Happy Birthday Andy Warhol/My Life Is Destroyed

Oh My God.


Today is my last day at Avery.


(Unless they are able to hire me for a full-time position but I won't know until Septemberish).


It feels like I have been married for 60 years and suddenly my husband has asked me for a divorce.


I feel like this Kathe Kollwitz litograph.

One Of Us

Quote of the Day (as of 4:47pm):

"I'm also in the middle of the sixth century - this is so different for me!" -- Living it up at Avery.


For the past five weeks now, I have been seeing someone else. It is serious. Not better, but different. Engaging. Exploratory. Physical, very, very physical, sweaty and exhausting. I come home rejuvenated, not lethargic, with endorphins that I never even knew I had. It's true - Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, I work as the Manual Collector for MenuPages.

In case you have been living under a rock or below Delancey, MenuPages is a website owned by New York Magazine that features the menus of over 8,000 restaurants in the city or some crazy number like that. Every once in a while, they have a manual collector go around and gather menus from restaurants/bars/cafés that they do not already have the menus of, and I take pictures of the places as well. This summer, thanks to a dear friend who already works for the company, that person is me. So for 20 - 25 other hours a week I am thrust out of the Avery vacuum and into The City Of Lights and Sunstroke. I get the job done, but sometimes this job requires me to walk down streets that I am already familiar with due to a quaint and outrageously overpriced boutique I like, or a Starbucks, "The Public Toilet of NY," as my roommate calls it. In this case, it happened to be E. 9th St. So I took ten minutes out of my 30-minute coffee break and did it - I went and got Thick, Square Glasses Frames at Fabulous Fanny's.

That adorable patron HS from the school year was the one who introduced me to the place - she got her round-framed, normal-on-a-grandfather-but-sexy-on-this-facial-bone-structure specs at Fabulous Fanny's on the LES (very much NOT the LES but merely the East Village - a common Columbia mistake, similar to saying "I'm downtown" when you are at 72nd St). "Everyone gets them there," she had told me, and I picked up that "everyone" referred to GSAPP (Graduate School of Architecture, Planning, and Preservation, the only place in the world where you can write a dissertation on Tschumi AND have Jacques Herzog as your studio instructor!). Since the GSAPP table is the one I aspire to eat lunch at one day, or at least the one I want to marry into, I'd scoped out FF's weeks before to decide which Look I wanted. With a legit East Village friend, I prodded her: wiry frames that are barely there, or thick ones? And then opaque or translucent? Should they swallow my face like my sunglasses do, a la Rachel Zoe, or be clear, like someone who is terrified of how his/her faces looks in glasses? Would men's frames be too Randian, or women's frames too Barnard? Do square frames scream ARCHITECTURE! and round ones ART HISTORY!? The round frames made me look identical to an owl with a bit of Cyclops blood in him, but was I permitted the square frames even though I don't spend my days drafting or working in the Apple Store?

After running into three Columbia graduates (one a former Art History major, one Comp Lit, and the last Film Studies) I found a pair of square-ish ones from the back, part of the Spectaculars line, named Rusty, in Tan. I think this they are American Apparel Unisex style; originally I had wanted Dolce & Gabbana frames like Michael Douglas' in Wonderboys, but these will have to do. I only need to use them for staring at the computer and reading so that my eyes don't "strain." What a milquetoast condition.

Now when my regulars enter the library, surely they must think I am a poseur. And I kind of am. I am representing what the library stands for, and that, first and foremost, is pretentious, faux-LES, all-hail-Corbu, appropriated NYU look. My boss likes them, at least, and he should be in Fashion.

http://store.fabulousfannys.com/node/249

Yours,
GA (now with a 0.75 prescription)

Avery Fine Arts and Artchitecture Sanctuary

Fucking J from the architecture school just plastered his squat, sweaty body up against the front door to the library - presumably his charming way of saying Hello - and now every time I look out longingly all I stare at is the greasy smudge his torso left against the glass. This is my current perspective on the outside world.

