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This is actually her second writing today- maybe even her third- actually,
definitely her third. The computer has changed, though, she uses a pc, another computer
here in the library, facing the wall, not the ocean factory, not the window. Words splash
onto the page, pretty fast, pretty forcefully. Still thinking about what to make for senior
studio, if writing will do, if filmmaking should be introduced into the mix, drawing, some
paint. Where do words suffice, where are they more than enough. Writing so many many
essays made her leave visual arts, it was a slow but steady process. Not necessarily a bad
one, but somehow she left the road, the path she started out on. It is like going to New
Weather outside is pretty sunny, might as well, some remnance of indian summer.
A dictionary to her left, blue, green, yellow. Writing, writing away. She could draw and
maybe that is what will be done 4 this project. In the end. Something more visual, with
lots of pretty pictures. Images, non-words. Instead of all these silly little signs, real
images, non-words. Visual art school, visual arts school. On the shelf a Volume magazine,
a new one, one she has not read. As of yet. All the other magazines titles, all the current
issues. Rectangle after rectangle, all kinds of colors, leaning on the black shelves.
She ponders if her proposal will be rejected or if she could go ahead and start
producing this stuff. Is there even a process of approval or/ and disapproval? How does
The day shivers slowly into the afternoon, no one knows what that means, but it
sounds good. Has the right amount of drama. Weirdness meeting strangeness. The page
comes 2 an end, there is one more left to write. Words instead of images, is it enough, is
it? She ponders if she should have a header in this, if there should be more consistency,
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seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09
less consistency. She writes, pretty fast, pretty annoyed. Where is the spellcheck, what
time is it? Writing, writing. Might not be enough, might be too much. How much does it
pay 2 be a conceptual artist, what x-aktli is a conceptual artist? What does it mean? Is it
even a job description, something to fill in @ the passport office. Occupation: conceptual
artist- huh?
She went thru the syllabus, A, A plus, that is reserved 4 stuff that challenges the
boundaries of the field, expands the known boundaries, something like that. What does
that even mean? Why is effort in itself not good enough, why can we not just go for
rewarding a certain amount of time put in? what is excellence? What is failure? Who
defines that? Should she start painting, pick up a paint brush, wean herself from this
keyboard, does she even have to, and if push comes to shove, does she even want to?
What will her future be in, will it be in pursuing a phd, or will she make stuff? Or both?
Or none? Why does everything have to smush into one neat, well-defined category? Why
do artists have to issue statements? Shouldn’t we opt for statementless art? Which one
Ah, the page, coming slowly, ever so slowly 2 an end. Artwriting, she could
pursue that, in another lifetime, maybe. Words are non-forms, way too abstract, they are
not as good as film, are they? They are so very stagnant, non-moving. Just somewhere
Anyhoo, she writes, had a meeting today, which did not go well, why should
meetings even go well? Some just don’t. Ah, @ least the page is done. And that is all that
matters. All that matters 4 2day. Nothing but bullshit. Call it poetry, if yu like, if yu can.
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somehow she is here in this lab, the mac lab, she hasn’t been here in ages, might
non-congruent. There is no way in hell that she has a clue what the f. congruent
means, she knows she should use better language, cleaner language. How come
the whole f. thing is indented? which wrong button did she push?
The writing is kind of getting out of whack, the indenting frazzles the writing beyond
recognition. Somehow her system does not work anymore, she will write this all in one
swoop. Or something like that. Her system was so well-defined, so utterly refined, two
pages per day, without headers. She randomly changes it, is not quite sure if this is a good
idea. There is some hammering going on outside of the lab, could be on Granville Island.
She ponders if she should shoot 4 literary merit, or 4 volume. Volume is pretty good. It is
getting late here on Granville Island, she can see the southbuilding from here, if she turns
around on the chair. There is typing going on here, there is a door opening, there is the
screeching of another door. The monstrous hammering again, a sneeze, another one. Very
female, slightly squeaky sneeze. Door opens, genderneutral. She writes nothing but
bullshit. You may disagree. You should. You better. You’d better. She writes and writes
and writes. Is not quite sure how she can smush all these pages 2gether, does not even
care that much. As long as she can listen in to her tying. And she writes and writes and
writes. Introduces pauses, hiccups in2 this text. This is not last years writing, this is the
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seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09
once more she is back in the library, it is summy outside, she types an “m” instead of
an “n”, provides this place with future material. This will be a future book stored here
in this very library. At least that is what she projects. And the indenting is way off
Another day, today very saturdayish, quietness, morningness. Nothing to see here, no
inspiration whatsoever. Total bla. She writes anyways, words have 2 be put down, must
be put down. Painters are smashing pigments in2 the canvas, somewhere on the 4th floor,
sculptresses, weld against the grain. The artschool, the art school. Somehow, somewhere
somebody animates. Not her, not her. She writes, writes, reluctantly, forcefully. A page.
The page. Coherence would help, could help. Obscure scribbling is kind of out, meaning
is the new black. It is good that she is the only person that has a clue what she is talking
‘bout, why squander legibility, coherence, meaning? Why be straightforward when you
can be utterly vague. It’s more artsy, so they say, so they say.
still september here in vancitay, the sheer boringness of this place is crumpling
her throat in2 pieces, nothing happens here on Granville island, nothing ever does. This is
such a bla place, so very very predictable. Art is supposed 2 be fun, full of energy. Huh,
not this school, it managed to dull down art and design and media like no other place on
The author ponders if she can really pull this off, writing one so very long treatise
against this very place that will issue her degree, it is like a med student writing his
dissertation ‘bout the dangers of surgery, how surgeons tend to loose scalpels in
ANYHOO, THE CUMULITIC CLOUDS MOVE THRU THE AIR, PAST OCEAN.
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she writes, writes. Writes, writes, writes. Some more words, a lot more words.
There are books on the shelves, to her right, to her left. Lots and lots of books. That no
one ever reads. Some times, ever so often, people, take out stuff, rummage thru the pages,
to find something citeable, quotes to sprinkle into their essays. That is how you forget
how to draw, how to paint. 2 much theory, way, way too much theory. That is how you
anyhow, anyhoo, she writes, writes. Wonders, ponders, a tad, not that much. Her
brain is more feeling like turning into mush, it is that time of year, that time of the
semester. Now and here, @ the very start. When she still has to hunt for a studiospace,
still has to do all the admin stuff. When she has to settle in into some kind of reluctant
routine. The ocean factory doesn’t care, neither do the clouds motioning by behind it. She
writes, writes. Spellchecking would be good, could be good. Why not, why not? It is kind
of good that no one ever reads her stuff, as frustrating as it is, it spares her the snickers of
disapprovemenr. it makes her write more, forcefully. No one critiques, thus she might as
well write. No naysayers, that seems to be pretty good. She can just produce stuff until
the cows come home. Words. Sentences, dots, and commas. Always commas. The
keyboard rattles, relentlessly. Too much words, too much words, way too many many
words. Page seven is coming to an end, not bad for two days. She writes, writes, writes,
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seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09