In Other Words...
Last night I saw a play at the National Theatre called THE HISTORY BOYS. It might have been the best play I've seen here. Or ever. What was it about? Well, there's a bunch of kids studying for exams to get into Oxford or Cambridge, and they've got two professors. One wants to teach them for their own sake-- that education is a personal enrichment that should not be reduced to intellectual fodder or essay responses. Another wants to make them as cynical and clever as he can so they will be inflammatory enough to impress the University boards. The two teachers argue about pedagogy and what education should be. The kids are divided and must decided for themselves how they want to think.
I guess I loved the play so much because it reminded me that being a smart-ass is not all there is to learning. My best teachers never taught me to rattle off platitudes or to take critical theory as gospel. They simply taught me to enjoy art (with or without a capital "A"). And how to diagram sentences.
(There I go again.)
Anyways, I guess the play made me appreciate being in London. Studying here doesn't mean I'm getting more clever, or that, by virtue of proximity, I can claim authority over Wilde, Dickens, or Shakespeare. Nor should anyone. Those artists and their work are not currency. I can never cash them in.
Maybe Emily Dickinson was onto something.
Alright, that spiel is over. Today I went to the Royal Academy of Art. There was curious exhibition featuring art collected by the family of the inventor of lager. God bless that man. The exhibition had Egyptian, Roman, Greek, Danish, Etruscan, and Impressionist work. Apparently the family had a rift in what they thought was good art. Our guide had a great way of injecting the Overarching Narrative of History into the paintings and sculptures.
Not all Egyptian art was stylized; some of it was realistic.
Isis and Demeter are the same non-person.
Paul Gauguin was the Neil Young of post-Impressionism. He made art like whoever he was near. Van Gogh, Cezanne, whoever.
Thursday is Thanksgiving. The Brits don't have Thanksgiving, so we're all getting together at my medieval lit professor's house for dinner. I'm making corn using the recipe my fam sent me. I'm very excited, but I'm gonna miss having my Favorite Meal of the Year with my folks and sisters and new brother-in-law.
I'm also looking forward to going back to JMU and the Cider House (RULES!!!) this Winter/Spring. Where I don't have to worry about feeding myself, getting rained on everyday, or King George overtaxing me or stealing my land 'cause I don't go no right to bear arms. This Duke Pup is eager to get back in the pound.
MAY YOU FRAT LIKE NO ONE IS WATCHING
NEVER STOP FRATTING
HANG IN THERE, LITTLE FRAT KITTY
KEEP A WELL-REGULATED FRAT MILITIA
DEATH TO TYRANTS!!! LONG LIVE FRATERNALIA.
GIVE ME FRAT OR GIVE ME DEATH.
I guess I loved the play so much because it reminded me that being a smart-ass is not all there is to learning. My best teachers never taught me to rattle off platitudes or to take critical theory as gospel. They simply taught me to enjoy art (with or without a capital "A"). And how to diagram sentences.
(There I go again.)
Anyways, I guess the play made me appreciate being in London. Studying here doesn't mean I'm getting more clever, or that, by virtue of proximity, I can claim authority over Wilde, Dickens, or Shakespeare. Nor should anyone. Those artists and their work are not currency. I can never cash them in.
Maybe Emily Dickinson was onto something.
Alright, that spiel is over. Today I went to the Royal Academy of Art. There was curious exhibition featuring art collected by the family of the inventor of lager. God bless that man. The exhibition had Egyptian, Roman, Greek, Danish, Etruscan, and Impressionist work. Apparently the family had a rift in what they thought was good art. Our guide had a great way of injecting the Overarching Narrative of History into the paintings and sculptures.
Not all Egyptian art was stylized; some of it was realistic.
Isis and Demeter are the same non-person.
Paul Gauguin was the Neil Young of post-Impressionism. He made art like whoever he was near. Van Gogh, Cezanne, whoever.
Thursday is Thanksgiving. The Brits don't have Thanksgiving, so we're all getting together at my medieval lit professor's house for dinner. I'm making corn using the recipe my fam sent me. I'm very excited, but I'm gonna miss having my Favorite Meal of the Year with my folks and sisters and new brother-in-law.
I'm also looking forward to going back to JMU and the Cider House (RULES!!!) this Winter/Spring. Where I don't have to worry about feeding myself, getting rained on everyday, or King George overtaxing me or stealing my land 'cause I don't go no right to bear arms. This Duke Pup is eager to get back in the pound.
MAY YOU FRAT LIKE NO ONE IS WATCHING
NEVER STOP FRATTING
HANG IN THERE, LITTLE FRAT KITTY
KEEP A WELL-REGULATED FRAT MILITIA
DEATH TO TYRANTS!!! LONG LIVE FRATERNALIA.
GIVE ME FRAT OR GIVE ME DEATH.