Summary of Last Semester

Mainly what I did this semester was take 8 classes and create 3 theses. I also learned how to swim.

For my music thesis I recorded samples and made instruments out of them. Bottles clanking created high percussion and water-filled woks made for sweeping wobble-lines. I got tons of gamelan sounds and focused on lining up the pulsing patterns to create a polyrhythmic structure.

I thought it would be super cool to create an interface that used body-motion to control music, and realized it would be possible with a Kinect sensor, Ableton Live, Synapse, and MaxMSP. At my senior show: "The X Sound Festival" I performed the piece: "Dream Leftovers" using a minimalist dance to control elements of the song. It appeared that I was floating because I was lit by backlight, wearing a UV costume I had made, and standing on one leg to use one foot to pan a track, In the end I rolled off the stage into the audience.

My teacher was powerful mad at me for putting a dead coyote in her dishwasher. Actually she was mad for not having a DVD for the X Sound Festival (the DVD drive in the lab was broken). I didn't realize it was an issue because everything worked fine using my friend's laptop, including preemptive messages I had made such as: "Shake into a New Dimension is an application downloaded from the ether, are you sure you want to open it?" and "The X Sound Festival has unexpectedly quit, reopen? Once I had been scolded for being unprofessional for an hour or so I felt ashamed and have hopefully learned my lesson.

 

Here's the part where I get to brag however: after being thoroughly chided my teacher commented on how impressive it was that I had written two songs and made a music video in three weeks, along with creating a multi-media performance art piece. She commented that I had accomplished more with the Kinect sensor technology in a few weeks than the combined efforts of the technical director of Mills and a graduate student had over the course of four months. 

Once I was thoroughly burnt out on working hard I just continued to work hard. I directed my first large video crew and finished my psychology thesis. I had an average of 3 hours a day commuting by bus throughout the semester and would use it to do research for this thesis. I ended up writing about music as a metaphor for brain function, discussing how cross-cerebral neural oscillation synchrony may be a crucial component for cognitive function. There are many brain disturbances that are correlated with brainwave synchrony abnormalities and I proposed new research within three of these areas (schizophrenia, autism spectrum disorders and Parkinson’s disease) involving a relatively new individualized neurofeedback treatment that transforms EEG data into music. 

Now I’m done with my undergraduate degree. I’ve had capstone educational experiences, but it’s still odd not to be thinking about what classes I’ll take next semester. Now I’m busy trying to find a job and an apartment but also making myself deadlines for individual projects like writing an album, making a few DJ sets, making a line of paintings, creating a fashion line, studying for the GRE, Researching all the neuroscience literature on dreaming and learning basic Photoshop, calculus and physics.

Google the Flavor

A kitty stumbled off an airplane into Albuquerque. I noticed her far through the swirling glass gate, walking on the front of her feet, leading her dazed swagger with limp-wrists. I showed Jack my hometown, fed her chile, took her sledding and to the spa, went to art-shows and parties, introduced her to my friends, drank a lot of good beer, made a movie, and shaved: "C▲T" into her head just before heading out to Cali.

Emily Montoya asked me which delicious establishment I’d like to visit before splitting town and we met up at Felipe’s Tacos writing: “Wulph Escapes Zooooo”  on the front page of the Albuquerque Journal and adding quotes around the “tight” in “New Mexican Budget Tight” (bro). The natural thing to do next was to walk to K Mart and pitch for a moustache trimming kit, then spend all our quarters on fake gold rings. Kristen (my best friend forever) Noah, Jack and I chanted “BOGO Chikn Sandwis” as we made our way to the "Death of Culture" ceremony, who’s beginning included everyone shaving things into the backs of each other’s heads by the light of a strobe light, and finished with Benji rolling on the floor cackling: “Baby princess mung-bean pony!” Apparently the edited footage will appear at Site Santa Fe soon.

Once we were in California Jack and I drank plenty of 40’s. We had a couple every day the first week or so we got to Oakland - thus we made sure to empty the recycling frequently at Orjan’s place – those 40 oz. of “Fine Malt Liquor” are not very polite and take up room in the recycling bin than I take up space in the house. We had advanced to plum wine and sake by the end of our stay at O’s, but on our second trip to the MOMA we relapsed and partook of the finest forty to ever grace this earth.

