seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09

This is actually her second writing today- maybe even her third- actually,

definitely her third. The computer has changed, though, she uses a pc, another computer

here in the library, facing the wall, not the ocean factory, not the window. Words splash

onto the page, pretty fast, pretty forcefully. Still thinking about what to make for senior

studio, if writing will do, if filmmaking should be introduced into the mix, drawing, some

paint. Where do words suffice, where are they more than enough. Writing so many many

essays made her leave visual arts, it was a slow but steady process. Not necessarily a bad

one, but somehow she left the road, the path she started out on. It is like going to New

Zealand and ending up in Singapore.

Weather outside is pretty sunny, might as well, some remnance of indian summer.

A dictionary to her left, blue, green, yellow. Writing, writing away. She could draw and

maybe that is what will be done 4 this project. In the end. Something more visual, with

lots of pretty pictures. Images, non-words. Instead of all these silly little signs, real

images, non-words. Visual art school, visual arts school. On the shelf a Volume magazine,

a new one, one she has not read. As of yet. All the other magazines titles, all the current

issues. Rectangle after rectangle, all kinds of colors, leaning on the black shelves.

She ponders if her proposal will be rejected or if she could go ahead and start

producing this stuff. Is there even a process of approval or/ and disapproval? How does

this really work?

The day shivers slowly into the afternoon, no one knows what that means, but it

sounds good. Has the right amount of drama. Weirdness meeting strangeness. The page

comes 2 an end, there is one more left to write. Words instead of images, is it enough, is

it? She ponders if she should have a header in this, if there should be more consistency,

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less consistency. She writes, pretty fast, pretty annoyed. Where is the spellcheck, what

time is it? Writing, writing. Might not be enough, might be too much. How much does it

pay 2 be a conceptual artist, what x-aktli is a conceptual artist? What does it mean? Is it

even a job description, something to fill in @ the passport office. Occupation: conceptual

artist- huh?

She went thru the syllabus, A, A plus, that is reserved 4 stuff that challenges the

boundaries of the field, expands the known boundaries, something like that. What does

that even mean? Why is effort in itself not good enough, why can we not just go for

rewarding a certain amount of time put in? what is excellence? What is failure? Who

defines that? Should she start painting, pick up a paint brush, wean herself from this

keyboard, does she even have to, and if push comes to shove, does she even want to?

What will her future be in, will it be in pursuing a phd, or will she make stuff? Or both?

Or none? Why does everything have to smush into one neat, well-defined category? Why

do artists have to issue statements? Shouldn’t we opt for statementless art? Which one

pays more, statementfull art or statementless art?

Words, words. Smushing, well, something.

Ah, the page, coming slowly, ever so slowly 2 an end. Artwriting, she could

pursue that, in another lifetime, maybe. Words are non-forms, way too abstract, they are

not as good as film, are they? They are so very stagnant, non-moving. Just somewhere

little symbols affixed 2 some paper. Writing, not enuf.

Anyhoo, she writes, had a meeting today, which did not go well, why should

meetings even go well? Some just don’t. Ah, @ least the page is done. And that is all that

matters. All that matters 4 2day. Nothing but bullshit. Call it poetry, if yu like, if yu can.

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---

somehow she is here in this lab, the mac lab, she hasn’t been here in ages, might

as well, might as well. The software is so very temperamental, not congruent,

non-congruent. There is no way in hell that she has a clue what the f. congruent

means, she knows she should use better language, cleaner language. How come

the whole f. thing is indented? which wrong button did she push?

The writing is kind of getting out of whack, the indenting frazzles the writing beyond

recognition. Somehow her system does not work anymore, she will write this all in one

swoop. Or something like that. Her system was so well-defined, so utterly refined, two

pages per day, without headers. She randomly changes it, is not quite sure if this is a good

idea. There is some hammering going on outside of the lab, could be on Granville Island.

She ponders if she should shoot 4 literary merit, or 4 volume. Volume is pretty good. It is

getting late here on Granville Island, she can see the southbuilding from here, if she turns

around on the chair. There is typing going on here, there is a door opening, there is the

screeching of another door. The monstrous hammering again, a sneeze, another one. Very

female, slightly squeaky sneeze. Door opens, genderneutral. She writes nothing but

bullshit. You may disagree. You should. You better. You’d better. She writes and writes

and writes. Is not quite sure how she can smush all these pages 2gether, does not even

care that much. As long as she can listen in to her tying. And she writes and writes and

writes. Introduces pauses, hiccups in2 this text. This is not last years writing, this is the

highly evolved version. She writes, writes.

---

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once more she is back in the library, it is summy outside, she types an “m” instead of

an “n”, provides this place with future material. This will be a future book stored here

in this very library. At least that is what she projects. And the indenting is way off

again, the ocean factory is quiet, she writes, writes.

Another day, today very saturdayish, quietness, morningness. Nothing to see here, no

inspiration whatsoever. Total bla. She writes anyways, words have 2 be put down, must

be put down. Painters are smashing pigments in2 the canvas, somewhere on the 4th floor,

sculptresses, weld against the grain. The artschool, the art school. Somehow, somewhere

somebody animates. Not her, not her. She writes, writes, reluctantly, forcefully. A page.

