.the buck stops here

you can now find Shannon at http://wailingblend.livejournal.com/ ... Trust me, it's for the best. Better photo posts, sleeker layout, happier me, and therefore more frequent posts. I mean, check it, it's cool.

. I dreaded those locks.

I just spent 11 hours on a dude's dreads. The sad part is, they're not that fantabulous - our equipment/my experience prevented him from having a beautiful set of tight, maintenance simple dreads. I mean, he's not ruined, he can have good dreads, he'll just need to work hard. He also hasn't quite grasped that dreads = high maintenance hair. That will, as in all cases, either sink in very quickly or lead to some ugly locks.

Turns out being a hippie doesn't qualify me as a hairstylist.
Plan b: professional floral gunstuffer.

. my glass half-overflows.

A slight damper in the works of gallery shows, friends.

I had my first major meeting about the whole gladstone shebang- turns out that the group accountant is a raging pessimist. She spent most of the meeting solemn-faced, and insistently panicked about everything that could go wrong. I spent most of the meeting expressing my confidence in the quality of the group's work, my faith that all deadlines would be met, and that all pressing questions concerning the gallery and thematics surrounding the photographs would be answered in the fullness of time. I'm pretty sure she didn't believe me, much as I tried to get her to be happy about the whole thing.

Since I'm kind of ( eep) slipping into a leadership role, I refuse to be one of those miserable planners that drenches every step with worry. Not I! Who's kidding who? Every adventure is but one mis-step from disaster. Acknowledge it, put your faith in Jesus, get over yourself, and move on.

So there. Ima stoically stick to my optimistic guns.

.It's like we're real artists or something

So, Background: Contact is Canada's largest photography festival. Every May, close to a million people descend on Toronto to visit the 200 formal and informal venues that display the work of over 500 artists, ranging from the super famous to obscure emerging artists. Though the venues can be as small as tiny street corner booths, there are twenty five "hubs" - major exhibitions by key artists in key locations, heavily visited by art dealers, tourists, and professionals.
Most galleries in Toronto are booked for it eleven months in advance, and the hubs are for people like Edward Burtynsky, Nan Goldin, and retrospectives on artists like Avedon.
But my friends and I decided to give it a try. One of the "hubs" had a juried call for exhibitors. Long shot at best. And kind of compounded by the fact that I wrote up our proposal about a half hour before the deadline. It was the first formal proposal I had ever written. The group kind of forgot about it - we were against dozens of established artists and collectives with a lot more experience. We've been dejectedly looking for plan Bs, and had almost given up on CONTACT, since all the galleries are booked solid.

We got it. A full month in the Gladstone Hotel, with our own gallery, promotions, crazy assed opening, in one of the best locations in Toronto.

Holy CRAP.

*note to Chris: this pic of you was one of the 4 images that got us in - thanks for being in front of my lens. You rock.

.Eleanor Winters was a babe

Some good news to brighten up cold days:
1) I was given a lightly used, rather high quality mp3 tape recorder. I mean, it has a wee built-in mic and it doesn't even have to plug into the wall. I'm going to stuff it down my shirt and record strangers on the Tee-Tee-Cee.
2) Positive meeting with a fiery prof of mine today. She said lots of good things - and my ego needed the boost. Then she bought me a doughnut.
3) Best of all, I've been granted a solo show in the Eleanor Winters Art Gallery, February 11th to 16th. It's going to be expensive, and glorious. All stops will be pulled - and every Thom, Dick and Harry will be invited to the opening reception. There will be booze, glory, and art, sweet art. It's a small gallery, but if I work the space, it'll be well received. Anyone want to help me do receipt rubber cementing over the break?

. Off work at five

hurrah! Tomorrow I go to my aunt terry's to be fed. Free food, watching the Colbert report, and talking with a human being who isn't stressed about exams. (I'm betting you don't qualify under that heading).

Sounds like a sunday to me!