The first time we visited the MOMA Jack and I were thrilled and wanted more. We had bought a forty and split it in the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Park, with its magnificent waterfall fountain, lush grass, and frequent visits from security. Jack was surprised by the cheapness of Bandaids in America, after 3 hours or so of walking had blistered her cowboy feet, but was even more surprised by our cheap liquor.

The reason we had walked for so long was because I was trying to find this glass elevator I had visited once before I knew the city. When we finally found the hotel in which it dwelled we couldn’t find the elevator itself, until I asked a friendly woman who directed us toward a place we were not allowed to go. We walked past the concierge and found the elevator, which lifted us above the city, giving us a view of the entirety of east San Francisco. The descent was the best part – like a carnival ride, where the only price was the ability to be sneaky.

At the MOMA there was a lot of stuff that I loved and liked. I wrote artist names on my hands and they washed off before their recording onto a more permanent format. I walked into this one room and saw some pieces that elicited no emotions but were vaguely aesthetically pleasing. Then I realized they were by that guy that made pop-art who I always forget the name of, but I end up looking like him with my white-blonde hair, black-turtleneck and round glasses.

The thing that really sticks out about our first visit was the work of Clyford Still, which brought me to tears. I wanted to take up residency in the room his pieces were placed. Each time I turned to a new painting I would become overwhelmed with a mixture love, sadness and joy.

On our second trip we learned that in the financial district of SF every corner store that advertised liquor only had good beer, spirits, and fine wine. Finally we got to a grungier side street and bought a Mickey’s. We sipped it from its brown paper bag and were speechless at the nuance of the flavor: decidedly different from any other Mickey previously supped upon. The bass on the forty spread out on the base of the tongue. It was stable yet understated, with a hue of palest wheat that held foundation upon which a symphony of flavors balanced. The mids on this beverage were really what made it outstanding – a round and fruity onset landing mid-tongue and reminiscent of lychee. The highs spread out around the palate, sparkling like the smoke of rat-weed which once emitted from Café Jake. After every sip Jack and I united in a repeating sentiment: “Whoa.”

 

Naturally, upon entering the MOMA we had to pee. Jack and I deliberated over which gendered bathroom we should enter. We were both wearing pants, (not triangular skirts), so opted for the Men’s restroom. The last sip of the forty was reserved for this impasse. We downed it, peeled off the label, and propped it up, making a new label for it: “Modern Art.” Well, I don’t want to brag, but the modern art we made had a brief feature at the MOMA.

Chimera

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I've been working with my art collective Meow Wolf, on one of their projects Chimera, which goes into local schools and collaborates with kids to make art. At the end of this semester we got into small groups and made movies, most of which involved zombies, aliens, and "party Rock Anthem" by LMFAO.

At Ortiz Middle School some of the kids had gang tattoos and way-too-cool attitudes, but in the end they were just kids and we all had a lot of fun once they warmed to us. One little guy had symbols on his knuckles, an all-white outfit, complete with fedora, pointy shoes, and a bejeweled belt-buckle. I complimented his style and he absolutely beamed. 

My favorite group of middle schoolers wrote a movie about a news-anchor/science teacher, goblins, a meteor and a Sphinx, one of the funniest ones was titled "Inspirations" but they are all viewable here. My favorite plot was devised by a class at Gonzales Elementary. Benji, a friend and fellow wolf, saw that this plot held social commentary about capitalism, socialism, pop-culture and surrealism: P Diddy was the football coach for Charlie. Steve Jobs hands Charlie flowers and opens a vortex into a world of cat clones with his iphone. At some point Paul Bunyen is working at Mcdonalds, but he looks like Fidel, which appeared to make a statement about socialism serving capitalism. 

