So thirteen hours after I got back from Central America, I found myself at 8am on campus, talking to a class about the Writing Center. (I start back in my tutoring role there next Tuesday—things fall back into their rhythm quickly.) Upon finishing my class talk, I went to the library and borrowed five books (the first person to borrow for the day… summer hours) and then went to Baked and Wired for coffee. And so, DC life resumed, with a trip to stock up on groceries, an afternoon of reading and, Thursday night, a trip to an exhibition and performance art event.

Art-o-matic. The idea is for it to create a place for DC artists to converge. What this means, at the all-inclusive exhibition taking up 10 floors of a building that just strays into the NE quarter of town, is that genuinely interesting work sits beside the really awful. And, occasional gems like the classic “don’t touch the button” drawing by an artist whose display provides the information: “Connor is eleven years old,” and whose card advises he is represented by his mother.

I’ve been reading Hoogrrl for a while, as it lets me know about exhibition openings and art events that I wouldn’t otherwise hear about, and so mid-way through last semester I got into the habit of trying to get to one of these events most weeks, and so have seen (and written about) quite a few exhibitions in smaller DC galleries in the past few months, as well as visiting the major collections on the mall, and at the Corcoran and Phillips museums.

With ten floors, there was no way I could take it all in. (Ten floors?) Perhaps if you came each day for ten days, and looked at a floor. I was there for the performance art, music and beautiful people, so I went to the sixth floor, but from what I saw on the ground floor it seemed like the same proportion of good art, derivative art and just plain bad art.

The two performances I stayed for didn’t do a lot for me. The first, by Ding Ren, featured a drummer—not bad, though a little heavy on his use of the cymbals—and a girl picking up two or these pieces of coloured paper at a time, folding them, cutting holes in the middle and then scattering the circular(ish) pieces on the ground as she wore the borders around her wrist (well, apart from the ones that got away.) After a while, she collect some of the circular pieces off the ground then went and taped them to people. Returning to more cutting, she then once again walking into the audience and forced paper-border bracelets on people (one girl refused, shaking her head vigorously, but nonetheless received a bracelet.) Eventually she gathered more of her circular pieces in twos and threes, taped them together, then taped them to the edge of the stage. The denouement? Well, she picked up a pile of what was still on the ground, walked into the audience and then flung them in the air. Now that I've looked her up a bit, I suspect the piece of paper were meant to be "positive clouds." As someone who once uttered the words "I don't like fun" (meaning, really, that I make my own fun, and don't necessarily find other people's idea of "fun" to be my own) the idea of these positive clouds seems platitudinous and flimsy.

I had trouble taking this all seriously. I found myself wondering if the poor girl’s hand was getting sore from the cutting. Also, her pile of coloured paper was enormous, and I wondered if was going to—dreaded that she might—“perform” for as long as it took her to get through the whole pile. (She didn’t. About a quarter of it.) And finally, I found myself fretting about the waste of paper for an exercise so completely un-transcendental. Looking at her website, though - the source of the positive clouds above - I suspect she has better things happening.

The second scheduled artist, we were told, was sick, so a replacement in the form of Anthony Willis was provided. This was better—in that there was a point (or there seemed to be at the time. I’m a little hazy on it now). Anthony danced and sang and blew a whistle and told himself to STOP. But the dancing was not great—and while it was meant to be parodic, it was mediocre enough to not work as parody—the singing was okay, but a little (in the words of the American Idol judges) “pitchy”, and the acting was a little overwrought. It made me wonder if he’d called it performance art because none of the elements quite came together enough to be anything else. I also thought that if he did it in drag, and camped it up a notch, it would have made a decent drag act.

I don’t want to come off as a grump. Especially since Art-o-matic seems to be a place for people to try things out, in the early stages of taking wing. And that is a wonderful thing. But I didn’t stick around after these two acts to watch for the next performer in half an hour. Instead, I went home, crawled into bed and read a book.

Yesterday, an exhibition opening at Addison/Ripley Fine Art in Georgetown—some work by the Colombian artist Ana Mercedes Hoyos.

I’m still a neophyte when it comes to contemporary art practice around the world, so it was a pleasure to see this work—Hoyos is considered the foremost contemporary Colombian artist, and though this was a small exhibition, it showed a range of her work with photographs, paintings, sculpture (an amazing—huge—steel banana that looked like a canoe. No, it wasn’t yellow) and drawing.

Other than the beautiful sculpture, it was the photographs that I loved—really large photographs of faces. This picture particularly mesmerised me—I spent a lot of time standing in front of it, wandering elsewhere, returning, standing in front of it. Seeing all the different lines in its composition, wondering at the amazing colour of it and the details of this woman’s face.

