GAMING: An Intro
I have been waiting and hoping for months, a little note on my calendar, telling me today is the day. Standing in line, toes bouncing, head bobbing back and forth, waiting. Always waiting. Finally, the line moves, I get to the register. My card is handed over without a thought. Quickly sign, then out the door. After an excruciating ride home, tucked in the bag in the passenger seat, I toss aside everything else and hold it in my hands. Cellophane tries to prevent my feverish progress as I grasp at the exasperating corners of plastic. With this aside, I slide a scissor along the security strip, finally able to open the case. There it is. So perfect and beautiful, this copy having never been seen before by human eyes. Lovingly, I extrapolate the game from its gripping tabs and place it into the tray of my XBOX 360. The adventure is ready to begin.
I: If Necessity Is the Mother of Invention, Boredom Is the Brainchild of Innovation
Yes folks, I speak of the classic video game, in this case a video game for the XBOX 360. Without a doubt, upon first reading this, many would suspect that I, the author, am a boy. It's a stereotype that has been perpetuated both in the video game industry and in society throughout video games' history. So for me, a twenty year old woman, to not only like video games, but to be avidly obsessed with them, as well as proficient at playing them, takes many by surprise.
What isn't surprising is how the video game industry has evolved, especially over the past two decades. Contrary to popular belief, video games are a lot older than many suspect. The first video game, titled "Tennis for Two", was created in 1947 to play on an oscilloscope-like device. Incredible advances have been made in game design, specifically: AI (artificial intelligence), "real life" physics, and graphics.
Video games were once a "sport" of solitude, or played with any friends you could convince to come over and gather around the screen. Unfortunately for me, my friends would complain I was too good, that they didn't "get" how to play, and would rather do something else- like go outside, God forbid. But with the implementation of multiplayer and networks that can connect tens of millions of people from every country and language in the world, video games have become anything but a solitary activity. Such became the ultimate competitiveness that we see. Gamers constantly talk (or type), their language always evolving. Some phrases thrown around, like "pwning", "n00bs", "campers", "snipers", "fanboys", "NPCs", "RPGs", "RTFM", all sorts of lingo and insults that anyone outside of the gaming community wouldn't fully understand. Simple differences in spelling can be key as well. While a "newb" is a newbie, someone new to a game and inexperienced, but with a will to make mistakes and learn, a "n00b" is once again an inexperienced player, but put quite simply, a pain in everyone's ass. They whine and complain on forums, on chats, and during games about how terrible they are, but will not accept anyone's help or take advice on how to better their skills. Instead, they choose to pick on other players, many times accusing them of cheating, or outright begging for items that any player could easily earn with a little work.
II: You Think You're Smart, Private? Well, Do Ya?
Because the gaming industry is geared towards a predominantly male audience, it is obvious the industry will cater to its consumer. And what is expected to please adolescent boys? Violence, fast cars, and girls. Lots and lots of girls. Jokingly said, "Video game boobs are the closest those boys are ever getting to second base, much less a home run."
III: The Long Road to Success Is Dangerous... And Filled With Zombies
IV: So You Think You Want More Adventure? Look Out For Knee-Seeking Arrows
I just decided to add this little section because they are some pretty cool sites that I found and used for my research that I wanted to pass on to my readers.
http://www.webdesignerdepot.com/2008/12/video-game-design-between-1990-2008/
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Thursday, April 5, 2012
A Revision to the Final
I have been waiting and hoping for months, a little note on my calendar, telling me today is the day. Standing in line, toes bouncing, head bobbing back and forth, waiting. Always waiting. Finally, the line moves, I get to the register. My card is handed over without a thought. Quickly sign, then out the door. After an excruciating ride home, tucked in the bag in the passenger seat, I toss aside everything else and hold it in my hands. Cellophane tries to prevent my feverish progress as I grasp at the exasperating corners of plastic. With this aside, I slide a scissor along the security strip, finally able to open the case. There it is. So perfect and beautiful, this copy having never been seen before by human eyes. Lovingly, I extrapolate the game from its gripping tabs and place it into the tray of my XBOX 360. The adventure is ready to begin.