A couple of times during lunch break all the Meow Wolfers went to the Horseman's Haven, a little family restaurant in the parking lot of a gas station notorious for having the spiciest chile in town. We discussed how excellent it would be if Benji ran for mayor - everyone loves Benji and he could run on a platform of art, youth, tourism, and decriminalizing marijuana. He was dubious about it, because he wouldn't want to go to tons of meetings all the time, but is an excellent speaker. "Could I just be a puppet?" he questioned, Vince, the founder of Meow Wolf, said he would be Meow Wolf's puppet, and mentioned that to win in New Mexico all one needs is around 4,000 votes, Benji could simply shmooze with all the 15-year-olds now, and in 3 years get their votes. As we left the Haven our waitress referenced Benji: "He's so nice! Such a happy boy!" I asked her if she would vote for Benji for mayor.

At the end of the semester we piled out all the costumes and equipment, and noticed that the curb outside the school said: "Kiss and Drop." I kissed the items and dropped them, then trotted into the sunset. 

Indie Movie of the Evening

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When I first got home I went to a house show with my #2 BFF Will, it was the debut of the music video he had been the director of photography on/edited. I was greeted by a huddle of hipsters holding Budweisers. One of them "C" had my haircut of the future: dark brown with a teal streak.

The set-list was being held down by a jelly-bean, and the band Treemotel was comprised of some old college buddies. Greg, the fiddle-player now also plays musical saw, which combined perfectly with the slide guitar. David (on slide) created tremendous hockiting rhythms against the glockenspiel-pattern. I wish I could link to the video, as it was beautiful in it's technicality and creative use of plastic, but it won't be on the internet for a while as it's being shopped around to film festivals. 

 

I'm better at precision-standing-around/mingling now that it's legal for me to drink. I don't recall an ounce of the witty banter I engaged in at the house show, but I do know that "C" and I bonded over art, fashion and both being protagonists within the indie movie of the evening. In the end we tore sections from the graphic design publication Kindling that sat in the hearth and exchanged full-names. Although I'll probably not see C again, now that our internet-lives are connected, I was able to view C's art and subsequently put a photograph that I adore on my blog. At first I thought it was some sort of sound stage with fog effects in the background, but then I realized it was a vertical shot of an adobe house with the sky above. It captures the magic feel of Santa Fe's architecture.

Kindred Art Kid

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It is convenient for two vegetarian ghosts to go out for dinner, except when the world of wait-staff cannot perceive their presence. One Saturn’s day I ordered a “Victoria Bitter” and discovered it was just my favorite cheap AU beer “VB.” At Kelley’s, a Newtown bar that consistently holds a place for me, I asked for the finest “Victoria Bitter” and was given blank stare in return. Finally the bartender said: “There are only four people in the world who know what VB stands for, and two of them are dead.”

Jack and I swapped jackets because ze was shivering, and I happened to be wearing my pea coat. At the next pub a guy with “New Zealand” shaved into the back of his head questioned: “Who are you ladies rooting for?” Being Australian by birth, Jack reckoned Melbourne would win. Naturally, I said I was going for NZ. I don’t know who eventually won, but it was a victory for me, having always hoped to find someone to be androgynously confusing with.

I wouldn’t mind being mistaken for a couple of hipster creatures eating spaghetti out of jars with chopsticks either. Uni life has left my kitchen forkless, and with few plates, but we always have jars. Even though I have posted an insistent set of kitchen rules, the only one anyone seems to be following is the addendum created by Jack and our good friend Clarance Clancy Jr. (CCJ): “Don’t forget to smile like a powerful whale.” I escape the gritty kitchen often these days, for friend adventures and modeling gigs, but mostly to go home to the music lab, which is where I truly live. I made a DJ set looping live soda-can opening and mbira, with video to match each track and transition. I also dropped many samples of the New Mexican folk storyteller Joe Hayes. Naturally I began with quotes from the drunk coyote hiding under the table: “Ah que carai, ahora se voy a cantar, now I’m really going to sing!” I myself am quite a Table Coyote. But who wants to sit under one’s own table when one can depend on a campus of climable sculptures to drink on? Plus, all the fatherly security guards see us and offer us packed lunches with sandwiches and juice boxes.

It is convenient for two uncanny kids to drink cocktails out of one another’s clavicles. Uni life has left the kitchen cupless, and when all the jars are in use the most elegant cups are those created by skeletal structure. Of course pre-drinks and facepaint on the Hump Day before Halloween led to the missing of yet another costume contest at The Ranch, but when one has a kindred art-kid to make faces with, that type of thing just doesn’t matter.

