Meet the Pinkstons

This picture is a million stories. It is the story of my loftiest dreams coming true, a homecoming, an unpleasant surprise, and an unlikely victory for traumatic anosmia.

I am quite aware of the fact that this looks just like present day Jenna (minus the fashion atrocity that was permitted to happen), but this photo was snapped and this moment trapped forever in the summer of 2007.

                

In her book “Family Photographs: Content, Meaning, and Effect” Hirsch claims that “The places we photograph are our roots” (47). She goes on to talk about neat scenes of fences and houses and streets: traditional, rooted places of belonging. Though at first glance, it may not look like it, this is a photograph of my, and more directly of my father’s, roots. This is not a street. This is not a home. And no, this is not just a random pile of rocks on a foggy day. This is a volcano, and it is located in Indonesia, the country my dad calls home. I had, for as long as I could remember, wanted more than anything to visit this place.

                

Unlike the “symbolic pieces of territory” that Hirsch writes about—stairs that families return to for Easter pictures every year or a front stoop for the first day of each school year—my family has only been to this volcano once and has spent the vast majority of its time on the opposite side of the globe. This, however, also communicates about my family. We enjoy new and unique experiences and have had the opportunity to visit lots of faraway places, even if only once. The lack of architecture in the photo also reflects my family’s preference for the outdoors.

                

My favorite part of this photo is something that would not jump out to a casual viewer. If you look at each of our faces, you will see hesitant smiles on each of us beside my sister Joely, who is beaming unashamedly and my brother Jack, who just doesn’t know better. When I’ve mentioned that I climbed a volcano, people’s first thoughts are usually of red hot lava and black igneous rock. As you can see, that was not the case. People also generally think about climbing up and not down to get into the volcano. This was a volcano with lots of gray rocks and hot pools of equally gray water.

               

 Last on people’s minds is the sense of smell. It was not even a thought that crossed my mind before going to the volcano, but it was my first thought upon arriving. The smell of sulfur was terribly pervasive and terribly unpleasant. It smells like eggs in the worst of ways.

                

My sister, however, has traumatic anosmia; she cannot, nor has she ever been able to, smell. She is anosmic, smell-blind. Joely absolutely reveled in the discomfort of everyone smelling this situation. “This is so fun,” she said beaming, taunting us. It was adorable and annoying.

                

This is my family. Travels, adventures, togetherness, and anosmia. I like it a lot.

Murals

In my time at IU, I’ve spent a fair amount of time sitting in Woodburn 100, a large lecture hall on campus. On the walls of this space, there are two large murals staring across the room at each other. I have sat between them and stared back countless times, though if you asked me right now, I wouldn’t be able to tell you exactly what they were about. I could tell you, however, that I have noted time and time again the massive muscles showing through the clothing of workers. It turns out that these murals are the work of Thomas Hart Benton, and that these bulging muscles are characteristic of his work.

This week, we visited the IU auditorium to view others of Benton’s murals. In our readings, we learned that these murals were purchased under the direction of the president of IU, Herman B. Wells during the construction of the auditorium in 1938. These murals, having made an appearance at the World’s Fair, centered on Midwestern life and history.

Our site visit inspired a relatively random question. When we arrived at the auditorium, we discussed the medium of Benton’s artwork. Ms. Jean shared that tempera paint is made with eggs. I wonder if vegan artists refuse to use this paint, or if it can be made without eggs. I feel like out of all professions, artist may be one of the highest in vegan population.

I did a little bit of research, and it seems that this is an area in which people are growing in concern. There are all kinds of ethical and environmental factors that artists are considering, including both materials themselves and packaging and manufacturing processes. I personally am neither vegan nor artist, but if you are or wish to be, http://veganactivist.wordpress.com/2010/05/01/vegan-art-supplies/ seems to be a good resource for thinking about and discovering how to do vegan art.

Back to Benton.

I thought the comparison between Benton and Michelangelo was interesting and not one I would have thought of on my own. I was privileged enough to be able to spend time in Florence and Rome a couple of years ago and to see some of Michelangelo’s masterpieces like David and the Sistine Chapel in person. Here is a stellar photo of how fashionable I looked on the day I visited the Vatican.

Note the pushy tour guide who straddled innocent strangers to hasten our journey through the Sistine Chapel. Clearly, this is a snapshot of the best of friends in the best of times. Overall, a memorable experience. 

Both of these artists used vibrant colors, active poses, and emphasis on the human body (especially muscles). To me, the differences between artists seem more prominent. Benton was a painter; Michelangelo was a painter, sculptor, poet, and architect. (I looked up his poetry out of curiosity. I would suggest it if you are every in a dramatic poetry reading mood.) Whereas Benton’s murals centered on a region, Michelangelo’s focused on a faith.  They lived in entirely different times and places. I wonder if, given the opportunity, the two of them would have been friends.