Milena Kalinovska

Milena Kalinovska- say that five times fast. I dare you.

Today in class, a girl announced that a visiting curator from Washington D.C. would be lecturing in the Museum of Art at 7 p.m. To encourage people to go, Soper said that we could use it in for our "Great Works Response." So, of course, I went. It was either going to this droll, exhausting lecture or enduring a 2-hour Western. I went and it was, of course, amazing.

I arrived five minutes late to a packed gallery of students writing feverishly in their notebooks. When the door closes, only one or two turn; the rest are too engrossed in the obvious grandeur of the lecture. I sit on the floor, next to the door, unable to find a seat. I begin listening to this woman, this Milena Kalinovska, talk which her thick Czech accent about the Communist nation she grew up in.

In 1968, she decided to go West, and for the Czechs I guess going west is going to England. She said that it was irrational, that looking back, it was insane to consider leaving, but she wanted to escape and experience life. She had one suitcase filled with ten pounds worth of belongings. While she's talking, I look around the room again, more interested in the people than in the lecture. To my right is a young couple sitting. The boyfriend is reading the newspaper. He definitely didn't want to come, but young love drives people to do crazy things.

Trying to focus my attention on the presentation, I begin to notice the slideshow on the wall, and the picture being shown is of a strange white sculpture that looks like an egg crushed into a million pieces and rearranged again. It could possibly be Humtpy Dumpty. I try to listen attentively, but even straining I can't make out the words and even when I do hear her speaking, Kalinovska's accent is a death trap. I sighed, leaning back against the wall and just catching random bits of conversation.

"Father...midnight...breaking the code of the Smithsonian..."

I'm sure it's fascinating, but since I'm on the ground, I'm having a hard time distinguishing between the voices around me and the voice onstage. I can hear the man asking the questions clearly, but what good are questions when there are no answers?

"American...another telephone call...."

She keeps on talking about her rise to fame, but with people wandering in and out of the hall, it's hard to understand.

"The artists were determined to find themselves...ordinary material to make great things..."

The next part of the lecture I could make out. She was talking about a fellow artist who she admired in the 1980s while she was in England. I personally thought he wasn't the best artist I'd seen, but she kept on raving about how "you can see the glue, the screws, the bent wood" of this sculpture. Words cannot describe it. It looked like a mass of deformed rocking chairs that the artist had attempted to morph into a giant fish while still keeping the chairs intact. But, she had wanted this artist in her gallery (I can only guess that she was a curator at that point, but I missed that vital fact in the conversation) but he was unable to do so as he was already in league with another gallery. Apparently, you cannot put works in two galleries at once. What a shame. His modernist view on art would have inspired artists for generations to come.

She kept on talking about this piece of art. "Two thousand dollars," she said. "Two thousand dollars for this beautiful show. For this cloth with wood, steel with wood."

The next piece of art she shows is actually fascinating. Two blocks of something (she later told us it was bread) with figures depressed in the centers. One is male, one is female. The body tells the story of art; without the body art could not exist. She told a joke about the artist eating the bread for the depressions; the audience laughed, wanting to make her feel welcomed.

I sit up, wanting to see the woman making the laughter. I see a flash of dark red hair, but the only face I can see is the man asking the questions. I look closer- fat, brown hair, receding hairline. Is that my old art history teacher? I can't tell without getting closer. I guess I'll never know. How sad.

I look around the room again, bored, wishing that the lecture was over. 7:28. I still had 32 minutes. People are still taking notes, acting like the words that fall out of her mouth are made of gold. But then, I realize something- why is Kalinovska talking about other people's art? Isn't she an artist? Why would I care about other people's art?

Her story is interesting though. She talks about her homeland, how growing up in a communist nation made her realize what people were saying and how she needed to be open about art. It is all very enrapturing, but my mind keeps on wandering.

Some girl sitting in front of me is taking up two chairs. One is holding her leg, which has a wrap around her upper thigh. I'm a little angry. The pregnant woman who just sat down on the floor should be sitting in a chair. Whatever happened to common decency?

"This photo makes us aware..." A picture is up on the wall. A man on a horse in front of the mountains. It sold for $1 million, but the man who sold it didn't even take the picture. Where's the justice in this world?

