I am so unbelievably glad that Friday has come at last. I always hate midterm season because the profs somehow manage to pile them all into one or two weeks. I’ve had more Starbucks Doubleshots in the past week than any human probably should, and there are holes in my memory that are probably a direct result of five days of staying up until two or three in the morning and then turning around and getting up at seven. I sort of feel like Will in that one episode of The Inbetweeners where they’re all preparing for their A-Levels, except I chose espresso over energy drinks and found time to bathe.
I am currently sitting on my bed watching episodes of 90s shows on Netflix and ignoring the fact that I have to clean, do laundry, reserve a cab, pack, and generally get ready to make what is most likely my last flight from Rochester to Nashville tomorrow. That’s a little weird to think about. (Have I mentioned how insane it is that I’m graduating in a couple of months?) I will miss the ROC security people. They’re the nicest I’ve ever dealt with. I think all people in Rochester, on the whole, are nicer than people anywhere else in the world, actually.
Enough about me, though. Today I would like to share the work of a photographer I really love, Irina Werning. She has a series of photographs in which she has recreated adult (not in the dirty sense) versions of people’s childhood photos. She is pretty meticulous about detail, so the photos she takes are astonishingly identical to their original versions. All of her series are wonderful, but this one in particular caught my eye. Check it out here. I think my favorite is of Nico on the skateboard.
On a side note, I am very grateful that I took an intellectual history class about 20th century Europe this semester. It is introducing me to so many thinkers that I will purposefully avoid reading for the rest of my life. Today we discussed Theodor Adorno’s “Perennial Fashion–Jazz.” Let me just say, I love jazz, and, therefore, my gut reaction is to hate Adorno’s views. Apparently he is one of the great names in musical criticism, but I think he spoke a great deal about things he didn’t fully understand. I must say, though, I was very pleased that two of the other students in my small class also knew enough and were passionate enough about jazz as an art form to vehemently attack Adorno’s piece. I breathed a sigh of relief that there are others of my generation out there that appreciate the historical and aesthetic importance of said genre.