The page. Coherence would help, could help. Obscure scribbling is kind of out, meaning

is the new black. It is good that she is the only person that has a clue what she is talking

‘bout, why squander legibility, coherence, meaning? Why be straightforward when you

can be utterly vague. It’s more artsy, so they say, so they say.

still september here in vancitay, the sheer boringness of this place is crumpling

her throat in2 pieces, nothing happens here on Granville island, nothing ever does. This is

such a bla place, so very very predictable. Art is supposed 2 be fun, full of energy. Huh,

not this school, it managed to dull down art and design and media like no other place on

earth. Yep, that is how it is.

The author ponders if she can really pull this off, writing one so very long treatise

against this very place that will issue her degree, it is like a med student writing his

dissertation ‘bout the dangers of surgery, how surgeons tend to loose scalpels in

bodycavities, that kind of stuff.

ANYHOO, THE CUMULITIC CLOUDS MOVE THRU THE AIR, PAST OCEAN.

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she writes, writes. Writes, writes, writes. Some more words, a lot more words.

There are books on the shelves, to her right, to her left. Lots and lots of books. That no

one ever reads. Some times, ever so often, people, take out stuff, rummage thru the pages,

to find something citeable, quotes to sprinkle into their essays. That is how you forget

how to draw, how to paint. 2 much theory, way, way too much theory. That is how you

become a non-artist, one credit @ a time.

anyhow, anyhoo, she writes, writes. Wonders, ponders, a tad, not that much. Her

brain is more feeling like turning into mush, it is that time of year, that time of the

semester. Now and here, @ the very start. When she still has to hunt for a studiospace,

still has to do all the admin stuff. When she has to settle in into some kind of reluctant

routine. The ocean factory doesn’t care, neither do the clouds motioning by behind it. She

writes, writes. Spellchecking would be good, could be good. Why not, why not? It is kind

of good that no one ever reads her stuff, as frustrating as it is, it spares her the snickers of

disapprovemenr. it makes her write more, forcefully. No one critiques, thus she might as

well write. No naysayers, that seems to be pretty good. She can just produce stuff until

the cows come home. Words. Sentences, dots, and commas. Always commas. The

keyboard rattles, relentlessly. Too much words, too much words, way too many many

words. Page seven is coming to an end, not bad for two days. She writes, writes, writes,

writes some more.

---

another page, another page. This is actually page 8, so, there, this is going pretty

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fast. She started yesterday and the words are pretty evenly splashing onto the page. Like

gesso, maybe. Like underpaint, overpaint. Not that many hiccups and the ones that are

there, are good, submerging her prose into a lightsea of sprinkled dots. This place is oh so

desolate, very very lonely, just her and all these computers. The maclab. Outside the sun

shining, brightly, outside granville island is happening, forcefully. She writes, writes,

writes. Ah, why not, why not? 77 pages will be finished in no time, she will have ample

time to splash paint on canvases. This is not how she should work, she should start

making a film, go to the animationlab, start getting her permission to use the linetester,

she should do this, do that. Start a film, any film will do. She has sooo many ideas, there

are so many storylines, ah, so little time. Typing text should help. Will help. Is utterly

addictive, watching one’s fingers press down these buttons. Kind of like a dance, her

fingers are like legs, tapping over the keyboard, the squares reacting to the pushing down,

the text emerging. Ah, magic.

This is page eight, but she said that already. There should be more pressing issues

than this, better, more valuable issues. Life and death issues. Politics, questions of who is

right, who is wrong. Who is bad, who is good? Questions of team A versus team B. not

just text waxing on ‘bout sunshine, lollipops. she writes, writes. would prefer to be

somewhere else, somewhere far far away from a keyboard. Where words don’t count,

where paint rules paramount. Maybe the painting studio.

She ponders: what if someone she knows will read this, what if, what if. Yep, this

is what methinks, and I never got committed. Page 8, page eight, page 8.

Start of page 9, words are stalling. This keyboard here in the maclab is a little too

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easy to the touch, typos are unavoidable, the keyboard is so very inviting to typos, it is

tough, tough, tough.

Page nine, page nine. She is getting crazy in here, she should scream, take this

fucking keyboard and smash it into, into, let’s see, hmm, into what? A skull, the window,

her own head? Maybe insanity is not her thing, not yet, not anymore. Walking down to

the market seems so much more pleasant, what with the sun shining over the sugary idyll

that is granville island. Maybe there are not enuf clouds in the sky. That must be it, no

action, too much stagnation makes her certifiably nauseated.

Maybe she should write about art, on art, this being an art school. She had enuf of

art. That’s it, that’s it. Eschewing the relentless obscurity of art, that is her forte. Should

be, could be. Anti-art rants, that should pay the bill. She watches her middlefinger tap all

over this keyboard, the air conditioner makes noises, too metallic, too obnoxious. If this

damn page ever comes to an end, she can leave, leave, fresh air, here I come. Pageend

where art thou?

Somehow there are better words, more eloquence, less screeching of the wheels of

the language. Better orthography, better lingo, better grammar, a whole lotta better. She

writes anyways, that seems to do the trick. If you keep on doing what you do, there will

be a reward. A house on the hill. Maybe. A trip to amsterdam. Maybe. She writes, writes,

writes. At this point she’ll be happy to finish up with this school, grasp her piece of paper

dearly, dance out of this place. That should do, could do. After all, it is a start. She writes,

writes, writes. One day down the line there will be drawing involved, painting involved.

She writes, writes.

---

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