Human memory is a fundamentally creative act, each time we visit a memory we are making that memory again. Each blog post and picture from this era in my existence as Emily is being solidified into a golden-fun-feeling. Each message in my inbox is a small poem about how much fun life is. The fields of communication are littered with happy-faces. 

 

Afternoon Bedtime Chat

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When it’s afternoon in Australia it’s bedtime back home. Sometimes I still get to have bedtime chats with my mom via facebook:

E: James Koskinas is a good artist

G: Shit fire! He's all over the world, and is going into a museum, but he's outside repairing stucco in the wind. He liked my paintings, too. I'll send you the photos.

E: Of him liking your paintings?

G: Yeah! He was all bent over in the wind, liking my paintings, and I got a snap shot with the camera I don't have. I'm laughing at my own self now.

E: lulz

G: wha? You kids need to use your words.

E: Have you been painting any more paintings? Painting paintings lately?.

G: I've started another big one, but I've been too busy to work on it much lately.

E: Cool, what's it of?

G: It's a big silver one, and I'm doing a graphite wash over it. It's a side view of Heather's rusty cake pan. Also, weird James told me how to make my own rust: Dissolve steel wool in vinegar. Hee-Haw! He paints with it, and I aim to do the same.

G: I'm going to send you the photos of all my paintings. The gingerbread pan is on it's side, and Heather's cake pan is upside down. I haven't managed to manipulate those accordingly yet, but whatever. I'll send it to you right now. I love you, and I'm glad we get to talk online. Take care of your teeth, and I'll see you in the morning. Say, that reminds me: Did I tell you about the dream I had the other night where I gave birth to twins, one girl and one boy, and I was trying to figure out how to nurse both of them at the same time so neither of them would ever want for anything, and they were both bathed in blue light, and as I was holding them to my chest, they were speaking French to each other, which I couldn't understand?

E: Whoa, that's crazy. You'll definitely be a famous artist in that case.

G: I think so. Nodia says the dream is about giving birth to my new life, and not understanding the language quite yet.

E: Also, since it's French that's bonus points in style.

G: I'm going to the gym in the morning, and I need a good nights sleep. Take good care, I love you sooooo much.

E: I love you too! Have sweet dreams, good luck learning French!

(The Paintings are all from my mom's "Rusty Pan" collection)

Daylight Star-Scape

I have a new friend named Jack and hir animal powers match mine. He led me to a cathedral that held sacred space for daylight star-scapes - that + broken bottles, asbestos and junkies.

Sitting sipping slurpies in an iconic location we made our own postcards with whiskey-lenses. I was bragging about the other day when I found unopened cans of Jim Beam soda, when I looked down and discovered an un-opened can of Jim Beam soda. I must be part of a secret marketing campaign for Jim Beam and I can't say it bothers me. As we walked on Jack noticed two more un-opened cans of whiskey-soda, these of the "Canadian Club" persuasion. "Canadian Club" must have been trying to one up Jim Beam by copying their marketing scheme. After an educational tour of Sydney's crazies across the Harbor Bridge, we reaped the shared rewards.

Because public drinking on postcard-view bay-benches is so nostalgic for the former underage-drinkers of Sydney, Jack and I proceeded to buy and share a bottle of Passion Pop, which tasted sweet and purple.

If we didn't catch the train at some point the conductor (who sweats ink) would have forced vouchers for "Sex in the City 2" on us. So we found our way through tunnels and forests and blue to 2:00 am, which was when our adventures took refuge in the dream-time.

Illiterate in Real-World

When the monotenous myopic tasks of an intern span an eight hour day, it makes the intern illiterate in real-world. All an intern would need to do to get home and make some dinner would be to bend space-time and just ride a warped wave down the sidewalk.

 After a day-to-day day though, one doesn't  want the day-to-day. All the energy that was in the eyes wants to re-join the rest of the body. The scrutiny on the tiniest meaning wants to stop analyzing at all costs.

