a pole-like post: first semester of studio art in review

autumnal salute: some squashes in vine charcoal

three objects, loosely linked by the glasses and the source

young Mama, seen through a "Vaseline screen"

Self is always skewed...

grumpy cat, Lucian Freud edition

final: messy chalk pastels yield midget pianist

the last critique! How beautifully each one turned out :)

Gould Medal for Glenn

Glenn Gould’s 1955 rendition of the Goldberg Variations still sets the standard.
CULTURE / NOVEMBER 17, 2014 ISSUE / BY GLORIA BRECK

Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. Likewise, let he who has perfected the Goldberg Variations critique Glenn Gould’s. The variations have become, according to pianist-writer Jeremy Denk, “a trendy bar that (infuriatingly) keeps staying trendy” -- the pianist’s touchstone, the ultimate classical classic. Popular among performers as the Goldberg Variations are, only one man has maintained a listener’s monopoly for the past half-century. Glenn Gould, the Canadian, the oddball: his 1955 recording brazenly bursts forth from the sea of C+-in-confidence Goldbergs. With the vim and vigor expected of twenty-somethings (but seldom exemplified by them), Gould executes each variation with an exuberance sure to exhume Bach Sr. himself. Shirking all repeats, Gould reduces eighty minutes of G Major (& assoc.) to just under forty; also, he takes certain variations at tempi nearly double of those chosen by other performers (and he is free to -- Bach provided no indication of tempo). Yet the listener is not at all left in want of the omitted half, for Gould condenses a repeated section’s worth of expressive development into a single statement: each voice speaks in one instance with infinite, independent inflection. Indeed, Glenn Gould’s deliberate fingers unite player and piano into a single unit, a machine free from human foible, most suited to performing so perfect a composition.

ballad of the border-crossing bonsai

5 AM: only Melvin is awake

Somewhere along Highway 85, north toward Mountain View, he began life as a hippo that was shaped like a giraffe. Despite this, his parents kept him, raising him with doubled dinner portions. Melvin lived for a meaningful forty-five minutes, then perished into memory.

Until he died and came alive, as a bonsai.

On his last day in Saratoga, my mother and I raced up 85 North toward Yamagami's Nursery with twelve minutes until closing time; we drove for ten. In a flurry, we purchased a potted bonsai and a hefty squirt-bottle of seaweed extract. I chose the only plant that could endure Cambridge winters: a tall, floppy, gangly creature with bulging joints, somewhat reminiscent of a giraffe.

I knew that he couldn't bring the bonsai on his flight, so I brought it to his house for a brief meet-and-greet. It was then that Melvin inhabited the bonsai in a startling, invigorating infusion of spirit and stem. He left before me, and thus Melvin came to be.

Melvie, airborne

In preparation for our far-east movement, I bathed him in an inky emulsion of seaweed-extract and filtered water. With quilted paper towels and gentle strokes, I polished his pot, which was ochre with swirls. (Did I polish with swirling motions, or were there swirls on his pot? See how a non-comma between "ochre" and "with" makes all the difference!) Soon, Melvin was in ship-shape for his voyage from SFO to BOS.

He spent a lot of time perched on my luggage, and after check-in time, in my lap. What stares we received on the plane, in the shuttle, and in line at Hertz Car Rental. Little Melvin looked bruised and parched from journey, so I doused him with my airplane tea.

That evening, Melvin took up residence in Matthews Hall, where he proceeded to become the star of Hashtag The Plant Channel, aired in daily installments on Instagram for a time in September. Melvin, toasted by Toaster to orangey perfection (again, a nod to his ungulate roots), became the face of acting-like-one-has-had-pot-without-having-had-pot.

From then on, Melvin's story switched tellers. When I last met him in October, he was healthier than ever, scattering small, oval patches of shade on a plaid pillow.

心愛的公公

Auntie Susan, the apple of my grandpa's eye. She has
been by his side for the past year, visiting him three times
a day, enduring the cycle of recovery and regression. See
how she decorated her Papa with golden glasses. 

by Irene Breck
edited by globie, her daught-product

"My grandfather passed away while my father was still very young. Therefore, my grandmother had to raise all four children on her own. My father knew he needed to be aggressive in order to receive a better education. In his young age, he would stop his grandfather's sedan chair and ask for monetary support so that he could go to the school run by the missionaries. Hence, he was well educated and fluent in English. In his time, this was very unusual.

My grandmother was a very fervent Christian and served as a female deacon in her church. She certainly noticed her son's brilliant potential, and always wanted him to become a pastor. But this was not his choice at all. He was determined to run away from her God and her expectations -- as far as he could run. (I never realized my father was a Christian until I evangelized to him about God in 1997. I was surprised by joy. I also recognized that my father's gracious manner came from his Christian education and family.)

By his own choice and willful justification, he had [over the course of his life] two wives and many mistresses. He generated nine children between the two wives, but he also generated lots of bitterness between them. My [full] siblings always believed that our mother worked hard but died young, surrendering all of her properties to our stepmom, someone she hated most.

During the second world war, my father passed many challenging exams and earned himself the opportunity to further his education at Columbia University. He flew over the Himalayas and waited in India for three months for the boat to arrive. It took him across the small seas and great ocean to New York City; that was the only way to avoid the war zone. He had great experiences at Columbia: he had many girlfriends, while my mother waited in China with my brother. (I was named after one of these girlfriends; I had wondered why my mother was always upset with my name.) But nevertheless my father remembered his wife and children. Instead of staying in the United States, he came back to his country when China was still in the midst of civil war. I admired his courage for taking up family responsibilities on his shoulders when they needed to relocate to Taiwan in 1949.