The significance of the photo was that it meant photos could be considered high art. A chair opened next to me, but I'm too lazy to get up. Someone else takes it five minutes later. Some Korean boy with spiky hair in black clothes.

Kalinovska keeps talking about the storytelling of art, how it elevates us to a higher plane of thinking. Meanwhile, my mind has already taken off to another plane of thinking. I'm admiring the 31 diamonds on my left ring finger, making it sparkle it the dim light. The kids in the back are starting to slack off- some are texting, and the guy forced to be there had finally fallen asleep on his girlfriend's shoulder.

"...sex..." I heard. Strange how that one word can snap you back into the present world. A new picture is up on the wall- two long, horizontal paintings, with scrolls and cave-man paintings of women. According to Kalinovska, not only can this relate to women, but to all of us. I still don't see the point of it.

I look around. Several people have walked in, even though we're 40 minutes into the lecture. One is a boy wearing a mustard yellow coat, a red and navy striped tie, and dark khaki slacks. Oddly enough, even with the red hair and glasses, he still manages to look like a classy nerd.

"Look within ourselves for answers," she drones on. People in the back are still texting. Most of the crowd is probably forced to be here, for one class or to keep their significant others company. The ones that care sit in the front, not in the back with the late comers. They're 15 minutes early with a notebook in hand, ready to partake of the vast knowledge she has to offer us.

Some begin trickling out. I envy them as I rearrange myself on the tile floor. I'm beginning to think it would nice to leave.

Suddenly, several families walk through the museum. At first, I thought it was one big family, but after the 15th child I began to hope that one woman wasn't forced to give birth to all of them. That just sounds unpleasant.

Kalinovska (I'm still having a hard time spelling that correctly) keeps talking about how art should share the excitement of creativity. People are talking, some are listening, but after she mentioned "rhetorical image" I was out of there. One thing I do not mess with is rhetoric; it just keeps you awake at night. Sorry Socrates. I don't know how you did it.

And word to the wise- do not walk in late wearing high heels. You are the biggest distraction there.

Here is a re-write of Daisy Miller, written at BYU. I've added pictures for those who have short attention spans and for those who just like pictures. Enjoy!

At the little town of Provo, in Utah, there is a particular university nestled next to the Wasatch Mountains. There are many places here to go and learn, but this place caters to those with actual intellect. Wandering around the university are students from all walks of life- some are from Africa, others from Asia, a few from Europe, and the majority reigning in from all fifty states in the Union. It might be said of this place that it was a marriage watering hole, for the number of women in this place far outweighed the number of men, and so for men to leave this place without marriage would be a travesty. However, in this particular instance, a young gentleman named Percy Sumerdiede was not looking for his eternal mate- he was however, searching for a young lass to write him on his two-year sabbatical of dating and courtship. And so we see young Percy walk up the steps to a front porch to pick up his romantic interest for the night, or if things go well, for the next few years.

Knocking on the front door, he immediately began the standard male check- zipper up, hair in place, nothing in his teeth- when suddenly the door opened and a beautiful young lady appeared. Startled, Percy gulped nervously and opened his mouth to ask if this could possibly be his date (for it was a blind date, as it was extremely popular in this small town) but before he could say anything, she put all his efforts to waste.

“Oh, so you’re Randi’s date huh? You’re early. But that’s alright. Nothing wrong with being a little early. Come on in- she’s still getting ready.”

Stepping nervously on the worn rug in front of the door, it was all that Percy could do from gaping at this wonderful girl. She was extremely pretty- tall and thin, with a heart-shaped face and very lovely blue eyes. Smiling brightly, she immediately began chatting with him, and he soon learned that she was from the South, and that she was here going to the university as well. “It’s extremely fun,” she said brightly as she watched his face, “I rather like it here. But you won’t hear that from Randi. It’s all I can do to keep her here and not jump on the next plane home. All she can talk about is how she wants to go home.”

Leaning towards him slightly, her voice suddenly dropped to a whisper and she asked him quietly, “Randi’s not that much fun, I doubt you’ll get a second date out of her. I was wondering, or rather hoping, that I could get your number, if you don’t mind at least. Do you mind? I would love to see you again sometime.”

