Week of December 2
I try to hang out with people and keep it social, though I don't always do a good job. I've happened to fall into a church community that I only identify about 50% percent with, but that's okay. They seem like good people, and they bring up some thought-provoking questions. Their book, divinely inspired or not, is another addition to my life's perspective. I won't take it for granted.
Written in one of my journals: "Read every book as if it's someone else's favorite book." I'm sure I heard it on some podcast, and that's one of those nuggets of wisdom that will stick with me for a while.
Business is slow for me, though I've been lucky to come across a few projects and a few hundred bucks here and there. I hate to be a poor artist, not because I hate being poor—I don't spend too much, after all—but because I feel like I've let the other designers and writers of the world down by not being good enough.
Nonetheless, I got a call today from someone who might need my skills, which would be a nice change up. I must admit, I'm a bit tired of "Let's continue this conversation," but I sure don't want them to end.
Maybe a good door will open up soon.
While in NYC for the first time, I had the pleasure of visiting the Museum of Modern Art to see plenty of thought-provoking work, but no exhibit was more exciting to me than Toward a Concrete Utopia: Architecture in Yugoslavia 1948–1980. I have the book that goes with this exhibition standing on my desk on this Friday, finally venturing past the cover matter.
For one, this brand of architecture seems like a niche thing to know about, ad my model of education is simple: have a unique set of knowledge that nobody else has. That doesn't mean a complete exclusion of all the classic pieces of literature or ignoring basic lessons in art, science, and philosophy. It does, however, mean being obsessed with tiny corners of the knowable world: Yugoslav architecture between 1948 and 1980 is one of those things.
So far, so good. I'm sure I'll use the knowledge I gain in this book in many more writings and situations in my life.
I like bookstores for the book covers. It's plenty of inspiration, and peering into the books or understanding the concept behind them inspires me to start (or finish) certain projects.
I gravitate toward the small design section along with my date for the night. She doesn't know much about design, but I'm sure she can act interested for a minute or two. She does, though not as excited as she was moments ago in the poetry section.
We both took note of a beautiful small book titled Silence: In the Age of Noise by Erling Kagge. The cover is has a light metallic finish with simple typography. Inside, there are elegant blue gradients in the cover matter. The type inside is simple and looks natural on the eyes. It begs to be admired, bought, and read. Two down, one to go.
Silence is a new MO, I'd say. Much like Erling's teenage daughters described in the book, silence for me tends to be an expression of sadness; a reluctance to be. There's more to it than that, though. Silence is something to be chased. To be inserted into life to make it better.
It's no self-help book. It doesn't advertise 33 ways to use silence to enhance your sex life, or how silence can help you lose 3 pounds in 3 weeks. No, it's much more an ode to the origin of the book. Not the author, but the silences that spawned the writing inside.