An art exhibition Saturday at the Meat Market Gallery in Dupont—Lisa Blas’s “Meet Me at the Mason Dixon.” It was small, but reasonably varied as Blas works in different media—it consisted of four paintings, about eight prints and an “installation” wall: a collage, a kind of large workbook that leads her through what she’s thinking about. While I really enjoyed hearing the artist talk about the exhibition, I was struck by a sense that without this wall of material, the exhibition would feel adrift. And though Blas now feels that the wall collage is “finished” it’s the one piece not for sale. I sometimes wonder about these types of installation pieces, because to move them involves a disassembly—without even going into the conservation nightmare (practical impossibility?) involved with the handful of newspaper clippings. But then, even as a “finished” piece, it’s transitory nature is what makes it so charming, and fascinating. She had a few pieces of text—on in particular, braiding biographical details of three historical figures whose lives had led them to areas around the Mason-Dixon line. This braiding as a form struck me as useful—both for thinking about the structure of the exhibition, but also potentially as something to explore for myself. (Good poets borrow, great poets…) I’m sure my father would be pleased that I chose an exhibition with Civil War associations rather than just any old exhibition!

I vanquished Sir Walter Scott last night, which leads me—delightedly—to George Eliot and Daniel Deronda. This last book of the semester for National Identity and the Nineteenth Century Novel. It is one I haven’t read before, though I am crazy for George Eliot. Somehow, I just didn’t get there. So—it’s a treat, although it will also be fairly intense reading loading with that alongside study for the final papers for Milton and Contemporary Poetry (or, as I more often think of latter, “Gewanter”). Reading poetry in my spare time—Lorca. Beautiful.

First: some news. It looks like "THE BOOK" is moving forward. I mean, I've heard from the publisher who is "keen to publish it" - but I'm sure there are lots of things that can happen between now and whenever an actual publication may happen. I got the email yesterday - after spending the morning working on a bunch of poems that had been in my "problem pile" (I solved a few problems too!) - and I gasped, nearly cried, then went to meet Lisa to see a film. (Charlie Bartlett. Fun. A great rendition of my favourite Cat Stevens song: "If you want to sing out, sing out." Steals shamelessly from the superior Rushmore.) Then last night, some wine to celebrate - though I feel like celebrating could be premature. Can you tell I'm a novice?

It seems unreal - it's been so long. When I start to feel like it's happening, I'll most likely update.

I had plans for getting out of town this week, but it hasn't happened. I may still go for a day or two over the weekend - I just can't decide. My brain has been a bit addled today, so I've been fiddling with collage materials, thinking about a poem and wandering around in the sunlight.

In the past few days I took the opportunity to go to the Corcoran and Phillips Galleries: both have large (and impressive) holdings of modern and contemporary art. Of the two, I found the Phillips collection more exciting: both had on special exhibitions that covered the breadth of the collections. I guess the Phillips partly appealed more because it was more geared to the modern and contemporary, while the Corcoran's exhibition placed modern works alongside nineteenth century pieces. But more than that, there were a large number of individual works I wanted to spend time with in the Phillips Collection - and a Rothko room, with a beautiful deep blue-green and burgundy canvas, and a red and orange canvas on perpendicular walls. A Robert Motherwell print called "Australia," in black and ochre. Photographs. So much stimulus!

The best part for me, though, was the fact that both collections had on display paintings by Joan Mitchell, who - almost solely through reproductions - has been one of my favourite painters for years now. I've seen these paintings in books (I always wanted to make A3 sized colour photocopies of a couple, to keep them close at hand...) and finally I got to sit in front of them.

Joan Mitchell's canvases are so huge. I like this photo on the cover of a monograph about her work: the physicality of the act of painting these canvases, and the fact that she didn't, like Jackson Pollack, lay them flat on the ground. The painting in this photo is her largest work either. She's such a wonderful colourist - and I feel that she makes real sense of the space of these large canvases. There is a lot of light and movement, and even while they remain abstract they suggest their subjects wonderfully even without the titles.

The weather has been lovely the last few days. Spring is here!

The next few days I have a lot of reading to do. At last: my first experience of Sir Walter Scott. I have to read Waverley for National Identity and the Nineteenth Century Novel. Also, after having just spent six weeks discussing various poets who are considered "modernist" in my Modern and Contemporary poetry class, I have to write a paper on four poems, using the poems to try to define modernism... Define modernism? Sure, easy as ABC. Next week is the UVA conference too, so I've got to get that paper in shape - I booked a hostel, and am hoping I've begged a ride. So -it's business as usual, and more so. With maybe a few poems thrown in as well. Fingers crossed for sanity.