Stuttering slightly, Percy replied very politely that he would be very happy to give her his number, and when he had just said the last numeral, a girl who he assumed was Randi came moping down the stairs, looking quite morose as she munched on a bag of popcorn.

“She just broke up with her boyfriend a week ago,” the roommate whispered. “You’re not from Utah are you? Because she hates men from Utah. That’s where her last boyfriend is from. And Utah men just aren’t as nice as Southern gents.”

“I’m originally from back East,” Percy replied, “but I’ve lived in Utah since I was around ten.”

“Then you’re not a Utahan,” she replied confidently as Randi finally made it down the stairs. “Did you hear that Randi? This one’s not a Utard.”

“It doesn’t matter. Men are pigs,” Randi mumbled, “And he is being really rude tonight. Did you even introduce yourself? Don’t you have any manners? I hate men.” She said, looking at Percy like she would rather be a thousand miles away then standing in front of him.

“This is Randi,” the roommate said, responding to the silence that had crept over the room. “And I’m Rose. Rose Tiller. Who might you be?”

Trying with all his might to put on a convincing smile for Randi’s sake, he stretched out his hand. “My name is Percy. Percy Sumerdiede. I’m very pleased to meet you both.”

Grunting slightly, either in disapproval or apathy, Randi stomped out the door. Percy turned around to say a final goodbye to Rose, but she had already disappeared into the dark recesses of the house. Silently groaning to himself, he walked after Randi and readied himself for a long night of atoning for all the sins of men and hearing all their gross, ignorant stupidities.

Months passed. Growing impatient day after day, Percy anxiously awaited a certain phone call. While some might have forgotten such a detail by now, the suspense was driving him wild. “Is this the way that women work?” he wondered to himself as he tried to keep busy with school and work to avoid sure insanity. But one summer day, the phone finally rang with an unknown number, and soon his fears were eased. Breathlessly answering, he was relieved to hear a familiar voice coming from the other end.

“Hello, is this Gerald?” He paused, unsure of whether or not to play along in order to get a date or to sooth his conscious and tell her that he was indeed not this Gerald fellow she was seeking.

Stammering slightly, Percy replied. “I’m sorry, this is Percy. And who might this be?” Although he already knew that it was his Rose, manners forced him to ask and to not assume what he hoped was true.

“Oh Percy, you silly boy. This is Rose. I knew it was you. I just like playing jokes on people I like. I was wondering if by chance you were coming down to Moab with me this weekend. It’d be so much fun- we’d go camping and sleep in the same tent, go hiking, we could go on long walks . . . what do you think?”

Nothing excited him more than this proposition. He could already imagine the days they could spend together in the wilderness, but he was a little sorry that his values and sense of propriety would force them to sleep in separate tents. When he told her yes, he paused and explained that he would love to come but that he would be bringing his own tent to sleep in.

“Oh, you’re so old-fashioned;” she laughed heartily, “Who does those kinds of things anymore? Separate tents? Please Percy. But I guess you’re still welcome. Come to my place at six and we’ll leave from there. Does that work?” Without waiting for a reply, the phone went silent, leaving him breathless once again.

The days passed slowly, and finally, the happy day arrived. Armed with an arsenal of supplies, including a plethora of small chit-chat, Percy drove to Rose’s domain to begin their trip to Moab. As he drove, he thought back to a conversation he had with his roommate Connor that morning, on how he needed to be more careful with who he associated with.

“Percy, I know you’re excited about this trip, but I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into. She’s a nice girl, but what are people going to think when they find out you’re going on a camping trip alone with her? That’s not a good idea Perc. You’ve been in Utah way too long- you don’t know how these other girls think. You will make a mistake- you’re too naïve when it comes to these kinds of things.”

Shaking his head to rid himself of these thoughts, he immediately began to rationalize his behavior towards Rose. “She’s just different,” he said to himself, “People don’t understand her. She’s just a little innocent when it comes to these types of things. And why should she have to change her habits for them? It just doesn’t make any sense.” Gleefully, he drove up to her house, completely satisfied in the answers he had supplied for himself.

