And then I sent her home and there was Festival of Trees. Which involves long days, crazy amounts of Christmas trees, wreathes, and gingerbread houses. And a serious need for margaritas. But it went off without a hitch and we had record attendance. And it wore me out so much I slept for 13 hours.

Today, on my one free day of Thanksgiving weekend, Avelino and I joined Leah and Amy for the Franz West exhibit at the Baltimore Museum of Art. It was really quite delightful. West’s art brings the viewer in. It is art you can interact with, sit on, climb on, run around, and not a sound from the guards, not a peep, not till eager parent cameras come out to capture the kids, and then the guards leap into action, thankful for something to do, their nerves shattered, their reverie broken by the clunk of jumping feet landing, the giggles and happy cries.

And West did a lot of collages and things that remind me of the various journal pages I’ve seen all across Flickr. I had no idea who he was when we entered, and I left having fallen in love.

Of course I also visited the old favorites, like Zoe Leonard’s “untitled” and Thomas Hart Benton’s “Bubbles. I discovered some new ones as well: Grace Hartigan’s “Elizabeth I” and Feliz Gonzalez-Torres’ “Untitled (Water).”

Then there was the impromptu photowalk as we made our way through the drizzle to the car.

The umbrellas have led me to the start of a new project: photos of people with their umbrellas. Umbrella heads, I’m calling it jokingly. I’ll be hoping for rain.

A busy, busy week. And with the end of the semester fast approaching, it won’t be slowing down anytime soon.

I’ve been working on homework tonight, occasionally looking longingly at the painting I started. The creative suite has stumped me, so I had to give up on that particular assignment (I was working ahead and brainstorming) for the time being.

And now, for a letter of apology to Franz Kafka:

Dear Franz,

I know that I have not been giving you the time you need; you might even say I’m ignoring and avoiding you. Please know that I love you. I even read “The Judgment” and “The Country Doctor” with some small amounts of relish. But I cannot bring myself to find joy in rereading “The Metamorphosis.” I am too grossed out by Gregor Samsa as a bug, and am taken aback by his pure lack of concern for his situation.

It doesn’t help that you follow on the heels of Hemingway. Ah, Hemingway. Next to Ernest (”My ideal has always been to love someone of the name of Ernest” ~Oscar Wilde’s Gwendolyn), your prose feels overloaded, like an old woman with an armful of fruit. There is something beautiful about it, but you can see the struggle, know that pretty soon it will all fall from her arms and go rolling down the street.

Ah, Franz, you try to ply me with your surreal images, and I am constantly digging for the secret. And I suppose its all well and good that you’ve got my attention, but I just can’t help it. You are like Death by Chocolate pie, and all I want is a slice of apple. Just too much, Franz, too much.

Sincerely,

Meredith

Now for the self portraits: Monday’s, in honor of my activity of choice, is a paintbrush, which I “painted” using art rage, some new software I’m trying to figure out. Today’s honors cold weather and staying warm.