Yes folks, I speak of the classic video game, in this case a video game for the XBOX 360. Without a doubt, upon first reading this, many would suspect that I, the author, am a boy. It's a stereotype that has been perpetuated both in the video game industry and in society throughout video games' history. So for me, a twenty year old woman, to not only like video games, but to be avidly obsessed with them, as well as proficient at playing them, takes many by surprise.
-Not sure how to transition-
-I just want to speak a little about the gaming community as well... Thoughts?-
Video games were once a "sport" of solitude, or played with any friends you could convince to come over and gather around the screen. Unfortunately for me, my friends would complain I was too good, that they didn't "get" how to play, and would rather do something else- like go outside, God forbid. But with the implementation of multiplayer and networks that can connect tens of millions of people from every country and language in the world, video games have become anything but a solitary activity. Such became the ultimate competitiveness that we see. Gamers constantly talk (or type), their language always evolving. Some phrases thrown around, like "pwning", "n00bs", "campers", "snipers", "fanboys", "NPCs", "RPGs", "RTFM", all sorts of lingo and insults that anyone outside of the gaming community wouldn't fully understand. Simple differences in spelling can be key as well. While a "newb" is a newbie, someone new to a game and inexperienced, but with a will to make mistakes and learn, a "n00b" is once again an inexperienced player, but put quite simply, a pain in everyone's ass. They whine and complain on forums, on chats, and during games about how terrible they are, but will not accept anyone's help or take advice on how to better their skills. Instead, they choose to pick on other players, many times accusing them of cheating, or outright begging for items that any player could easily earn with a little work.
-Maybe this doesn't fit after all. Still posting for this draft^^-
Because the gaming industry is geared towards a predominantly male audience, it is obvious the industry will cater to its consumer. And what is expected to please adolescent boys? Violence, fast cars, and girls. Lots and lots of girls. Jokingly said, "Video game boobs are the closest those boys are ever getting to second base, much less a home run."
Yes folks, I speak of the classic video game, in this case a video game for the XBOX 360. Without a doubt, upon first reading this, many would suspect that I, the author, am a boy. It's a stereotype that has been perpetuated both in the video game industry and in society throughout video games' history. So for me, a twenty year old woman, to not only like video games, but to be avidly obsessed with them, as well as proficient at playing them, takes many by surprise.
-Not sure how to transition-
-I just want to speak a little about the gaming community as well... Thoughts?-
Video games were once a "sport" of solitude, or played with any friends you could convince to come over and gather around the screen. Unfortunately for me, my friends would complain I was too good, that they didn't "get" how to play, and would rather do something else- like go outside, God forbid. But with the implementation of multiplayer and networks that can connect tens of millions of people from every country and language in the world, video games have become anything but a solitary activity. Such became the ultimate competitiveness that we see. Gamers constantly talk (or type), their language always evolving. Some phrases thrown around, like "pwning", "n00bs", "campers", "snipers", "fanboys", "NPCs", "RPGs", "RTFM", all sorts of lingo and insults that anyone outside of the gaming community wouldn't fully understand. Simple differences in spelling can be key as well. While a "newb" is a newbie, someone new to a game and inexperienced, but with a will to make mistakes and learn, a "n00b" is once again an inexperienced player, but put quite simply, a pain in everyone's ass. They whine and complain on forums, on chats, and during games about how terrible they are, but will not accept anyone's help or take advice on how to better their skills. Instead, they choose to pick on other players, many times accusing them of cheating, or outright begging for items that any player could easily earn with a little work.
-Maybe this doesn't fit after all. Still posting for this draft^^-
Because the gaming industry is geared towards a predominantly male audience, it is obvious the industry will cater to its consumer. And what is expected to please adolescent boys? Violence, fast cars, and girls. Lots and lots of girls. Jokingly said, "Video game boobs are the closest those boys are ever getting to second base, much less a home run."
Friday, March 23, 2012
Possible Final Paper Opener... Thoughts?