Walking up to the front door, he suddenly heard two voices- one, deep and resonant, and the other, higher and bubbly with just a hint of laughter. Hesitantly, he knocked on the door and took a step back. “Well, maybe she was nice and invited her roommate and her boyfriend,” he thought to himself, but her only roommate was Randi, and he couldn’t envision her having a suitor with her current anti-social stance.

“Hello? Rose? Are you here?" He paused, waiting for a reply before entering the house. When he heard an affirmation to come in, he walked in and saw Rose and another young gentleman in the sitting room, laughing and talking like old friends. Gulping, Percy asked “Now who’s this? Is he waiting for Randi or was he just keeping you company until I got here?”

“Oh, you silly willy. This is Gerald. I meant to call him earlier this week, but I accidently called you instead. And guess what? He decided to come with us! Isn’t he just the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?” She exclaimed excitedly, pinching his cheeks and sitting directly on his lap, “And he served his mission in Italy, so he speaks Italian. And he’s letting me drive his car down to Moab. How perfect is he? He’s not as perfect or as darling as you are Percy, but he’s one of the sweetest guys I know.”

Grinning, Gerald took all of her chatter in stride for the next half hour, occasionally responding and laughing at her humor. “Darn his good looks!” Percy thought as he stepped into the backseat of Gerald’s car. “Why is it that she can’t tell I’m the real catch? I haven’t been on my mission yet, but I’m still better than him! I should be the one sitting in the front seat!”

Needless to say, the drive to Moab was long and extremely difficult. Moping in the back for hours, Percy simply sat there, dejected, staring at the window and wondering how he could possibly get rid of Gerald. If Percy was not so blinded by jealousy, he could have seen that Gerald was enthralled with Rose and had the best intentions, but little did they both know that even the best intentions can make a turn for the worse. Gerald was a little too apt to follow Rose, and such behavior and lack of thought can certainly lead even the best people down the worst paths.

Speeding mercilessly and taken wild turns on the freeway, Rose’s driving frightened Gerald and Percy, but only Gerald was brave enough to mention how she should slow down and consider the safety of her friends.

“Oh Gerald! You’re so funny! Nothing bad is going to happen! You worry too much.” Just as she said those words, red and blue flashing lights turned on behind them. Smiling softly, Rose pulled over to the side of the road and awaited the arrival of the police officer, but when he knocked on her window, she rolled it down and said started smiling and laughing with him. Treating him like an old friend, she received a simple warning and a smile from the young police officer, who chastised her lightly and told her to drive slower in the future. Smiling broadly to herself, Rose pulled back onto the road and continued talking to Gerald as if nothing had even happened.

With that behind them, Rose continued the drive to Moab, and in the dark they arrived. Finding an adequate campsite, they leisurely set up tents and a main area, for they were intent on enjoying their weekend excursion. After about an hour of work, everything was completed for the night, and so they all went their separate ways for the night, or so Percy thought.

The next morning dawned cold and crisp as the cool desert night turned into a hot summer’s day. Percy arose, anxious to get Rose on a walk through the forest and to perhaps get lost for a little while. But when he walked out of his tent, bile rose in his throat as he saw Gerald and Rose sitting very intimately next to one another, conversing and laughing while Gerald made pancakes over the fire. Looking behind them, Percy saw the two sleeping bags in Rose’s tent, and he started to believe the warnings his roommate had given him. He knew that her behavior was not representative of what a young lady from the university should be doing.

“Percy! How did you sleep?” Rose asked, seemingly to genuinely care about his answer. But when he did not respond, she continued on as if nothing had occurred, and soon she initiated a walk between her and Gerald through a path in the forest that was suppose to lead to a very pretty part of the park.

“Allow me to come with you,” Percy demanded. “It might not be safe out there. You could get hurt.”

“Ah, I am not afraid,” Gerald said confidently, “Nothing will happen to either of us.”

Laughing, Rose agreed to let Percy come, and so he followed behind Rose and her suitor as they prattled on about love and nature and wildlife. When they arrived at the end of the trail, it was indeed very pretty, as you could see for miles in every direction, but Percy was too infuriated to notice anything besides the red haze that covered the couple in front of him. As they were standing on the edge of the cliff, Percy took Rose aside.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," he said, "I wish you would only flirt with me. Why won't you go out with me?"

