This semester I signed up for COM 194, or "First Friday Salon." A quick bit of explanation, since I'm the only Phoenix regular around here: the First Friday art walk takes place on the first Friday of every month (thus the name) from 6 p.m. to 11 p.m. Every art gallery and studio (including the Phoenix Art Museum) is open to the public for free, and people can take self-guided tours through the city's art scene. There are also street vendors and musicians of all kinds. It's absolutely awesome. (More info can be found
here.)
When I found out that there was going to be a class where I would
get credit for going to this, I signed up right away. Last night was the first session of the semester, and it was the most enjoyable class I've taken in a long time (I really wish we could do it more than once a month). Here's a rundown of the evening, complete with photos.
***
4:00 p.m.
I remember that there was something posted on the class's web site that we're supposed to read prior to the lesson. I slog through eight pages of some art textbook, incredibly confused, until Adobe Reader just decides to freeze up on me. I growl at the computer and try to fix things, to no avail.
4:30 p.m.
I pack up everything I need and head downstairs to grab a quick dinner before class. On my way, I run into one of my classmates, Scarlett. She tells me she's working on the
Downtown Devil, a student-run onine news'paper' for the downtown campus. Since we're friends on Facebook, she knows I like to take pictures; she asks if I'd be willing to do a photo-essay about First Friday. Even though the class is scheduled to go to one of the less-populated areas, I agree to head down to the main drag after class and get some photos for her (I had my camera on me anyway).
4:42 p.m.
I make it downstairs to the dining hall, realize I've got about ten minutes to eat if I want to make it to class on time, and proceed to have the fastest dinner ever.
4:58 p.m.
I make it to the classroom with two minutes to spare. A cute-ish guy classmate asks my name, and when I tell him, he whips out a roster and wonders why he can't find it (cue the usual first-day-of-class Alee/Courtney confusion). It's about at this point that I realize this 'classmate' is actually Professor Ferderer, and I marvel at the fact that half the class looks older than he does.
5:10 p.m.
Everyone finally makes it to the classroom (out of the twenty or so people there, I'm the only one from the downtown campus, so most people got stuck in traffic and/or lost on the way) and we start. Professor Ferderer introduces himself - even though it sounds like he knows a few of the students well already - and Dean Corey, the dean of the University College and co-creator of this course. We go over the syllabus, including course requirements and acceptable behavior: "Most of this class takes place outside the classroom, and I know there are certain... temptations at the art walk. You're all adults, so I'm not going to slap you on the wrist if I see you with a beer, but a lot of your grade comes from the discussions we have at the end of class. Critical thinking is hard to do if you're... not... coherent. Just try to remember class is over at nine, the art walk goes until eleven, and bars don't close until two in the morning. Try to hold off." It occurs to me that I must be one of the younger students in the class.
We quickly go over the reading, the main point of which was apparently that art is affected by both the creator's and viewer's perception. We are asked to take notes on what we see when we leave, and to keep the following things in mind:
1. How do your own lived experiences shape the way a piece of art communicates to you?
2. What makes a piece of art valuable? What factors lead you to assign a particular value to a work of art?
3. How does the social and cultural world shape your views?
We're given maps of downtown Phoenix, a schedule of events, and we're off.
5:45 p.m.
We take the light-rail down to the Phoenix Art Museum, and are given forty-five minutes of free rein. I wander the first floor and take notes on whatever happens to catch my eye - even though I'm not sure what I'm supposed to write. Eventually I make it over to the exhibit of Asian art, and I find this...
Cheng Zhang, Liu Haisu, and Wang Zen, "Collaborative Painting of Red Plum and Cranes on a Rock"
...and I have to try very hard not to start crying in the middle of the gallery because it reminds me so much of my father (or, more specifically, of a gift my father gave me when I was six or seven - a red kimono with cranes on it, which I loved so much that I didn't want to get rid of it even when I outgrew it).
I move on to a display of samurai weapons and armor.
I also come across a copy of the Qu'ran, which has a lot written in the margins and looks very well-loved by whoever had owned it. I decide that it has value - sentimental to someone, if nothing else.
6:20 p.m.
I move on, into a gallery of paintings by someone named Philip C. Curtis. It's not incredibly interesting, but one of his paintings catches my eye.
Philip C. Curtis, "The Lift"I spend the next several minutes just staring, wondering what could possibly be behind those masks.
6:32 p.m.
I realize that I've got less than fifteen minutes and two floors of the museum I haven't even gotten to yet. I run upstairs, and spend some time looking at various portraits. Nothing exceptionally interesting, but one did remind me of
Mindtheft, in a weird way.