You've been waiting and hoping for months, a little note on your calendar, telling you today is the day. After an excruciating ride home, tucked in the bag in the passenger seat, you toss aside everything else and hold it in your hands. Cellophane tries to prevent your feverish progress as you grasp at the exasperating corners of plastic. With this aside, you slide a scissor along the security strip, finally able to open the case. There it is. So perfect and beautiful, this copy having never been seen before by human eyes. Lovingly, you extrapolate the game from its gripping tabs and place it into the tray of your XBOX 360. Your adventure is ready to begin.
Yes folks, I speak of the classic video game, in this case a video game for the XBOX 360. Without a doubt, upon first reading this, many would suspect that I, the author, am a boy. It's a stereotype that has been perpetuated both in the video game industry and in society throughout video games history. So for me, a twenty year old woman, to not only like video games, but to be avidly obsessed with them, as well as proficient at playing them, takes many by surprise.
-It's a work in progress, but I just want initial reactions.-
Yes folks, I speak of the classic video game, in this case a video game for the XBOX 360. Without a doubt, upon first reading this, many would suspect that I, the author, am a boy. It's a stereotype that has been perpetuated both in the video game industry and in society throughout video games history. So for me, a twenty year old woman, to not only like video games, but to be avidly obsessed with them, as well as proficient at playing them, takes many by surprise.
-It's a work in progress, but I just want initial reactions.-
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Project Proposal
1. What is your project?
I am proposing to create an anthology of the evolution of farming and FFA (Future Farmers of America) both in Montana and across the United States in the past 50 to 100 years.
2. What process will you use for primary research? (Who, where, what, etc.)
I want to interview my two of my old high school Agricultural Education teachers, my advisors, back in Missoula over Spring Break. I also would like to interview several professors here at MSU. Finally, I would like to interview several family members, including my paternal aunt, and all my remaining grandparents (one grandmas, three grandpas), since they all experienced farm life around the turn of the century. This correspondence will likely be over the phone, through email, or in person if a chance visit occurs.
3. What directions do you imagine your secondary research going?
I see the evolution of farming equipment paired with the industrial revolution being a huge part of my project, as well as more intense research about the history of FFA and of farming and the settlement of Montana.
4. Why is this an interesting subject for you?
I love the FFA and it has been huge part of my life for the past six years. I wasn't raised in a farming community, but I would really like to explore my own roots there, and if they are maybe "ancestral ties" as to why I so passionately wanted to become involved in FFA.
5. What questions do you have about the topic as you enter it? (These are important because they will help shape what you do at the beginning, but they will almost certainly change as you work on your project.)
I am curious if the fact that many of the products that we use and eat everyday truly influences the farming here in Montana, as well as the motives of many FFA contests and workshops. I already know that 90% of the beef produced in Montana (some of the best in the world) is sold overseas in China and Japan, and I am curious why the US settles for such poor beef. How does this affect the farmers here? Does this call for more efficient farming methods? Does this end up being cost effective? Just initial questions... :)
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
When I Look You In The Foot, I See Your Face
When you look across a room, when you cross paths on a walkway, when you're walking in your own little world, where does your gaze fall? When walking through the world on foot, supporting every step, is a shoe. Some walk through the world with their heads down, and their first impression of a person is the shoes they choose to wear.
High heels. Boots. Sandals. Tennis shoes. Wedges. Clogs. Slippers. Goulashes.
All functional. In their own way. Even if they look similar, each has its own unique story. Each has tread a unique path, has taken steps and trails, splashed through puddles and plodded through snow that no shoe will ever experience in the same way. Whether people like it or not, shoes are an important part of our lives, even if we only give them less than a second's thought. Purple laces, or grey laces? Do these wedges look good with capris, or are the sling backs a better fit? Do these come with velcro straps?
Even with the modern implementation of cars, walking (and subsequently the wearing of shoes) is a daily task. Getting dressed in the morning, some meticulously piece together each part of their outfit, hair ties matching makeup, belts matching shoes. There are dozens upon dozens of choices for which shoes to wear and each is placed lovingly in its own spot, ready to be chosen and shown off at a moments notice. Then there are those who shlep the day, sleeping until the last possible moment. Clothes are thrown on haphazardly and shoes are tugged, squashed, and mashed on, usually accompanied by a hop, hop, hop out the door and down the hall. But they are always there.