“Oh Percy, you’re the last person I’d think of dating. You’re nice, but you are just too stuffy.” Seeing the enraged look on his face, she just laughed. “Oh, you’re so much more fun when you’re angry. I should make you angry more often!”

Back at the campsite, Percy just sat down next to the fire, jabbing it with timber and thinking of how delightful it would be to do the same to a certain gentleman he knew. As the day drew on, Rose decided that she was somewhat tired of this adventure they were having and wanted to return to her home. Catering to her every need, Gerald picked up the campsite, along with all of her things, while Percy silently packed his belongings and settled them in the back of the car. Exhausted from his endeavors of watching over the couple, he dozed the rest of the way home, needing sleep but unable to retain it for long.

Going back to her house, Rose and Gerald simply stopped the car in the driveway and looked at Percy, who stared back at them with a puzzled look in his eyes.

“Percy darling, thanks so much for coming with us. Hopefully we’ll get to do this again sometime soon! We’re just going to go up the canyon for a bit. Thanks so much for coming!”

Seeing the looking on Percy’s face, Gerald chimed in and said “Do not worry too much. If we get in by midnight we will be quite safe.”

Flabbergasted at her outward rejection and Gerald’s apparent approval, Percy just simply nodded and gathered his things. Standing next to his car, he watched them drive off into the dark, hoping that they did not encounter the dangers he had heard of at such a late hour. Utterly drained, he made his way home and slept, wishing that things could be different.

As the days dragged on, he heard less and less of Rose, and from his roommates had heard of her they did not approve of her meandering ways. There were rumors of her going into boy’s bedrooms, staying past curfew, drinking caffeinated beverages, all of which stunned Percy. Then one day, he received word that she had left Provo and gone home without a word. Inquiring about her from her roommate, he learned from Randi that she has gotten herself into some trouble and that the university would not allow such happenings to be present at their institution of learning.

“She’s probably with child,” Randi replied confidently as she continued munching on a bag of half-eaten chips. “It can happen. Even here at the university. And it wouldn’t surprise if she was one of the few it happened to.” When asking about Gerald, he found out that he had also left the university, never to return.

Walking home slowly, Percy tried to regain control of his thoughts and wrap his mind around the idea that he would never see his Rose again. “I have lived too long in Utah,” he said silently to himself. “I need to get out and see the world as the world sees itself.”

Regardless of his conviction, he returned back to his apartment, and in Provo he remained, dating the women of Utah Valley to his heart’s content. However, a few months later, after his nineteenth birthday, he received his call to go south, to the southern states of the Union. Only he could see the reason why, and only he could do what he knew he was called to do- find his Rose and bring her home.

I swore that in my lifetime I would never, ever, ever (emphasis on that last ever) create or write a blog. But since I've already succumbed to the horror of Facebook and have now Twittered every hot male celebrity in existence (I'm hoping that by keeping tabs, one day I'll miraculously "run into" them and just "happen" to hurt something, at least for 5 minutes) it's not surprising that I now want to spread my evil influence throughout the cyber realm And Lance, my wonderful fiancé, please ignore the sentence regarding hot male celebrities. As you so wonderfully told the world before, "She's mine." Sorry Matt Damon. Better luck next time.

Anyways, I've never tried to write my thoughts in a "non-formal" style before (writing a blog is certainly beyond my comfort zone) but I think for once it will be nice to not have to worry too much about whether or not I put my commas in the right place (my communications class just made us read 3 pages on comma usage). But, for now I'll just try and concentrate on doing here what was my main intent- to blog for my Humanities 262 class and get a wonderful-looking A on my transcript.