.to drive one to drink

aw gee. work's not going so well at the Absinthe pub. I forgot to restock pitas and tortillas, and also to make extra garlic bread on saturday night.

I got called into my boss' office this morning, was told I was taking advantage of the place, was dicking around, talking to my friends too much, and was generally not up to par. I was told to clean up my act or else. I did the head nodding thing, and throughout the whole session felt gradually worse and worse physically.

I went into the kitchen afterward, my hands shaking like leaves. I got tunnel vision, thought, "oh. no," and promptly fainted. CRAP.

.ween!

Yay!
The ween show was awesome. I almost didn't make it, since my concert buddy got lost in the middle of critical mass and we couldn't find each other. How someone can lose 100 people on blinky-light bicycles is beyond me, but it happened. We reunited, and went into the concert, which was kind of massive. So many bodies. It was so much fun, I didn't even drink. Check out some of the ween videos on this blog.

My planter friend Al and I bathed in the afterglow by going to Fran's and ordering four coffees each, and biking very, very slowly around downtown.
Then I ate a slice of pizza which was much larger than my head.
Biking back uptown in the pouring rain was pretty intense afterwards.
I slept with ween in my headphones.

.Blargh! Yorked!

I have to voice my annoyance at York...it's been a tense week regarding cash flow. New glasses, 70 dollar art project, you know. But- I was supposed to get paid this week, so everything would be fine.
Not.
All student employees in fine arts haven't received pay. When three of us went in en masse to figure out what was happening, the department told us that the woman in charge of our pay was on vacation. Vacation.
Please, York. Don't tell me that I need to live on $3.17 for two weeks, begging for money to finish my art projects and gain the gift of sight, just because someone went on vacation.
I'd go get some retail therapy, if I didn't know it would cost me more than $3.17.

.What the night operator told me

"So, I work nights." Says Dave, the late night operations engineer at the utility building. We've just met.
"Mostly, nothing special happens, I'll go weeks without seeing another soul on the job. But sometimes things get weird, y'know? Like two months ago. I was about to go for my smoke, when I see this kid, poking a tree with a stick. Just standin' there, poking it. I'm like, is he having a bad trip or somethin? Is he battling some sort of tree-rex?
Anyway, I phoned security, thought he might need some help. But I decided I'd be all brave and see what was up. I go out there with my smoke and ask him whats up. and he just looks at me funny and says
'I was studying, dude- in the tree. Look.' and I look up, and sure enough, there's a backpack on a branch. With a raccoon sitting on it. Apparently this kid saw this raccon coming for him and decided to give up the branch, but had second thoughts when he realized his textbooks were worth 300 dollars. So I start shaking the tree, and the raccoon goes higher, and sure enough the kid climbs the tree and gets his books. Then asked, him, well, what the hell are you doing studying in a tree at three am, anyway?
'you have to understand, dude,' the kid said, 'it's perfect focus up there. That tree is a study tree.'
and that," Dave says, finishing his cigarette, "is why I never could figure out you fine arts kids."
Happy Monday.

.the aeroport

Today I made a pilgramage to Pearson airport, too see Thom off on his flight, and deliver his birthday present, his christmas present, and also a small container of 1950's appetizers.
Prunes stuffed with peanut butter, wrapped in bacon - now that is my love language. The thought had to be the thing that counted, though, since Thom's stomach was in no mood to accept even the most wholesome and postmodern food, let alone mine. I gave it to some hungover kids instead...apparently, they were the best thing to happen to them today so far. Score one for 50's housewives.
I think that saying goodbye and giving him these tiny, handmade packages with "November 18th" and "December 25th" written on them shone some light on the meaning of "token of my affection"- because if I tried to cram the affection in a box, I can guarantee it wouldn't fit in carry-on.
Thom gets a hand heart from me.

. broken glass, broken glass.

Last night was pretty awesome.