No matter their condition or how much thought or care is taken of them, shoes accompany us every day. Those who choose not wear shoes, jokingly called "trippy dippy hippies", are thought of as crazy, because who wants to go through life unprotected from the elements of the world? Who wants to be exposed to the muck that normally collects on the underside of a sole, wants to plod recklessly across gravel and hot tar during summers that are wished to never end? They have rips and tears, scuffs and scars, but they are loved just the same, if not more so. Some are held together with duct tape, bailing twine, an extra dose of crazy glue. But that day will finally come when a wound is inflicted that even duct tape cannot mend.
The soles are hopelessly holed, that tear along the heel is too large, the rain seeps too cold through the sock and in between the toes. Laces break, heels snap and crumble, tread wears off, embroidery and designs finally unravel and fall to the dust. We ties those laces together, stuff one shoe inside another, roll in a plastic bag if the smell is bad enough, and off to the landfill they go. The Land of Forgotten Shoes. The shoes who were there for junior prom, for the first time you rode a bike, walking on the beach with best friends, slippers snuggled by the fire on Christmas Eve. They are tossed aside, mashed in the grinder, gone.
But shoes are not people. Shoes are not memories, though they may hold them, bring them to mind. They are piled together pieces of rubber, leather, cotton, and polyester, nothing more. They may have kept feet warm, may have helped to climb a mountain, or showed off those calves at a high school reunion, but it seems important to add, that those in the shoes have so much more to offer than the shoes themselves. Because shoes, without a person, are just shoes. They will tread no paths, they will forge no trails, they will hike no mountains. The sole of the shoe may be rubber, but the soul of the shoe is the person who choses to give it life.
High heels. Boots. Sandals. Tennis shoes. Wedges. Clogs. Slippers. Goulashes.
All functional. In their own way. Even if they look similar, each has its own unique story. Each has tread a unique path, has taken steps and trails, splashed through puddles and plodded through snow that no shoe will ever experience in the same way. Whether people like it or not, shoes are an important part of our lives, even if we only give them less than a second's thought. Purple laces, or grey laces? Do these wedges look good with capris, or are the sling backs a better fit? Do these come with velcro straps?
Even with the modern implementation of cars, walking (and subsequently the wearing of shoes) is a daily task. Getting dressed in the morning, some meticulously piece together each part of their outfit, hair ties matching makeup, belts matching shoes. There are dozens upon dozens of choices for which shoes to wear and each is placed lovingly in its own spot, ready to be chosen and shown off at a moments notice. Then there are those who shlep the day, sleeping until the last possible moment. Clothes are thrown on haphazardly and shoes are tugged, squashed, and mashed on, usually accompanied by a hop, hop, hop out the door and down the hall. But they are always there.
No matter their condition or how much thought or care is taken of them, shoes accompany us every day. Those who choose not wear shoes, jokingly called "trippy dippy hippies", are thought of as crazy, because who wants to go through life unprotected from the elements of the world? Who wants to be exposed to the muck that normally collects on the underside of a sole, wants to plod recklessly across gravel and hot tar during summers that are wished to never end? They have rips and tears, scuffs and scars, but they are loved just the same, if not more so. Some are held together with duct tape, bailing twine, an extra dose of crazy glue. But that day will finally come when a wound is inflicted that even duct tape cannot mend.
The soles are hopelessly holed, that tear along the heel is too large, the rain seeps too cold through the sock and in between the toes. Laces break, heels snap and crumble, tread wears off, embroidery and designs finally unravel and fall to the dust. We ties those laces together, stuff one shoe inside another, roll in a plastic bag if the smell is bad enough, and off to the landfill they go. The Land of Forgotten Shoes. The shoes who were there for junior prom, for the first time you rode a bike, walking on the beach with best friends, slippers snuggled by the fire on Christmas Eve. They are tossed aside, mashed in the grinder, gone.