And now for my serious entry. This past week I've been privileged to read for the second time in 2 months Daisy Miller: A Study by Henry James. Reading this for English 293 and now for Humanities 262, it is certainly a different experience each time. Unfortunately, I cannot claim to say that this is one of my more favorite works, as the main character keeps on leading himself down a horrific path that is sure to not end well (It's like that horror movie, where for some STUPID reason the girl just has to go into a strange house or open a door just to "see what's on the other side." Idiot) The main character, Winterbourne, from the high and oh-so-elegant upper class, needs to learn to grow an upper class backbone. I certainly understand his fascination for Daisy's beauty and uncharacteristic female qualities (actually, this may be the first time in literally history where a man likes a girl that talks too much) but his fascination is like the fascination a cat has with a laser beam- it's fun for everyone to watch for the first little bit, but after a while the people get tired of it and the cat is still left just as stupid as before. That is the extent of his fascination. He likes the way it looks (and by it I mean she) but he can never quite figure out where it came from. His aunt certainly has, as she warns him that he has "lived too long out of the country" and has become "too innocent" for this American girl who's caught his fancy (for all those non-humanities 262 friends, Winterbourne is in fact, American, but has lived in Switzerland for several years. He is what we like to call an expatriate, someone who has abandoned America). However, it is somewhat mysterious that his aunt, who has also lived outside the country for years, would retain her "American-ness" while Winterbourne could lose his so easily. Perhaps it's the age difference.

"Tell a man that there are 400 billion stars and he'll believe you. Tell him a bench has wet paint and he as to touch it." -Stephen Wright

While this quote explains how some men act (and some women for that matter) I fail to understand throughout the entirety of the text is just why he continues to remain so fascinated with her. Is she another “bench” with wet paint that he has to see if she is dangerous, or is it the morbid fascination with having a girl that refuses you? Is the chase for some guys really that exhilarating that they're willing to make complete fools of themselves? Perhaps I lack the capacity to sympathize with their plight as I am in fact, a woman. It's just amazing that from the beginning, he could see Daisy's faults but just plain refused to acknowledge them, or when he did acknowledge them he would simply make excuses. Here's a list of of examples that I find particularly irritating-

- "It might have been said of this unknown lady ... that she chattered"

- "He was inclined to think Miss Daisy Miller was a flirt"

-" Daisy turned away from Winterbourne, looking at him, smiling and fanning herself. 'Good night,' she said; 'I hope you are disappointed, or disgusted, or something!' He looked at her taking the hand she offered him. 'I am puzzled,' he answered"

As the story draws on and on, the frustration I feel towards Winterbourne mounts to rage as I simply want to throttle him. While he may not be the brightest man (and in the movie created in 1974 he's certainly not the most handsome. I blame the mustache) he's certainly doesn't deserve the kind of treatment he's getting. He goes from Geneva to Rome just to see her and what does he get? He gets

"rather annoyed at Miss Miller's want of appreciation of the zeal of an admirer who on his down to Rome had stopped neither at Bologna nor at Florance, simply because of a certain sentimental impatience"

Wow.

And later, when Winterbourne escorts her to meet her Italian suitor (why was he escorting her? It's not worth explaining) he exclaims to himself "Damn his good looks!" and then cursed Miss Miller for "not knowing the difference between a spurious gentleman and a real one." Now I know this story is more about Henry James's attitude towards the American populace, as he was an expatriate himself, but for myself it's more about jealousy and men's general stupidity. Now I didn't say that just men were stupid, because I'll openly admit to having blonde moments many times a day, but the frustration I felt towards Winterbourne is very uncharacteristic of my attitude towards men. Sure, some may ruin, perhaps forever, their chances with a certain girl, but here's the main difference- it's simply because they had no idea what they were doing. Winterbourne did, and that is where the fault lies. He knew throughout the whole story, and to top it off, when she dies, he feels grateful that he avoided some social downfall. That's 19th century love for you.

Anyways, as we are to provide several "outside clips" for our blog, here is a short out-take of the movie "Daisy Miller" directed by Peter Bogdanovich and starring Cybill Shepherd as Daisy and Barry Brown as Winterbourne.

I don't like the feel of this movie clip as much as the book, as the producers seem to cast Winterbourne as the creepy, stalker gentleman who goes for the trophy wife, but it does help one feel the dynamic of the book. She's luring on Giovanni (her Italian suitor) to simply make Winterbourne jealous. Classic.

And this seems to sum up Daisy and Randolph's relationship pretty well. Brother and sister just never seem to get along very well. Or perhaps this is what Daisy would like to do to her little brother.

* I would like to formally apologize if any of you assume that I'm a man-hating feminist. I assure you, that's not the case. Sometimes.