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.

Prada, Not Prado

Finally, it happened.

Someone walked into Avery and flashed me her Prada card** instead of her Columbia ID.

Very, very little known fact: your Prada card also functions as student ID at Avery.*

*I still asked for her Columbia ID because I am planning on working here over the summer and don't want to jeopardize my status because the Prada card thing is my own rule.

**I did a presentation last semester on Rem Koolhaas' Prada Epicenter in SoHo for my 21st Century Architects seminar, so I happen to be in the know on this: if one shops at Prada regularly, he or she can open an account with the store. All of their measurements and past purchases will be stored on the card. Whenever you enter the story, if an associate swipes it, it will, again, bring up what measurements you need for specific articles of clothing you want to try on, and also make suggestions of current season items you should check out based on your taste in accordance to past expenditures.

I Think You're Buzzing

I could see him in the lobby while I was at door - I saw the shock (or rather, single strip) of gray hair behind the shoulder of the girl talking to me at the entrance. I pretended to be incredibly engrossed in her question: "Is C here?" "Uhhhhhhhh..." I trail off, knowing I'd have to look at him because I'd have to check his ID because he'd be showing it to me and expecting someone to check it because those are the rules. "Do you know C? Is he here?" Suddenly the ID is in my face and I'm in the middle of a long "Uhhhhhhh" but I manage to nod my head at him, as if to say, "sup." Yes, I mimed "sup" to NE, the 31-year-old master of Dadaism - the Jesus of Dadaism, if we're going to be all New Museum about it.

I don't know where NE has been this semester. He is on campus, teaching with Auntie Roz, as mentioned much, much earlier (ie the last time I blogged). He probably just makes his lesson plans with her over scotches-on-the-rocks at the Waverly Inn. Why I think they would frequent a bar that is co-managed by Graydon Carter, I don't know, but I wouldn't put it past Roz to be secretly boos with the Condé Nast crowd. In any case, I don't want to see NE because I feel like just saying "Hi" and asking "How are you" is too mundane for him.

But it happened anyway. NE decided that he could just take Avery books out of the library that he'd ordered from Offsite without actually checking them out to his office, so when he left the library he buzzed. I look up and want to gag a little because now I not only have to talk to him, but have to tell him he fucked up. "Oh heh heh hi heh heh I think you buzzed heh heh heh heh" I say. Smart as a whip, that one. He looks at the books, stumped as to why a library book that is non-circulating would ever set off an alarm. "They're RECAP," NE says. "That doesn't matter" I respond. "You have an office bar code, right? You have to check out books to your office and the library director has to sign off on it if you want to take these out of the library. And they have to remain sensitized." Finally, I said something accurate to him! With confidence! He sheepishly smiled at me and re-entered. Feeling cocky, I asked "How are you doing, generally?" "Fine. You?" "Good." "You're graduating, right? Are you excited?" "Yes." "What are you doing after school?" "Oh, odd jobs and interning at the ICP, a bit of freelance photography." He smirked and left, clearly offended that his Between the Still and Moving Image seminar did not get through to me that I should not dabble in the ahhhhhhts. Whatever, I already have a camera.

Then I helped an alumnae (female alum singular?) find her way to the AC section in the basement. "This is much better than when I was here. Before you had to walk down a winding, dark, musty staircase to get to the periodicals." How fantastic! Avery really did used to be a grotto at one time!

Off to the Vag, alas, alack.

WE ARE BACK.

Benelli just walked in to Avery. He has been absent this whole semester.

Clearly, this is a sign - I, a GA, will update.

For the record, Benelli is the only professor (so far) who gets a full name. Avery is his kingdom, and he represents everything this library does: architecture and sexy Italians.

Come upstairs, the weather's great now!

The Weather in Avery, Part II

I decided I wasn't done talking about this. As a person who wears sweaters in 90-degree weather, I am overly attentive to indoor temperature settings and how they affect my well-being. And on the days that Avery is not humid and smelling of Chinese food (no one knows why), it is a bat cave. This is because art historians are cold-blooded and emaciated as a rule (hence the no food policy): nothing could be more banal and in-esoteric as basic human needs like food. And then there are the architects who are too engrossed in their pencils and their wardrobes to notice any atmospheric conditions or hunger. So perhaps it is only the books that suffer, because I am sure that the proper temperatures for book preservation are nowhere to be found at Avery, especially not in the stacks where the pages are practically steaming.