These past couple of weeks have been quite, quite horrendous, in a very self-indulgent way: failed relationships before they even start; roommate fights; too much heat, not enough sleep, no desire to eat (somewhat untrue); cigarettes, white wine, red wine; family problems, canceled dates, worn friendships; stomachaches, headaches, heartaches; self-deprecation, self-deprivation, guilt, silence, blood, sweat, tears, and ice cream, lots of ice cream. Save for the cigarettes, none of this superfluous bullshit that I call "life" is at Avery. None of that meaningless drama. Yes, naturally, there is sexual tension in every cubicle and smirk and inquisitive stare, but it is safe. Not innocent, but not destructive; everything is acted out in gesture and double entendre and library etiquette, whispered from ear to ear. No one going to fuck you over in a red zone.

A couple of posts ago, I wrote about how terrifying it was that many of the patrons who are here day after day during the summer are the same people who are here day after day during the academic year. They never leave, they don't have lives, they have bad social skills, they are alone, etc etc. Then I thought, why do I come here? Yes, I am aware that the main reason is because I get paid to. But I can get paid to show up at other places - Anthropologie, Books of Wonder (best children's bookstore in the city, with an impressive original Tin Tin collection and a yet more impressive band of DILFs), maybe even the ICP someday (LOLZZZ). Fundamentally I come here for the same reason that you all come here: to escape. Outside of Avery is 100 degree heat and people. Inside of Avery is sweet, sweet A/C and books. Instead of the perpetual cyclical "why did I do that?" "why don't you love me?" (Beyoncé shout out, natch) "how will I fix this?" "will things ever be the same?" train of thought, you think about things beyond yourself here! You research artists and theories and eras that you never knew or don't understand or never lived through so that you can get completely outside of your droll, depressing life. You come here to learn about things that are more important than Life's little "learning lessons," aka regrettable, irreversible mistakes. You make your research a part of your world and your life, one much more enriching and engaging than boyz and other Columbia things. And eventually none of the shit you pulled will be memorable, and you will move on. Avery makes this happen. This is what Avery is for - to escape your problems by learning about ones that actually have impact. It's an interesting place. There are interesting things here that you won't find in many places Outside.

Some, though. As I was shifting books in the NH section (finally you can walk through the aisle without a helmet! And you can actually get to the Jeff Wall books! Quick, someone do a thesis!), noticing museum catalogue after museum catalogue, I forgot how much I liked going to museums. When I was a freshman, hating NYU, I used to take long, brooding walks from my dorm at 10th Street and 5th Avenue up 72 blocks to the Met every Sunday. It's so huge, of course, that I could go to a new section every time I was there. Then I'd go to the café, get lunch, read. Before I left I'd usually check out the Hudson River School paintings because I really liked them at the time, and still do, not even so much for their intricacy but for their sheer vastness. The last time I went to the Met was to breeze through the Costume Institute's American Woman or whatever exhibit, which wasn't that good and which was followed by my breezing through one room of the Picasso exhibit before the museum closed. I hate breezing past art. They made it for you to look at, damn it. Where did that passion go? Into the Hudson River, where my thesis will eventually lie? Into my hatred of Clement Greenberg? Even though I work where I do, surrounded by books featuring the works of practically every artist and architect who has ever practiced, I forget how much art matters. Much, much more than such-and-such kissed such-and-such and what-will-I-wear-to-the-prom (I still sometimes wonder). So instead of complaining to everyone I know about my fake problems and making them wary of my company, I'll just stake out a place here and educate myself.

Germany vs Spain,
GA.

The Girl with the Normal Tattoo

So what that Marc Jacobs hired some "full-figured" models (read: 34C) for his Louis Vuitton show in Paris - you know, size 4 chubs like Elle Macpherson and Laetitia Casta. If you saw any of the other runway shows for the fall 2010 collections, you would see that most of the models were a bonny prepubescent 14 that looked like walking ghosts. Is it that the bodies should be so minimal that the clothes quite literally hang on the models as they would on a hanger? Is it a combined Lolita/death/sex fetish? Kim Noorda, the 22-year-old Dutch model, chronicled her weight struggles in the April 2010 VOGUE annual Shape Issue. She had obviously been told to lose weight at the beginning of her career (when she was 14, shocker!) because that whole "healthy" look just would not work for anyone's standards in the current fashion industry, and then she plummeted from there: became obsessed, lost too much weight, was booked for every show but had no energy and was miserable. VOGUE, under new CFDA rules, kind of suggested that she get "healthier," but by then it was too late, she had an eating disorder, and it ultimately slowed her career. Now she is 23, due to retire in five years or less, and then what is she going to do? Can a body make a lasting career?