But shoes are not people. Shoes are not memories, though they may hold them, bring them to mind. They are piled together pieces of rubber, leather, cotton, and polyester, nothing more. They may have kept feet warm, may have helped to climb a mountain, or showed off those calves at a high school reunion, but it seems important to add, that those in the shoes have so much more to offer than the shoes themselves. Because shoes, without a person, are just shoes. They will tread no paths, they will forge no trails, they will hike no mountains. The sole of the shoe may be rubber, but the soul of the shoe is the person who choses to give it life.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
When I Look You In The Foot, I See Your Face
-DRAFT VERSION-
When you look across a room, when you cross paths on a walkway, when you're walking in your own little world, where does your gaze fall? Everyone walks through the world and on their feet, supporting every step, is a shoe. Some walk through the world with their heads down, and their first impression is of a person are the shoes they choose to wear.
High heels. Boots. Sandals. Tennis shoes. Wedges. Clogs.
All functional. In their own way. Even if they look similar, each has its own unique story. Each has tread a unique path, has taken steps and paths, splashed through puddles and plodded through snow that no shoe will ever experience in the same way.
-NOT FINAL-
When you look across a room, when you cross paths on a walkway, when you're walking in your own little world, where does your gaze fall? Everyone walks through the world and on their feet, supporting every step, is a shoe. Some walk through the world with their heads down, and their first impression is of a person are the shoes they choose to wear.
High heels. Boots. Sandals. Tennis shoes. Wedges. Clogs.
All functional. In their own way. Even if they look similar, each has its own unique story. Each has tread a unique path, has taken steps and paths, splashed through puddles and plodded through snow that no shoe will ever experience in the same way.
-NOT FINAL-
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Country Road, Take Me Home: The Life of A Country Doctor
http://life.time.com/photographers/life-classic-eugene-smiths-country-doctor/?iid=lf%7Clatest#1
Black and white. Scenes of death, disease, hardship. Also scenes of healing, joy, and new life. On their own, each photo portrays a different scene of a mid 1940s doctor. However, in a series, the photographs display the vast array of tasks doctors had to perform across the countryside during and after WWII.
Personally, I felt the arrangement of the photographs wasn't planned very well. There was a bit of juxtaposition of life and death, and grief and joy, but otherwise, the photographs were mainly ordered chronologically. I was confused why Ernest Ceriani (the doctor's) medical equipment picture was one of the last photographs. I felt it would have had a great impact on many of the photograph if shown earlier in the series, especially in the photographer showing the delivery of a baby. However, the final photograph is beautiful, the doctor going home at the end of the day, which I'll show below. It ends the series very nicely, showing the circular nature of the craft, going home only to be called out again, and probably at some ungodly hour.
Black and white. Scenes of death, disease, hardship. Also scenes of healing, joy, and new life. On their own, each photo portrays a different scene of a mid 1940s doctor. However, in a series, the photographs display the vast array of tasks doctors had to perform across the countryside during and after WWII.
Personally, I felt the arrangement of the photographs wasn't planned very well. There was a bit of juxtaposition of life and death, and grief and joy, but otherwise, the photographs were mainly ordered chronologically. I was confused why Ernest Ceriani (the doctor's) medical equipment picture was one of the last photographs. I felt it would have had a great impact on many of the photograph if shown earlier in the series, especially in the photographer showing the delivery of a baby. However, the final photograph is beautiful, the doctor going home at the end of the day, which I'll show below. It ends the series very nicely, showing the circular nature of the craft, going home only to be called out again, and probably at some ungodly hour.
What I have already briefly touched upon, the narrative of the hardships of life, but also the triumphs of life in the mid 1940s, is very clearly shown throughout the series. My favorite image from the series I will show below, but basically Dr. Ceriani is pulling out the baby, with the expression on his face that says, "Holy Crow! It's a baby! Would you look at that?" It just makes me smile, especially thinking about another picture in the series that shows a family surrounding a dead relative, sheet already pulled up over his chin. That this doctor can bring so much joy even after he has failed to save lives in the past truly is a testament to the human spirit.
Of course the main focus of this series is people, especially the duties of Dr. Ceriani, but there are also shots of the towns he worked in, as well as his equipment. All of these seem to add to the mystique of the doctor, the kind of back country feel you get from the title. I think the contrasts of dark and light, happy and sad, are what the photographer Ernest Smith was trying to satirically reflect about society at the time. Young men are dying by the millions in WWII, the world has already suffered the hardships of WWI. And yet, life goes on. Babies are born, people get kicked by horses, little Jimmy down the street has a cut on his arm that needs stitches. I think Smith was trying to examine the thought process and the lifestyle that Dr. Ceriani plays out every day, yeah this shit is hard, but it's worth it.