Sometimes, as a GA, you're at Door. The doors leading into the Avery atrium and then the library are automatic, like Butler's, and weigh about three tons, like Butler's. So anytime anyone opens them, they remain open for about thirty seconds, which, during the winter, can make you sick after sitting there for an hour, no matter how puffy your Patagonia is. The best is when the staff walks in (hot coffees in hand) and frowns and says, "It's freezing! How do you stand this?" For the amount I am making, I'm hanging by a thread, and it's not paying for my cold medications. (Next post: That Time I Asked For A Raise.) But my favorite is when the door won't close, in fact. People who don't come to Avery all day every day and who thus have no right to fuckin' be here don't know that the door is automatic and try to close it behind them as they are entering or exiting. I do no say anything to them. I do not help them. I just watch as they struggle, because they deserve to struggle. Because they do not belong here.

I'm sorry - I've been dealing with a lot of "Is the way this library is organized by like alphabetical order or something?" patrons as of late, and it's getting to me. The books find you here, not the other way around. If you can't handle it, then find your book at another Reserves.

To end, my boss at my art museum internship went to Columbia for grad school a few years ago. When I mentioned to her that I work at Avery, the first words out of her mouth were "Oh my God that place is freezing." Not was freezing, but is, presently; she knows it will never change. And it never will change. We are cold people and we like it that way. So even though the weather is changing to grossly optimistic sunshine, keep your sweater on if you're going to read Stokstad.

What Nice Weather?

Despite this Los Angeles weather that we are experiencing, amid still-melting piles of snow (I hate naturally occuring juxtapositions), Avery is still packed as ever. No one seems to notice that it is finally sunny and warm outside; they still file in wrapped in scarves and wool and ponchos billowing and calf-hugging boots and other things that seem uncomfortably sweaty. The stacks are like saunas, and because I have been so helpful at desk lately, I was punished today by having to shelf-read and shelve in those areas and was essentially running a fever by the end of my shift. The place also just smells like a fire, but that could be because I saw The Towering Inferno at MoMA this weekend and fire is on the brain. That's also how it works at Avery: sadistically. You do something good, you get physically punished for it.

Furthermore I used the scanners for the first time in there - they work fine, I don't know what y'all are bitching about!

I Love It When You Say Titian

So it seems as though none of the books at Avery are good enough for the students nowadays. There were three carts of Offsite books that I mercilessly shelved today, so that by the time I was done I was covered in flecks of Italian manuscript covers (I'm so gentle) and, of course, dust. So much for my ever looking "put together" in public; mainly I look like I've just crawled out of a mouse hole. Speaking of places to live, if you have one, and are moving out in May, let me know or else I really be sleeping in the basement with the double folios.

As previously mentioned, NE is back in his spot on the 200s level (just to the left of the Reserves desk). I thought briefly, since he had been such a regular last semester, that perhaps he went on sabbatical, but then I remembered that a) he only just got his PhD, why would he be taking off again? and b) he's tag-team teaching Dada and Surrealism with Auntie Roz this semester! A friend and I are going to attend said graduate lecture one of these days, before graduating, in a surreal and altered state, and I bet him a dollar that I will be crying by the end of the class out of both euphoria and blinding terror. It would be the apex of my very slippery ascent up the phallic, phallic Art History mountain at Columbia. In any case, I was supposed to pick up and sort the 200 level but had to leave yet another mountain of books next to NE because I am too intimidated by his boyish grin and streak of gray in the front of his hairline: "Yes I got my PhD and Associate Professor status before I turned 30," it seems to scream. So I left him surrounded by random Ware books about sensuality and architecture and Tschumi.