Yes, argues not only Anna Wintour but Christie's, the auction house on high (or rather, Rockefeller Center). A body can make a lasting career out of selling a different kind of collection: fine art. Someone I know just accepted a full-time position at Christie's, and informed me over dinnerdrinks that Christie's "strongly recommends" (requires) their employees to join a gym, and Christie's will essentially subsidize the membership so that the employee only pays around $20 a month, or less. Another intern I know at the auction house witnessed a gym fair the other day in the offices, like a club fair or a job fair but with Clif Bars and Vitamin Waters. Why is this necessary, you may ask? I mean, other companies have perks, but nearly fully paid gym memberships to David Barton?

This gracious bonus is not meant to be taken lightly. If Christie's is paying for the membership, then everyday after dealing Picassos for millions of dollars you are taking off your Zanotti's and getting yo ass to Sport LA or whatever that one is in Rock Center. Because one can never be too rich or too thin in the art world. Models don't have to be real people; they just have to be skinny enough to not distract the eye when displaying the designs. The arty/artistic yet business-savvy leaders of tomorrow are the ones that have to develop the outfit, make it a reality off of the performance art-style runway. These are the people - the ones who make art accessible and profitable to the world at large (WASPs, dynasties, royalty, socialites, starchitects, the Coppolas) - who need to match the sample sizes to bring "fashion" to the world at large (see above) as well. One cannot be an expert on ahhhht unless one dresses like s/he can own it as well. And the fitter you are, the better equipped you are to survive in a jungle of phenomenology and appraisal. How else could one be taken seriously unless one is his/her own (sculpted) work of art?

In other news, it is summer, it is so hot that some of us stay in bars until 4am just for the AC, but everyone is wearing short sleeves and tanks. A prominent TA in the library this morning, I noticed because of the change in wardrobe, has a tattoo. Not a colorful flexy mermaid or "Wino Forever" or anything, but a simple pseudo-chain-like design encircling her upper arm. Is this allowed in the art history world? Does Christie's do a background check, regular drug tests, and tattoo searches? I pondered this girl's career trajectory as I thought of how, in any case, the ahhhht was on a noticeably toned, slender upper arm. So her career is probably not in shambles.

Enjoy your afternoons, and don't worry: even if you don't belong to a gym, you are probably sweating off your body weight in the heat right now.

GA

That Oxford Shirt Is Not Fooling Anyone.

At the circulation desk. NE looks like he has literally just come from having stacktion.

I LOVE MY JOB.

Eat Less

I stole the title from an Urban Outfitters T-shirt that was recently in the news - or rather, New York Magazine's website, which is kitschy news, but I'll save the kitsch bitch for Clement Greenberg (someone needs to slap me for committing the worst art history non-joke ever by the end of the day). I guess that Urban was selling this American Apparel-style tee with "Eat Less" written in some ugly, tacky font that completely destroys the power of the message. Someone decided that an insecure person would see this shirt on someone walking toward them, think that said shirt's message is directed at them, and run to the fastest New York Sports Club to cry their way through an elliptical work-out. (I guess the T-shirt would have to read "Exercise More" in that particular scenario but the sentiment is still there.) But the shirt is still being sold in stores - just not online - which is a relief because it could very well be the new slogan for Avery Library. (I decided that the old slogan was "We put the fine in Fine Arts!")

Every day the exact same people come to Avery - Girl With Braces, the Married Couple, My Favorite Older Gay Man, The Smirk (he always smirks at me when he walks in, but it's a cute smirk, like a head-nod) - and they don't leave until 9pm when the library closes and wolves howl, etc. So unless they are secretly middle-of-the-night dancers with the New York City Ballet, I don't know how these people stay so thin and sit for so many hours at a time. It's like they are training to be airline pilots or something. This cannot be good for one's blood circulation. Or one's vitamin D levels. Or anything, really, because, as Broseph tells his dissertation students, "Everything that you are writing about and researching and discovering at this very moment, someone else in the world is already publishing that information."

(Brief interruption - IT'S AN AUTOMATIC DOOR. IT WILL CLOSE ON ITS OWN. DO NOT TRY TO PULL IT SHUT.)