Me and Christopher Jardin biked downtown at warpspeed in order to attend a punk/hardcore show at Sneaky Dee's. Listen, I wasn't wearing the uniform for that kind of show, I looked like a total hippie. Jesus tee and all.
By the end of the show, I had blood on my Jesus tee (not mine), wicked bruises across both thighs, one pair of busted glasses, and one semi-black eye. It's not a really bad black eye, it just looks like my left eye hasn't slept in days.
When the bands started playing, felt strangely sucked into the moshpit. I forgot to take off my glasses. That was fine for the first two bands, but the third one was the killing kind- the kind that throws beer on the crowd, takes off their clothes, and throws themselves into the crowd. I think I solely held the lead singer three or four times. The stage was only knee high, which gave the added element of fear for a busted set of patella, should the crowd throw you the wrong way.
So the crowd surfers were pretty out of hand. Kamikaze, I swear, because they were jumping directly into this suckerpunch of a mosh pit/my face. The busted glasses and blackish eye happened when a Doc marten landed in left eye socket. my glasses fell to the floor, and I gave them up for lost. Chris jardin got elbowed super hard in the nose, but he found my glasses in the scuffle. The arm was broken off, but miraculously, the lenses don't have a scratch on them.
Now I'm sore. But it was sweet to hang with Chris, and sweeter to sleep like a baby afterward.
punk may be better therapy than I had previously thought.

.This job winning system needs work.

The man is getting me down. Today I had the interview for becoming the official Winters photographer, a job with good money ($20/hr(!)) and more importantly, experience I desperately need in event photography. If you want to make a living with a camera, you need to learn to do events. Mostly weddings.
Anywho, it turns out that I pretty much wowed them, and they offered me the job five minutes into the interview. Seriously.
We were all delighted, and so we sat down just to chat. They asked me about the jobs I have now. When I told them about the darkroom, my first interviewer actually clapped his hands at the prospect of their photographer having 24 hour access to the photo labs.
Then the bureaucratic bomb dropped.
York University policy states that I can't have two work study positions, and the dark room counts.
Le sigh. The look on the college staff faces was like a kid whose ice cream had dropped off the cone. So, bottom line, they're petitioning the university to make an exception, but the chances are slim to none.
I got the job, but I (grumble) didn't get the job. pooh.

.The ballad of John and Nezeah

Living in residence is a short experience at best, with a turnover rate, room to room, of a mere four to eight months. Consequently, me and my current rez buddies often recieve mail and phone calls for residents who have lived here months and even years before. The following is a verbatim set of messages that have been left on my neighbour's machine, from a guy named John to girl named Nezeah.

1)hey nezeah, it's john, I was glad you called me and uhh...yeah, I'd love to get together on Saturday, how do you feel about dance cave, after we do, like, dinner or something? You can just call me back on my cell, ciao bella!

two days later:
yeah, Nezeah, uh, call me back, ok? It's John, and uhh, you sounded like you wanted to do something, so, dance cave, right? Call me!

next day: (dejected tone) Nezeah, yeah, it's john, and , you haven't called me back, so...I'll be at dance cave tonight. I hope I'll see you there, but if I don't, yeah. I hope you're there, Peace.

My neighbour couldnt call poor john back, because he never left his cell number. She changed her answering machine greeting to

"Hey John, this is Chelsea. Sorry, not Nezeah, Chelsea. I hope you get her real number, but this isnt it. It's not that she doesn't like you!"

Oh John, I hope you find her eventually.

.I dont even HAVE fruit.

Ok, so my room is infested with fruit flies. I have gotten rid of any conceivable foodstuff that might be causing it, but they just won't go away...solutions, anyone?

.Sunday. It had better be a fun day.