My senior thesis seminar met tonight for the first round of thesis presentations, for which I could not mentally be present at for fear of suffering a panic-turned-heart attack. I was just seating myself behind a giant pillar at the corner of the table (thanks, Diana, for such architectural innovations as giant columns in seminar rooms) when all of a sudden Adrien Brody walks in! No, not the Adrien Brody (or at least not yet, you never know who will be the next commencement speaker!), but the Avery regular who kind of resembles him (it's the slicked-back but not Euro-trash hair) and who always, ALWAYS wears a black suit, or at least the blazer. And loafers. It's a throwback to that time when professors actually dressed like men. I'm even more surprised when RD introduces him as Prof K - not by his first name, but as Professor K. Evidently he's a Mellon Fellow and specializes in High Renaissance art. Then he starts talking at the end of one of the presentations and I burst out laughing because his accent is so French/German and I am a five-year-old and can't help but find it incredibly sexy, especially the way he says "Titian." Teeeeesh-anne. I think I might invite him to my presentation; I think his High Renaissance expertise will be most useful in my 20th-century, photography-centric, suddenly feminist thesis. There's got to be something there.

It's supposed to rain tomorrow, so please be careful not to slip and fall on your ass in the lobby - yes, the marble is hard to maneuver, but falling is not sexy, and people will just walk their Frye boots right over you.

Have your IDs ready,
GA

It's Not Love It's Aestheticism

We have all heard the age-old complaint that there is "no dating at Columbia." Of course there's no dating at Columbia. We are surrounded by restaurants like Ollie's and bars like Pourhouse. We are generally neurotic and too exhausted to meet people. And we're all self-absorbed or, in some very special cases, so absorbed by theses that sexual drive becomes a mere LOL. But I have been witnessing more and more yet another phenomenon: The Avery Date.

The Avery Date is where the hypothetical "you" show up, receive text from hypothetical significant other asking where you are followed by a string of emoticons and shit, and you reply "Avery." Five minutes later sig other shows up (and I know who all of you are), and you go do your homework together - Columbia's version of foreplay. Think about it: it's completely quiet, it's called the friggin' Red Zone, every five minutes you and your date just stare silently at each other and do the footsie routine and try to get each other as excited as possible without making it obvious to your table partners (I have definitely seen this happen, while pretending to shelve books, but I won't tell. There's nothing about that sort of behavior on the red zone labels). And you get your work done, what could be sexier.

This post was random, and it's only because I'm in a rush (have class and need coffee first) and am in Butler, milling with the plebes. There are no dates here that I can see, only students who look like they have a migraine that is making them go blind. I'd hate to turn this blog into "The Avery vs Butler War," but there is a subtle war, to be dealt with later when I am not running late, not in Butler, and angry enough to type yell at all the people who return books from Butler to Avery because yeah you can do it but it's disrespectful.

Also: NE is back. 200s level just got hotter.

What's Your Brand?

Someone is actually smoking within the lobby of Avery.

Well this is new. And I guess it is cold outside.

Heh heh heh, a guy who just RAN in here with his iPod on without showing me his ID - I had to grab his attention by poking him with my pen - is trying to close the automatic door, and it's not budging because it's automatic, heh heh heh.

TBC tonight: smoking brands. (I promise I will get to glasses, but I have to take topics as they come.)

Coughdrops Are Not Food

...Well then I hypocritically and successfully printed not one but THREE documents on 200b today. All PDFs. God damnit.

Am quite sick. Apologies to anyone who was actually trying to study through my coughing fits today. And to anyone who had to deal with my fuck-you-I'm-sick demeanor at the desk today. Especially people in C's Curatorial Seminar. But the truth is that there is only one copy of "Inside the White Cube" on reserve, and you should have done the reading more than an hour in advance of the class. And final apologies to the two people whose class meetings I ruined because I could not find a book that was shelved improperly...a mere one shelf below where it should have been. There was a lot of Dayquil in my system earlier (and now).

Thanks to the girl who complemented my Anthropologie belt. I figure that even if I look, sound, feel, act like crap, if I wear something from Anthropologie it probably helps the overall facade (lol architecture)

Speaking of, STEVE HOLL!
GA

The Black Hole

I did mention yesterday that this post would be quite literally myopic, but first, a rant.

