown,
find a woman merely aesthetically pleasing,
enjoy words for the sake of their placement or rhythm or font or size or color or shape?
Meaning is still attached to the unknown or the woman or the words, though. Even if it's just a little idiosyncratic moment or adventure that we had with the color blue
or a brunette woman
or the word intrigue
or a brown egg.