+++ title = “12” date = 2017 +++
Every year since I was in high school, I’ve published some kind of list of my favorite discoveries throughout the year. This year, I’ll talk about my favorites but also how my consumption habits have changed. It’s important, and when my great-great-great grandchildren read this years from now, I want them to understand what was happening in 2017.
The way that we find art has changed every single year.
It’s difficult to find someone who doesn’t enjoy some kind of music. Same goes for movies, and even fine art.
But poetry? When it comes to poetry, there are vast amounts of haters.
Think about Shel Silverstein. People love him for his simplicity. The words rhyme so your brain can almost fill in the blanks. I think the lack of work required to get enjoyment out of his poems is relatively small.
Liza and I went to an art museum last weekend (the Renwick in DC).
I don’t know what I’d experienced in the past at art museums that made me feel this way, but whatever it was was weighing down on my excitement level.
The first thing we saw when we walked in was a gigantic chandelier that looked almost like it was glimmering. The different pieces of glass that composed the giant chandelier had been programmed to light up/down in such a way that the same patterns were never repeated.
It’s at the very start of the book. Matilda discovers her local library, and starts to read everything on the shelves. She finishes all the kids books, and then moves on to the adult books.
At some point, the librarian informs her that public libraries allow one to take books home.
Her reaction: could I do it?
This, after books were basically banned from her household. This, after she had to find refuge from her terrible parents at a local library.
I have this recurring conversation with a friend of mine.
We argue about whether or not a particular musician is “good.” And often it becomes a battle of who has the strongest opinion, or the most confident tone, or the highest credentials.
The conversation starts to unravel the way of a ball of yarn does; slowly but surely transforming a surface area sweater into a relentless puffy string.
It becomes about the notes, about the technical aspects of the playing, about the cred.