Avery is antiquarian. We all know this, and that's why we go there. We like to smile at each other when you show, not scan, your ID, we like the creeks of the wooden chairs upstairs and the 1970s, everything-is-burnt-orange chairs downstairs, and how it's quiet, like how libraries really did used to be. And then, of course, the old books. It's all very cute. But here's the thing: some things that you are accustomed to having every second of your day, all your immediately gratifying habits, are not going to cut it here. You will never have four full bars of internet connection; if you have AT&T you will never have service downstairs; you will never be able to add more money to your flex card; AND YOU WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO PRINT.

I'm so sick of people sauntering over to the Reserves desk, miming politeness but really just being a smart ass, and announcing "Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, did you know that, I think one of the printers isn't working." THE PRINTERS ARE NEVER WORKING. When, WHEN have you been to Avery when the printers are working?! They will always be out of ink (even when they aren't), they will always claim to have paper jams, they will never recover once they have been restarted, and they will never print double-sided. NEVER. Daily do I receive these complaints, and daily does someone come over to try to fix them before heading over to the copiers (there is a trick to working the copiers - that's another day), and it is just a waste of manpower. Avery refuses to become a part of the 21st century, let alone the 20th, but remember, that is why you love it. So STOP trying to print there. Go to Butler. Go to the third floor of the Diana/Vag/Nexus. Wait for someone to scan you in to that printing lab in Lerner. This is a fool-me-once sort of scenario, and if you think that today is the day that you are going to be able to print out your 150-page JStor article on avery200a or avery200b, then you are just stupid. Believe me, I will be the first to let you know if this situation changes. If you are going to be REALLY persistent, always send the print job to 200b first because that one is less moody.

I've enjoyed this rant so much that I don't, in fact, think I will follow it up talking about everyone's glasses frames tonight. I also need to read a lot of articles for Prof P's class tomorrow. Speaking of, where is Prof B this semester? I don't think Brownie's can stay open without his patronage (not that he ever has to pay for anything, I'm sure).

The heat's been working, so I'm sure I'll see you around tomorrow.

GA.

Bunnies (Not of the Playboy Variety)

Side note: I always do this, I ALWAYS finish my coffee before Stat starts. So now I have nothing to do all through class but finish an internship grant and read Vogue, God damnit.

Despite recent Bwog comments and despite, I'm sure, some statistical data that confirms that Avery is the hottest (but, really, coldest) place on campus and despite everything this blog stands for, there is an, dare I say, unsexy element of the library that principally only the employees have to deal with: we call it "dust."

Reason number one Avery is a red zone: it is prone to rats (there, I said it), and reason number two is the obvious: these books are old. Very old. Even if they are new, they are obscure, so no one will look at them, so they will become old quite quickly. You can discern popular thesis and dissertation topics based on areas of dust accumulation: the Cassatts, the Velazquezes, the Picassos, the Stokstad shelf, and obviously, all of ND623 L33 (Da Vinci), are just never going to be that dusty. Everyone loves them, everyone is going to constantly keep them off the shelves and curl up with them in their little nooks with their hidden travel mugs and Chewy granola bars and just devour them. Some areas are not as cuddled: all of those crumbling "such and such housing data from Lawrence, KS in 1919" documents that have not moved in so long that they cannot move on their shelves; the entire NE section; Met museum catalogues from the early ages. And then, of course, the books on the shelves in the balconies that the step ladders cannot reach (and I am sure they are mere decoration), and the Eakins section. No one likes Eakins anymore. Anytime I'm reshelving the Cassatts I pass the Eakins, neglected, messy, upside down...I don't do anything about it, but I acknowledge that it looks bad.

The dust became an issue today when someone messed up my schedule and I had to shelve for three hours. I felt like the bulk of what I was shelving were various garden designs and books on Cool Hotels (I think that really was the Taschen title), and they had clearly just returned from a semester untouched in a professor's office. I'm already coming down with a cold and this was slightly torturous and choke-inducing. But here's the real problem: I had just showered. I had gone to Italian, gone to the gym, taken a shower, PUT ON NEW PERFUME, half-assed blown my hair dry, and put on a shirt that isn't my usual American Apparel tee with the coffee stain. In other words I MADE an effort to live up to Avery's expectations, and then Avery got me all dirty.