God blessed him with many more children and wealth in Taiwan. He worked very hard as a professor at NTU and founding principal of Taipei American School to provide for two families. All of us thank him for he never abandoning us, and even leaving some wealth to us. But none of us appreciated having to live in his house with the shadow of the other family. My half-brother openly told us that if he had the choice, he would have chosen never to have been born into this home.

In 1997, my father's response to his faith was that it was "time to go back to church." He told me that he missed his mother so badly. He felt her calling in church, where he enjoyed old hymns from his childhood and the gentle calling from his mom. He told me that his friend 林語堂, a respected journalist, returned to church as a 60-year-old man. They shared the same province, background, and choice to avoid their parents' faith; but they also made the same choice to return. They both searched up and down the world, throughout all philosophies and religions. My father fell in love with many girls and made many mistakes, but God still loved him and allowed him to soar on eagles' wings. I praise my Lord as He has been gracious to my father, his children, grandchildren, and all his wives and girlfriends. Without my father's effort, God found many of us and has kept us well on earth. My father is ready to return to his heavenly home now.

Thank you for working so hard to raise us. May you rest in peace with your creator."

what rain does

more effective than any topcoat

When I was still asleep I could hear the rain creeping into the morning. It began as a whirring that I mistook for circulating refrigeration fluid. The sound disturbed Sierra, too; I saw her sit up in bed. Then the whirring swelled into a watery cascade -- no intermediate pattering, just a sudden arrival.

As I walked down the glassy path to the library sans iPhone camera, I fumbled for images fit to describe the transformation. Rain deepens all colors just as seawater polishes pebbles: those round coins, temporarily coated in gleaming cobalt, gathering ruches on the shore. How disappointed I am an hour later to find the glistening token in my pocket replaced by a dull, gray lump, as pointless as a paver, powdery to the touch. Today the rain lavishes on the great granite quarry that is Vermont the same emollient, one that intensifies every gray and washes every white; creating contrast, phrasing, dynamics. Light reflects off of wet walls instead of warming them. And tomorrow returns the dry, dusty neutrals of sun-baked brick.

But the soft leaves on feathered trees absorb the rain and glow ever brighter their golds and russets and greens, their apple-tones, until they are so waterlogged that they drop to the mud. 

that age-old question

"Gloria, do you want to be an architect?"

10/10 －10/14: 朋友見面

真的很想你

(I can outline the motions in Chinese, but the emotions I reserve)
星期五下午四點半，我坐上去學校辦得秋假公車。小怪座我旁邊，跟我分他的 Ritz 餅乾。她對中國古代文學很有興趣，她小時候不到一歲已經會背詩。她說我應該給（朋友）送一個紅豆手鐲（紅豆生南國）。小怪的男朋友在清華大學醫學院，所以她也送過紅豆手鐲。還有，小怪發現我的名字（“友梅”）有特別的意思。中國詩人有三個朋友：竹，梅，松。梅花在冬天開花，竹子和松樹不會被風吹斷。弟弟的名字剛好是“友松”。

我們晚上八點半到南波士頓的車站。我跟小怪座地鐵，過美麗的 Charles 河。她在 MIT 站下來，我自己坐到哈佛。（朋友）在油條點等我，我一看到他就開始跑。他現抱我，再擦擦眼淚。我們那天晚上走去河邊，一邊說笑話，一邊說實話。我們在橋上走幾圈，看圓圓的月亮。那天晚上睡得很飽。

星期六早上，我們吃冷披薩，賴在宿舍裡。下雨了，所以我們躲進去一家越南麵店。吃完以後一起坐地鐵去波士頓市中心，花一個下午逛街。（朋友）餓了，所以我們在 Quincy 市場吃龍蝦三明治和蛤蜊濃湯。我們看到熱鬧的糕點店進去買波士頓 cream pie，eclair， 和 canoli。 還沒肥死，但是我的褲子扣不起來。回到宿舍一起跳舞。噢！我忘了最有意思的事：睡覺前，我們倆帶上耳機，一邊聽音樂，一邊散步。我們在科學學院找到一間空教室，在黑板上畫圖，留給別人欣賞。

星期天早上，我去地下室找鋼琴。練完鋼琴以後，（朋友）帶我去吃三頓午飯：Clover 素菜（他受得了），Life Alive 嬉皮食物（他受不了），還有韓國豆腐煲。天氣真美，所以我們去公園曬太陽。那天晚上，（朋友）的朋友慶祝生日，另外一個朋友請我們去聽她的無伴奏合唱團。我覺得（朋友）很適合唱這種歌。這位朋友叫 “阿拉克絲”。阿拉克絲請我們跟她的表姐去很高級的甜點店吃宵夜。蘋果派配冰淇淋，芝士蛋糕， 熱熱的巧克力蛋糕配核桃，三種冰糕：我們簡直太幸福！阿拉克絲是杭州人（長得非常韓周）；她的表姐是湖州人。很高興認識她們。

星期一，Columbus Day。跟（朋友）再去吃一頓豆腐煲。他帶我去參觀一下哈佛 Crimson 紙總部：前門當然是紅色的。我自己去逛街，找到一家非常可愛的舊貨店叫 Oona’s。（朋友）和阿拉克絲打算跳進去 Charles 河，但是太多人在河裏划船。他們最後該注意去吃披薩。我們回去宿舍看一部電影叫 Ponyo。小魚太可愛！看完電影又討論我們很特別的情況。

星期二，該回家了。早餐：先做的白米飯配蘿蔔！（朋友）送我去門口的地鐵站，幫我拉行李。希望有一天可以再跟他過一樣好的日子。再見，好朋友！好好學習！