So these people come in and sit all day and read and induce migraines and seem to never conclude their studies. Then when they "venture out" for pseudo-breaks during the day, they do so at Brownies, the café that is below Avery and accessed through the building's lobby. So, essentially, they never leave Avery. (Smoking does NOT count as leaving.) I understand that Brownies has the best food and cheapest coffee on campus. But commuting from the library to Brownies to the smoking deck is almost as bad as hanging out in Butler 209 all day, and night. The difference is that at least in Butler there are empty chip bags and Starbucks cups strewn about, evidence that people have actually been consuming food and caffeine because both are important to learning and success. When the perma-sitters go down to Brownies, they never order anything. They just sit more. And talk about their theses. And try to make new breakthroughs. They never stop! There is never a moment when it is just them, a bagel, a heavily Splenda'd hazelnut coffee, and a copy of the NYT and nothing else in between. Food decidedly interrupts the learning process and they would rather just "power through" twelve straight hours of hypothesizing and then tuck in to a head of cabbage or whatever. You know, energy for their all-night NYCB training (I insist it's ballet because it is a muscle-lengthening form of exercise that keeps one trim and lean, not bulk-inducing, and I insist it's the NYCB because that's the Balanchine company and Balanchine dancers are not allowed to have an ounce of body fat).

There is something great about this please-don't-feed-the-grad-students show: while picking up books around the 300-level (the one with windows) last week, I passed Girl With Braces and a glimmer of turquoise next to her laptop caught my eye. Behold, it was a pack of gum - and not just any flavor, but specifically Orbit Wintermint. As everyone who comes to Avery or knows me even a little bit would know, I have a quite serious gum addiction. My smoker friends say that there is no such thing as a gum addiction but it is a very real habit: it is expensive, it is gross, it comes with it's own slew of health problems (TMJ, digestive issues, etc) and there is nothing you can do to quit like cigarettes because the so-called cure for nicotine addiction is CHEWING GUM. Fuck.

In any case, I started the habit - I won't tell you how many packs I chew a day but yes, packs, plural - as a way of staying awake to study without eating crap or drinking coffee throughout the night. Girl With Braces has caught on (with braces, even!) and I like to think that I was the bad influence that brought her here. Let's just hope that she doesn't have to spend more than $1.50 every couple of days. God damnit.

On that note, time for me to deposit paychecks so that I can pay rent and gum.

GA.

This Is My Youth

Oh hey guys.

OH WAIT NO ONE READS THIS ANYMORE EVER NVM.

Profoundest of apologies for making y'all wait a couple of months for the next entry. (Because I know you were checking quite constantly to see what would happen next.) The thing is, believe it or not, my lack of consistency with this blog really is doing a disservice to the world at large (Columbia). I firmly believe that coming to Avery is like entering Narnia, combined with the EPCOT center and perhaps a photo shoot for Numéro magazine. It is, as TLC once sang, CrazySexyCool. You just can't read about Felix Gonzales-Torres like you can in Avery anywhere else. We don't even (entirely) abide by the Library of Congress system of call numbers, damnit! We are our own entity!

Hence, why I am applying for a full-time position at The Avery Library at some point this summer. Yes, your predictions came true; all bets are off. This is my destiny; it would be silly to deny it. What else do I talk about? How many Brownie's punch cards do I go through in a year? Who was elected University Student Librarian of the Year?! Me, true gents, your faithful GA. And thus I intend to stay faithful by working here forever. So cross your fingers, and I'll let you know when I formally apply.

In other news, I finished my thesis, went on a pathological spree of anti-feminist activity for about a weekend, graduated (LOLZ), moved to Brooklyn, and that's wear I now sit, on my bed, with my same quilt from dorm life, waiting for my hair to dry to go to another art history friend's housewarming party, where the wine and the AA* gossip will flow. I look forward to working with you for the 2010-2011 school year, if all works out in my favor. In any case, I'm around all summer. This is my youth, and this is the summer where anything can happen, and all I want is for Avery to fall madly in love with me, as I am with it, so that I can wax poetic about it on The Red Zone.

Also they're rearranging all the folios and I want to be around for that!

GA

*AA is a professor's initials, not the abbreviation for Alcoholics Anonymous. This needed to be expounded upon because it would also entirely make sense for a party of former art history majors to all be in AA. It is one of the major requirements, in fact: write a thesis, drink about it.