I think these photographs could have also served a purpose to the United States government after the conclusion of WWII, that "Look everybody! We know your sons died out there, but look at how beautiful life can still be!" It also is a way to desensitize grief, that there are other people out there suffering from a loss, so if they can keep on living, so can you. Whether or not this series was used for that purpose, I'm really grateful for this assignment, as I likely never would have seen this series otherwise.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Anything Not About Elephants Is Just Irrelephant
When I first went to look for photographs for this assignment, I just looked for photographs that were aesthetically pleasing. Beautiful pictures. I also wanted these photographs to pull at my artistic heartstrings, wish I could some day have the opportunity to shoot myself. When I came across this photograph, I was instantly taken over. Incredibly beautiful, serene, and compositionally golden. I actually don't know the photographer who shot this, but whoever they are, they created a gorgeous narrative.
The lighting used, around sunset, created a silhouette of both the elephant, the focus of the photograph, and the trees. The light reflected off the clouds was also paired with the sunset and the reflection in the water, giving the photograph a yellow tinge. As for the composition, the law of thirds definitely applies, both horizontally and vertically. Horizontally, the first third is filled with the foreground, the watering hole. The second third, the middle ground, holds the elephant, the trees, and the sunset. The uppermost third is comprised of the thick, cumulous clouds. Vertically, the first third is filled with the elephant, the second, by the sunset, and the third, by the collection of trees.
Beyond the technical aspects of this photograph, it seems to emit feelings of immenseness, of eternity. Just as the African elephant is the largest land mammal, so is the seemingly endless extent of clouds. The perspective of the photograph, single point perspective, also adds to feeling of distance and enormity. At the same time, a photograph like this is special, because each intricate piece only comes together in a single moment. It is a matter of capturing this moment that makes it unique. And just as it is rare to have all the pieces come together, so also are African elephants, as well as the vast savannas they call home. Perhaps the photograph had an environmental objective, to display this giant in its home.
Continuing with the environmental argument, this photograph seems to present a narrative of a lost time. A lumbering herbivore, alone in the wilderness, as the final rays of light pass over the tall grass. Perhaps this time, this next century, may be the final hours for this creature and many others who inhabit the savanna. I may be inserting a bit of anthropomorphism, but this magnificent animal seems to have purpose as it continues on. The rays of light seem to instill the viewer with a sign of hope, that humans may be able to help prevent their extinction. Overall, this photograph conveys of feeling of doubt and, conversely, hope. There's something beautiful in trying to explain something you can't understand.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
This Is Not An Apology
Hello classmates.
See, when I left class today, I felt like an idiot. I completely embarrassed myself by crying in front of a group of people I barely know. And to be honest, I cried about something that I did not completely explain. Nor do I want to at this time.
However, the reason this is not an apology, as stated in my title, is because I'm not going to apologize for my emotions. What I felt was real, and needed to happen. Still, I would rather that my reaction would have come at a different time, or when you all know me better. Life had other ideas. C'este la vie. (For all you out there, that's "such is life".)
I am a bit of a shy person. I would have wished to show the extent of my emotions when we had known each other better. But I just wanted to explain that I am fine. I will be okay, and that will likely because of the experiences I gain in this class. So thank you for your understanding.
Sincerely,
Tess
See, when I left class today, I felt like an idiot. I completely embarrassed myself by crying in front of a group of people I barely know. And to be honest, I cried about something that I did not completely explain. Nor do I want to at this time.
However, the reason this is not an apology, as stated in my title, is because I'm not going to apologize for my emotions. What I felt was real, and needed to happen. Still, I would rather that my reaction would have come at a different time, or when you all know me better. Life had other ideas. C'este la vie. (For all you out there, that's "such is life".)
I am a bit of a shy person. I would have wished to show the extent of my emotions when we had known each other better. But I just wanted to explain that I am fine. I will be okay, and that will likely because of the experiences I gain in this class. So thank you for your understanding.