A good remedy would be to use telekinesis to lift the birds of paradise, and use them to smash car windows. this would be done with no malice or joy, but a neutrality backed by extreme energy and efficiency.

Another great thing to do would be to pick up a fat white duck and say yell: "I always wanted to pick up a duck!"

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I attribute this video to my desire to smash car windows with a flower.  A favorite teacher of mine in high school, Alain Antoine, linked me to this.

Letter to Tobacco

This is a letter I wrote for Tobacco (formerly Black Moth Super Rainbow). I couldn't figure out how to send it to him, so I'm just posting it on my blog. That way it exists in open cyber-space.

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Dear Tobacco,

The first song of yours I heard was “Truck Sweat.” My little brother was playing it and I said: “I like these sounds, what are they?”

After listening to the song for several days we decided it sounded like roasting giant marshmallows over humidifier steam, among other things: “Say, doesn’t this sound like a deer-getting shot from a ’58 hunting Chevy?” “And doesn’t it just sound like the deer reaches a spirit realm and ends up tricking the hunter into dying there in its place, because ultimately the deer and the hunter are one in the same?” Anyway, with this semblance of plot in mind we gathered our ugly sweaters, bought some fog juice, and started filming.

Love,

E. M. Wingren

 

When the hunter kills their deer brother, deer brother brings them to a spirit realm of humid marshmallows, yams, and ugly sweaters. In the end, who is the hunter, and who is the hunted?

The Only Braincell Left

       It was "Back 2 School" day at The Ranch, and it was a costume contest. I worked all day on my Neuron costume, which I made with recycled fliers from STA, wire, duct tape, wrapping paper, and a red sharpie. I figure that neurons are the most important school supply. I made text-book like labels so the drunken masses would understand, and they largely did - "Oh, ha ha, you're an electrically excitable cell that's fundamental to the nervous system!"

     Its always fun mingling when in a fantastic costume, because it takes away all social awkwardness. I was making friends of "nerds" and "sexy nerds" alike.

The bar staff pulled me away to say I qualified for the costume contest, so I got on stage feeling elite. My main competition were Leon, the head RA who was dressed as a calculator (which was a cardboard box with a print out on it) and a girl dressed as a bus (a cardboard box with a print out on it). When they called my name first however, I knew I wouldn't win. The first never wins when the judges are are drunken mob.

The guy who won was wearing a hat and a backpack, because he had placed his friends in the front. He won a Macbook Pro. They should call it a yelling contest to be more accurate. When I left the bouncer asked if I won and I said no, adding that it was because I was the only braincell left alive.

Art is a Feeling

     I parked my little blue Miata outside of a massive house with plentiful gardens, in a no parking zone. I was running in to pick up my entire family so that I could head out to Australia.

    In a spacious room with dark wood floors was a giant orange art piece, flagged by two brown leather chairs. The work extended out into a shrine-like formation and was almost luminescent. It wanted to draw me in and when I saw it I shrieked with delight, putting my arms out like I was about to hug it.

    Beyond the room my mom and I found a secret door with a tiny flight of stairs leading to an entire unknown space. I wanted to explore the rest of the art so badly, but had to battle myself into leaving to ensure the car wasn't towed and that I didn't miss my flight.

    The last piece I saw existed in smaller entrance/exit room. It was a mirror, cut into segments, suspended with string over another mirror cut in a similar way. The two faced each other like a four-poster bed suspended in space, creating a fractal of distortion. Whoever came up with this concept was a genius. I wished it were my idea, and wanted to use the concept in my next instillation of a migraine, mirrors would be the ideal thing to represent the visual cortex's inability to piece reality together.
   
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    When I was showering and remembered a few pieces of dreams, I was delighted to realize that the mirror idea was actually mine. I was less delighted to realize I was sick. I made some miso, toast and an egg, and my flat mate invited me to come sit in the sun where girls were tanning in bikinis.

I realized I had forgotten the bike tour, had missed it by several hours, and was heartily disappointed. This actually made me glad I was sick, because I probably wouldn't have been up for it anyway.

     I had no desire to become tan or drink margaritas, so I went to my room to study neuroscience, start a painting, and blow my nose.