Won't lie. This week was pretty crap. The critique kind of bombed, mostly because of blunt and harsh criticism from my brilliant and bitter professor. Turns out that he was a contractor for many years and doesn't take kindly to just anybody trying to up and make a construction project with a big idea and the wrong kind of hinges.
And I'm too sensitive about that sort of thing, so after the critique I ran to the washroom, cried for an hour despite trying to gain control and go back to class, and threw up for sheer trauma.
Afterwards, my prof apologized and said that his criticism was out of line, that the second he had spoken, he knew that he had shattered me. He said he hadn't meant to do it. He said he mistakenly had thought I was cocky, when really I was fragile.

Even though I know it's just an art piece, I still haven't been able to sleep, knowing that the failed piece is still up in fine arts, and that I can't burn it for firewood to assuage my pride.

So tomorrow is Sunday...hope something good happens. I'll bike downtown, that might help. It usually does. I went to Canadian Tire today with some old friends, but sadly, Canadian tire is best done with a big budget and no conscience of how little one needs a smart crockpot that will cook your meals and flambe your bananas at the moment of entry into home after work. (but I wanted that crockpot bad,anyway)

.tool//time

The house thanksgiving was awesome as usual...Tofurkey, laugh attacks, and pie, pie, pie. Today's food hangover has been pretty extreme. I'd like to sleep/bike it off, but instead I have to...
Build a box.

After three weeks of no ideas for my first fourth year art project, I finally got an ok one...except that involves constructing a 4' by 4' wooden cube with a door, lighting, carpeting, and panelling. The concept is to have the little claustrophobic walls inside covered with photos of people staring into the lens (re: at you.) Only one person can fit into this miniature gallery at a time. All right, deep. Fine.

Too bad I'm terrified of building anything that requires a measuring tape. I can hammer things and work a staple gun. That's it.
Between my Dad and I knocking heads together for an afternoon, I got the frame done. Two days left. It's going to be epic.

.Thursdays...blursdays.

Today, when I showed up for scary advanced explorations with Jon Baturin, I understood that it was critique day. I understood that I would not be showing work today, instead showing it with the second group next week.

Not so.

He told me I was first on the list to present. I practically choked on my breakfast sandwich. After spluttering my fuckup, he made an example of me, then told me I could go next week. I blushed then cried.

Oh dear. Today isn't off to a great start. Hopefully my Canada's wonderland fearfest date will turn things up.

.chalked doors- and more

York's fire warden sent a top down order a few weeks ago that all residences had to take down their bulletin boards and door signs, and anything on the doors of residents.
Basically, the order is to prevent York from being sued in case of fire rather than preventing fires, but there you have it. If you've ever lived in residence, you'll know how important a doorsign and a bulletin board can be, for good feng shui and connecting.
Anyway, I was bummed at being faced with door after faceless door, not knowing who lived where. I had some chalk on hand, so I decorated mine up (album art from hayden, a white board, and some buttons). It looked snazzy, I was pleased, and I wrote a little note on the white board telling passerby that I'd give them chalk if they'd like.
One week later, and at least half of my floor and a good many doors throughout the residence have been chalked, and not just with my chalk. There are doors with calligraphy names, doors with full on murals, doors with drunken signatures by friends, and doors with fireproof doorbells installed.
It's spreading, too. I'm excited! yay for my home!

.a bike named massey

Today I took my bike Massey downtown, and I biked all the way there. I went with some bike activists to Critical mass, this big shindig where a couple hundred riders just...take over the road. There were some awesome bikes, lots of cute people with dreadlocks, and one guy who had installed a surfboard on his bike so he could just surf when he'd picked up speed. Thats right...too cool. Botoom line was that it was a good time. I feared for my life on the way down though, because all these hardcore cyclists were telling me to weave through traffic with them.
Listen, I don't weave. Massey, beautiful bike that it is, doesn't qualify under the hardcore city messenger bike heading. I came about a hair from hitting a car. The driver threatened me with death.
The ride finished in Kensington market, so we stopped in to check see if Chris was home. He wasn't. Fran was, and we went out for Vietnamese.
So, all in all, I probably biked between 60 and 70 kilometres today. My ass is killing me. Me and biking are going to be more than friends.