Seniorstudio 2(2)(2)

seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09 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 Zealand and ending up in Singapore. 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 this really work? 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 pays more, statementfull art or statementless art? Words, words. Smushing, well, something. 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 little symbols affixed 2 some paper. Writing, not enuf. 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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seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09 --somehow she is here in this lab, the mac lab, she hasn’t been here in ages, might as well, might as well. The software is so very temperamental, not congruent, 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 highly evolved version. She writes, writes. ---

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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 again, the ocean factory is quiet, she writes, writes. 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 earth. Yep, that is how it is. 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 bodycavities, that kind of stuff. ANYHOO, THE CUMULITIC CLOUDS MOVE THRU THE AIR, PAST OCEAN.

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seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09 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 become a non-artist, one credit @ a time. 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, writes some more. ---

another page, another page. This is actually page 8, so, there, this is going pretty

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seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09 fast. She started yesterday and the words are pretty evenly splashing onto the page. Like gesso, maybe. Like underpaint, overpaint. Not that many hiccups and the ones that are there, are good, submerging her prose into a lightsea of sprinkled dots. This place is oh so desolate, very very lonely, just her and all these computers. The maclab. Outside the sun shining, brightly, outside granville island is happening, forcefully. She writes, writes, writes. Ah, why not, why not? 77 pages will be finished in no time, she will have ample time to splash paint on canvases. This is not how she should work, she should start making a film, go to the animationlab, start getting her permission to use the linetester, she should do this, do that. Start a film, any film will do. She has sooo many ideas, there are so many storylines, ah, so little time. Typing text should help. Will help. Is utterly addictive, watching one’s fingers press down these buttons. Kind of like a dance, her fingers are like legs, tapping over the keyboard, the squares reacting to the pushing down, the text emerging. Ah, magic. This is page eight, but she said that already. There should be more pressing issues than this, better, more valuable issues. Life and death issues. Politics, questions of who is right, who is wrong. Who is bad, who is good? Questions of team A versus team B. not just text waxing on ‘bout sunshine, lollipops. she writes, writes. would prefer to be somewhere else, somewhere far far away from a keyboard. Where words don’t count, where paint rules paramount. Maybe the painting studio. She ponders: what if someone she knows will read this, what if, what if. Yep, this is what methinks, and I never got committed. Page 8, page eight, page 8.

Start of page 9, words are stalling. This keyboard here in the maclab is a little too

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seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09 easy to the touch, typos are unavoidable, the keyboard is so very inviting to typos, it is tough, tough, tough. Page nine, page nine. She is getting crazy in here, she should scream, take this fucking keyboard and smash it into, into, let’s see, hmm, into what? A skull, the window, her own head? Maybe insanity is not her thing, not yet, not anymore. Walking down to the market seems so much more pleasant, what with the sun shining over the sugary idyll that is granville island. Maybe there are not enuf clouds in the sky. That must be it, no action, too much stagnation makes her certifiably nauseated. Maybe she should write about art, on art, this being an art school. She had enuf of art. That’s it, that’s it. Eschewing the relentless obscurity of art, that is her forte. Should be, could be. Anti-art rants, that should pay the bill. She watches her middlefinger tap all over this keyboard, the air conditioner makes noises, too metallic, too obnoxious. If this damn page ever comes to an end, she can leave, leave, fresh air, here I come. Pageend where art thou? Somehow there are better words, more eloquence, less screeching of the wheels of the language. Better orthography, better lingo, better grammar, a whole lotta better. She writes anyways, that seems to do the trick. If you keep on doing what you do, there will be a reward. A house on the hill. Maybe. A trip to amsterdam. Maybe. She writes, writes, writes. At this point she’ll be happy to finish up with this school, grasp her piece of paper dearly, dance out of this place. That should do, could do. After all, it is a start. She writes, writes, writes. One day down the line there will be drawing involved, painting involved. She writes, writes. ---

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seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09 another day, another day. Some monday in the beginning of september, in the end of september. September with a lower-case “s”. Very 2009ish. She writes, writes. Coughs. No, not swine flu. She writes. oceanfactory is in place, as always, the sky is reluctantly overcast. Clouds like cottonballs in front of blue backdrop, altogether making 4 a grey texture with a pale-blue tint. Books make noise, against the metal. People whisper behind her, working on their assignment, cooperating. She hates and detests cooperation, does not want her vision diluted. Cooperation, collaboration, it is usually one person’s idea and the rest of the people are there for cheerleading. One leader, lots of sheep. Bahhhhh. So much 4 that. She writes, writes. It is 2 chilly in here, way too chilly. Those are the things she can describe in the ecuad library, nothing ever is happening here. No blood is spilled. Just regular days smushing themselves forward. A library like any library. Anylibrary. She writes, writes. Produces some more stuff to be bound into books and be read by someone unsuspecting. How do you know if something is worth reading? You have to sit thru it. Until the very end. When you know for sure that the butler did it. She writes, writes. Saves this, reaches for her black mohair sweater. The one that set her back 200 bucks and has tiny holes in it. The one that feels so, well, great. Toasty. She writes, writes. This is page 9, maybe 10. she is not quite sure anymore, it seems to be a quarter to ten. All these numbers, fragmenting her prose, structuring her prose. She should write poems, treatises ‘bout word issues, no, world issues. She should write about art, about line, form. That kind of stuff, that kind of stuff. This is her last semester, her very very last class. Her lastest seniorstudio project. All this text, all of these words. Hammered into the computer here in the library, or in the maclab on the second floor of the north building. She writes, writes. Might just crumple part of this up, that is her final project.

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seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09 There is a concept behind it, there must be, should be. Some artpiece conceived in beerguzzled stupor. Not that she guzzles that much. Just every now and then. While on a trip to places faraway. Beerguzzle inducing places. Like Amsterdam, always amsterdam. Somehow this text slithers down in2 utter incoherence, might as well, might as well. she ponders what else 2 write on, is there anything left to be said? anything unsaid? Storyarcs are soooo very overrated, she refuses to do storyarcs. Hates it, detests it. Literature should be like jazzmusic, plays with form, with color. Pauses, capitalizations @ random, @nonrandom. There should not be editing, there is a reason, why a writer chooses to capitalize “Amsterdam” in one place, and refuses to do so, in the next part of the sentence. There are reasons for anti-syntax, these are the rhythms that are dictated by the here and now of the reality of typing, of penning something down, by the blue ink used, by the scratching of the pen, by the slight resistance of any given paper. The physicality of the process dictates certain forms and it makes for that much better writing. With slight hiccups that bounce the words forward. Eloquently, anti-eloquently. Full of elegance, courting nonelegance. That kind of stuff, that kind of stuff. Outside black birds flutter thru the sky. The leaves quiver ever so reluctantly, ever so forcefully. She writes, writes, writes. There are only so many words in her repertoire @ any given time, this is not her language, not her language. Ha, as if it is any one person’s language. She adopted it, still searching, still trying to stutter in it, stumblingly. Might as well, might as well. Page 11, page eleven. Pretty good 4 the beginning of the year. The words march forward, ever so reluctantly. ---

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