Sincerely,
Tess
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Plantation Overseer
Plantation overseer. Before even looking at this photograph, I have an impression of what I can be expected to see. So are the power of words paired with past connotations and experiences. Still, my first glance at this photograph did not fail to disappoint. A group of four African Americans, lounges on the steps of a general store. Meanwhile in the foreground, an overweight white man, presumably the landowner, or in other words the plantation overseer, leans against a shiny car. Adding to the mood of the scene overall is that fact that this photograph was shot in black and white, not out of an artistic choice, but reflecting the era when this photograph was taken. Similarly, the clothing all five men reveal the age of the photograph, probably from around 1890 to 1920.
Back to the people in the scene, the landowner's pose seams to convey smugness as well as importance. The glances the four African Americans are giving this man seems to add more to his overall impression. In particular, the man standing in the back left has an expression of frustration and anger. Could this possibly come from the fact that the landowner is being photographed? Maybe this man speculates that a photograph will increase the landowner's already over inflated ego.
However, if the landowner hoped to be the soul focus of the photograph, he was sorely disappointed. Because of the depth of field used, a large depth of field, all of the subjects of the photograph are clear and in focus. The eye seems to be drawn in a pattern from the white landowner diagonally across the three faces of the sitting men and up to the upper left hand corner to the standing man. This pattern seems to possibly suggest the societal importance of each person; the order in which they are noticed is the order in which society will serve them.
At this point in my analysis, I decided to re-look at the photograph, as I seemed to have run off on a bit of a side tangent. That's when I noticed the Coca-Cola sign on the side of the building. I had failed to notice it, as well as the license plate the landowner was leaning on. Had this been a color photo, or had used older techniques of "painting" color into photos, a viewer's eye may have been more drawn to them. Also, our eyes are usually more drawn to text, but the variation of the facial expressions from the five men. I also found it interesting that all five men are wearing hats, the four in the front wearing variations of fedoras, while the standing man is wearing a newsboy hat.
The overall feel of the photograph conveys a dark, moody air. While the landowner is standing erectly, he doesn't seem particularly happy. Neither do the four African Americans, all with varying types of grimaces. I think it likely portrays a time of hardship and frustration. Which always seemed to be Dorothea's specialty.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Why I Write
Why I write. Three simple words. Yet, when I sit here and try to type a cohesive and coherent explanation, I just worry that I don't have the time or space to fully explain my reasons.
Writing has always been a passion of mine. I always wrote stories as a child, I even entered into a Reading Rainbow competition. As I got older, I took summer classes with other kids who had the same drive as myself. In high school, I was a part of two literary magazines. I didn't have to do any of these things. I was never obligated by credit stipulations, or the desires of my friends or family. I actively and independently pursued such endeavors. Why? Mostly, because of my passion to read.
I read like a maniac. Plain and simple. Sometimes I can finish ten books in a week. But have you ever had a time when you finished a book, and all you could think was, "What kind of crap was that?" Even though writing is essential to our communicating with all the people around us, it is astounding how poorly some people practice it. When these people try to make a profession out of it, let's just say it leads to a lot of hair pulling and frustration. What is the point of this diatribe? Whenever I finished, or put down, these kind of books, I thought to myself, "I can write something so much better."
I am a daydreamer. I come up with scenarios nearly constantly, trying to guess what my friends will say before they finished their sentences, or toying with how one event will go if a certain person acted or reacted a certain way. I can't help myself. I think sometimes it is my escape for a reality that can be much too mundane for my liking. My favorite genre of book being fantasy/science fiction, I am more than wrapped up in the imaginings of the impossible. How long as a kid I waited for my Hogwarts letter, never to have it arrive, or hoping someday I would find a dragon egg.
Writing stories was just something I did as a kid, on those days when I realized that maybe this world may not have magic, or faeries, or vampires, but any place I could write and describe could. Writing for me is about creating something no one has ever written before. I may be wrong on this, but I believe someone said there are only seven plots, and the rest are just details. At first, this can be very discouraging for a writer. But I find it thrilling. Say, for example, how "The Lion King" is based of Shakespeare's "Hamlet". When you start to pair their similarities, this becomes apparent. However, if you look at either with their style of writing, the language used, the characters, what drives plot, you have vastly different writings. So maybe it is true that there are no original plots, but there is always your original self to place into them.