Was that the point? Is one supposed to get dirty, in any sense of the phrase, at Avery? It's an interesting juxtaposition, between those working up a dusty sweat shelving books and the dainty, disheveled-but-just-so, collared-shirt, leather boots, mountains of scarves set that only studies there.

No one terribly exciting today, but I flirted (said "Hi") to the new kid, Brunette Michael Cera (BMC). I think he is a sophomore and now that I am 22, I am very interested in becoming a cougar. Will have to check the master schedule to see when we work together next.

Next topic: optometry.

A New Year, A New Resolution

Since I did not stick to my original New Year's Resolution (which was to stop chain chewing gum, but I don't really want to, I think they call this "addiction"), I decided that I would switch it to updating this blog, because, well, I am working here right now and I am falling asleep and so I figured that if I perhaps had to move my fingers constantly I would stay awake and do my job. I am 21 minutes into my second hour at the door, 21 minutes into my fourth hour here, and have been ADDing between the crossword, the Weekend Arts, Haiti coverage, and every single slide show on nytimes.com Dining & Wine section. (Did you know what the traditional Roman way of cutting a pizza is with a pair of regular scissors? Fascinating!)

There is no one here except for old people who can't seem to get in the habit of talking softly, and people that want a warm place to sleep. There are a couple of the regular dissertation students, like the girl with braces and the guy that looks like a younger Antonio Banderas. It depresses me to see them so focused and dedicated to their work. I had perhaps the best winter break of my college career and it was all because I had zero obligations or responsibilities; I went to the beach and biked around and drove around (it is LA, after all, the original driving culture) and did incriminating things and stayed out all night and it was like living all those high school moments I was supposed to have but never did, not until the week before my 22nd birthday. My boss at Aves said to me yesterday that fun stops after 21. However, mentally I think I am closer to 14 or 15, and, let's face it, physically as well, so perhaps it will be more of a bunny slope downhill instead of a fatal plunge.

In any case, none of this has to do with Avery. What is relevant is that I figured out my schedule for next semester, so that I will be working Monday through Wednesday, all afternoon shifts. So the lineup will be the usual suspects, just more giddy having returned from lunch at Brownie's. (Brownie's is the café in the basement of Avery, in a strange vortex between this building and Fayerweather. It serves the best food - gourmet panini and sandwiches and pasta dishes and salads and omelets and homemade trail mix and brownies [lolz] and even distinctly fresh bagels - on campus, as well as the cheapest coffee on campus [$1 for a small, $1.35 for a large]. Additionally, they have flavored coffees - french vanilla and hazelnut - and a shit ton of teas if you're into that, and you even get a punch card for both coffee and sandwiches and when you get ten star-shaped cut-outs you get a free coffee or sandwich. And you get to listen to all the conversations in various languages and watch Professor B hit on nine blonde girls at once and woo them with coffee, it's great.)

Meh all the Avery staff is breaking for lunch now and I still have another hour and twenty minutes of stomach audibly growling. Will definitely need to take a faux-bathroom trip to Uris and get some cancer coffee (French Vanilla coffee that is really like some hot chocolate thing that costs $0.90 and is dispensed in a machine with a paper cup) and yet more gum. One of these days I will try to yawn but not be able to open my mouth. Then maybe I will stop.

All right, back to the foodie slide shows. I did run into BHB yesterday - the "stranger" from last semester - when I was walking with a friend; we did the double-cheek kiss and talked a lot about our breaks and our families, as if we were very close. When I told my friend that I knew BHB from Avery, not as a fellow GA but just as a patron, he laughed; of course people only get that close when they meet at Avery.

What this semester will entail, I don't want to think about. I have an internship at a photography museum, eleven hours a week at Avery, four senior classes, and a thesis to finish. These activities will be peppered with a myriad of Bad Life Choices and several thousand identity crises and property shopping/convincing myself I can legitimately get away with squatting somewhere for the summer. I hope everyone's breaks are winding down nicely and that you are enjoying your last days of debauchery.

Oh no, it is one of the employees last day here! She is going to school full time now so is leaving! She just wished me good luck in school and says that she has been here as long as I have (dear God) and so it was great working with me! I'm touched. There is so much love at Avery, not just lust.

As they said in the crossword puzzle this morning, 24-down, "ciao."