William Merritt Chase, "The White Rose (Portrait of Miss Jessup)"I also run into another one of my classmates. We introduce ourselves (his name is David, he's a sophomore and an architecture major at the Tempe campus) and start talking for a little while, until I realize we have three minutes to get back to the entrance. Speaking of the entrance...
Josiah McElheny, "The Last Scattering Surface"...this is shiny.
6:45 p.m.
We board a shuttle that takes us to the Grand Avenue galleries. On the way, David and I meet a guy named Christian who's an art major at ASU and who is going to be selling some of his paintings later that night. The shuttle also passes Hob Nobs, the coffee shop where we'll be having our discussion at the end of class. Professor Ferderer informs us that since the shuttle only goes one way, we'll have to walk there, and that means we'll be going through 1.38 miles of downtown Phoenix on foot, at night. A collective groan goes up from most of the class.
7:00 p.m.
We arrive at Grand Avenue, and there is momentary panic when we realize we've lost the Dean. He shows up several minutes later, telling us he decided to drive. Now that we're all together, we take a look around. Grand Avenue is very dark and very creepy. We opt to stick together this time.
As we start to explore, one of my classmates points across the street and asks quietly, "Hey... is that a tranny hooker?" As it turns out, it is. Huh.
7:15 p.m.
Our first stop is Yuko Yabuki's gallery.
Ms. Yabuki seemed really interested in the concept of the class, so another guy and I spend some time talking with her about it. I only remember to snap a picture just as our group leaves, and unfortunately very little of the actual art is visible.
7:30 p.m.
Next we go to a gallery showcasing a Sue Chenoweth's "Predators and Prey" series, which is little more than a dozen canvases full of random splotches of color. But since True Art is Incomprehensible, the artist rather snootily informs us all that they are a study in what makes people afraid, namely violent and gruesome death, and that she did months and months of research before painting each of these "reactions". This rant comes just after one of my classmates looks at "Pollard and Ramsdell on the 94th Day" and comments that it looks like a polar bear, when the painting apparently really depicts two sailors lost at sea, clutching the bones of the crewmates they presumably ate to stay alive. (I have no photographic evidence of this one, but it really does look like a polar bear.)
7:45 p.m.We leave and start heading back toward Hob Nobs. We realize that half the class has vanished; Professor Ferderer freaks out, since we all
were together just a little while before. One girl calls her friend (one of the missing ones) up, and we learn that they went on to a different gallery down the road.
7:55 p.m. We meet up with the rest of the class at the Trunk Space, a small gallery/coffehouse. We spend a few minutes there as Ferderer does a head count.
I find a piece of art that immediately makes me think of
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
schizoauthoress</lj> ...
...and one that makes me think of
ladydragonryder</lj> , for different reasons.
8:30 p.m.We finally get to Hob Nobs and have our end-of-class discussion. One of the more interesting topics (obviously a reference to the polar-bear-versus-dead-people issue) is whether the vision of the artist or the viewer matters more than the other. Class ends at nine, and I'm left thinking that this is the coolest class ever.
9:30 p.m.I take the light rail back to Roosevelt Row, which is apparently the epicenter of First Friday (it's the only part I've been to before, since it's only a few blocks from my residence hall). During the first couple minutes of my walk through, I pass Scientologists, anti-Scientology protestors in Guy Fawkes masks, a preacher giving a sermon atop an overturned milk crate, and a gaggle of atheists, all standing in a row on the same block and shouting over one another to make their messages heard. It all comes off as slightly ridiculous.
9:40 p.m.I turn on my camera to take a picture and it promptly dies. Cue angry muttering.
10:00 p.m.
Morbid curiosity prompts me to stop and watch a one-man act call the Cutthroat Freakshow. The guy lifts weights on hooks attached to his eyelids, hammers a huge nail up his nose, and jumps onto a pile of broken glass in his bare feet. I spend most of this show cringing and wondering if there's a less painful way to get your rent paid.
10:10 p.m.
I run into some people I've seen before - a henna-tattoo artist named Fran and her husband Sam. I chat with them for a while. Fran gives me one of the henna kits she's selling, free of charge because I'm nice, apparently. Which was sweet of her.
10:30 p.m.I stop to listen to a guy singing and playing his guitar, and am shocked that I'm the only one staying and listening since he's really good. I want to tip him, but I only have a twenty and a debit card, so I just go up to him and tell him how great he was instead. He and I talk for a while; he tells me about his band and the album he's just about to release, and I tell him about the photo-essay I'm supposedly doing. He and I commiserate about how cameras just love to fail when you really need them, and he invites me to a show he's playing in Mesa next Sunday. (His
website, by the way.)
11:00 p.m.The booths start to close down, and I call it a night.
bored
geeky
blah
busy
amused
sleepy
gloomy
sad
awake![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
cheerful
happy
calm
*headwall* x 50
depressed
contemplative
cranky
giddy