I am somewhat terrified of being forgotten. Maybe not now, or in ten or fifty years. But someday, after I'm dead, when no one on this planet has ever seen my face, known my laugh, or smiled with me. No one has ever heard my stories, and no one knows my life. I am afraid that this jumble experiences, my life, will be forgotten. Everything that I have experienced will be for nothing. This isn't an argument of the existence of a God, this is the fundamental idea that without the presence of yourself, your soul, your ideas, your human body, you will no longer be remembered. But obviously, this doesn't happen to everyone. Those who record their stories, their ideas, are forever in the folds of the collective knowledge of life. For example, J.D. Salinger, may he rest in peace, will always be known for "The Catcher in the Rye" (coincidentally one of my favorite books). No amount of time will ever diminish the success of his writing, nor how his words and characters touched the lives and hearts of his readers, and of a nation.
I guess I write to be remembered, for people to know a side of myself they will never see. That even if I am dead and gone, a piece of my soul lingers on, hoping to inspire others.
Writing has always been a passion of mine. I always wrote stories as a child, I even entered into a Reading Rainbow competition. As I got older, I took summer classes with other kids who had the same drive as myself. In high school, I was a part of two literary magazines. I didn't have to do any of these things. I was never obligated by credit stipulations, or the desires of my friends or family. I actively and independently pursued such endeavors. Why? Mostly, because of my passion to read.
I read like a maniac. Plain and simple. Sometimes I can finish ten books in a week. But have you ever had a time when you finished a book, and all you could think was, "What kind of crap was that?" Even though writing is essential to our communicating with all the people around us, it is astounding how poorly some people practice it. When these people try to make a profession out of it, let's just say it leads to a lot of hair pulling and frustration. What is the point of this diatribe? Whenever I finished, or put down, these kind of books, I thought to myself, "I can write something so much better."
I am a daydreamer. I come up with scenarios nearly constantly, trying to guess what my friends will say before they finished their sentences, or toying with how one event will go if a certain person acted or reacted a certain way. I can't help myself. I think sometimes it is my escape for a reality that can be much too mundane for my liking. My favorite genre of book being fantasy/science fiction, I am more than wrapped up in the imaginings of the impossible. How long as a kid I waited for my Hogwarts letter, never to have it arrive, or hoping someday I would find a dragon egg.
Writing stories was just something I did as a kid, on those days when I realized that maybe this world may not have magic, or faeries, or vampires, but any place I could write and describe could. Writing for me is about creating something no one has ever written before. I may be wrong on this, but I believe someone said there are only seven plots, and the rest are just details. At first, this can be very discouraging for a writer. But I find it thrilling. Say, for example, how "The Lion King" is based of Shakespeare's "Hamlet". When you start to pair their similarities, this becomes apparent. However, if you look at either with their style of writing, the language used, the characters, what drives plot, you have vastly different writings. So maybe it is true that there are no original plots, but there is always your original self to place into them.
I am somewhat terrified of being forgotten. Maybe not now, or in ten or fifty years. But someday, after I'm dead, when no one on this planet has ever seen my face, known my laugh, or smiled with me. No one has ever heard my stories, and no one knows my life. I am afraid that this jumble experiences, my life, will be forgotten. Everything that I have experienced will be for nothing. This isn't an argument of the existence of a God, this is the fundamental idea that without the presence of yourself, your soul, your ideas, your human body, you will no longer be remembered. But obviously, this doesn't happen to everyone. Those who record their stories, their ideas, are forever in the folds of the collective knowledge of life. For example, J.D. Salinger, may he rest in peace, will always be known for "The Catcher in the Rye" (coincidentally one of my favorite books). No amount of time will ever diminish the success of his writing, nor how his words and characters touched the lives and hearts of his readers, and of a nation.
I guess I write to be remembered, for people to know a side of myself they will never see. That even if I am dead and gone, a piece of my soul lingers on, hoping to inspire others.
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