Tomorrow I meet the Poet Laureate. Fingers crossed I don't swoon.

Between studies I continue running from event to event—this past weekend was no exception.

Friday night I saw the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater perform at the Kennedy Center: they have an annual engagement to perform in DC, and at each performance the repertoire was slightly different. I saw The Winter in Lisbon, The Road of Phoebe Snow and Revelations—the latter being their signature work, and one that was choreographed by Ailey himself. The company began with a performance in March 1958 and promotes African-American cultural experience and modern dance.

As is often the case with the cheap seats, I was a long way away from the action—I could still see plenty, but it wasn’t as exhilarating as those experiences of being up close to the dancers, as I was last year when I somehow managed to get front row seats for the Australian Ballet's performance of Don Quixote with Ethan Stiefel. The first two performances were less compelling to me than Revelations: I think because I didn’t have the same emotional response. The music and the dancing was incredibly fun, but I didn’t feel as much was at stake as in Revelations, which took my breath away. Though they perform it nearly 300 times a year, it showed no signs of staleness, and the duet “Fix Me, Jesus” was the highlight for me. The only problem with this being that my emotional peak came so close to the start that the rest of the performance ebbed a little from those moments in “Fix Me, Jesus” where I felt myself leaning forward, utterly absorbed.

Also on the weekend I visited the modern collection at the National Gallery of Art—a surprisingly small selection is on view—and, unexpectedly, fell in love with Miró’s “The Farm.” The detail of it, its oddity—somehow the whole thing was perfect. I need to think about it, study it more—I hope there’ll be a poem to come from it.

I also got to see Brancusi’s “Bird in Space” in marble finally—the collection had two, one brass, one marble—something about marble sculpture gets to me in a way that castings in bronze—or brass—do, though in another way brass seems the perfect material for “Bird in Space”—or rather, brass is a material that Brancusi made his own. Whenever I think of Brancusi I also think of a couple from a poem by the wonderful Elena Knox: “It’s not a Brancusi/ excuse me.” In fact, wandering around the gallery, so avidly looking, I thought I might try to do a little series of couplets on artists: an Ogden Nash take on painters and sculptors. Though at the moment that’s just another idea for the notebook—ah!—the notebook is growing fat with things to revisit.

Wandering back to the East Building, I saw another couple of exhibitions: one “Impressed by Light,” 19th century British photographs. There were some absolutely beautiful pieces here—especially some of the sepia-toned Scottish and Alpine landscapes. (Talk about the sublime…) I was also struck by a room of images from travel—especially those from the “east.” I love looking at photographs so much—and these photographs were so beautifully printed. I wonder if it’s something about the flatness, the smoothness of the medium? It reminds me of the quote from Frank Stella about his paintings—and their surfaces—which has fascinated me for so long—“I wanted to keep the paint as good as it was in the can.” At the same time, though, I find I can’t spend as much time with a photograph as I can with a painting, where I get up close and look at the brushwork. Perhaps its simply the way were all look at photographs.

Speaking of smoothness of surfaces, I also saw an exhibition of Robert Rauschenberg’s prints. Rauschenberg has been a bit of a favourite of mine for years now—from the crazy combines to his early screen prints. This exhibition, while being a cross section of the work he has done in prints over his career (and, oddly, also a cardboard door that the National Gallery decided to bring out for the occasion) it gave me a chance to see what he’s been doing more recently. Some of my reactions were mixed: at their best, those prints are these amazing collisions. Some of works in the exhibition though seemed akin to collages of the early twentieth century that had been presented in print form. While I would not object to taking any of them home with me (Ha! I wish!) I did feel that there were repetitions, and sometimes I didn’t know what to do with them.

A few years ago, while I was looking for a housemate, I met a girl studying printmaking at RMIT. She was surprised by my enthusiasm for the print process—and it’s true that I love prints. Etchings, lithographs, silkscreen, woodcuts. They all fascinate me. The smoothness and seeming simplicity attract me.

I have been busy (as ever) lately—hopping from one thing to the next, and then studying in between. A few highlights:

Last week, Scott Heath, a member of the English department, spoke as part of the Georgetown Writers’ Series on performance poetry, slams and “the archive.” He also performed a number of poems. He explained a lot about the dynamics of slams in the US, and how there are distinct slam styles that vary from city to city. For instance: New York slam poetry has a different rhythm to Detroit slam. He’s been in DC for a few years, and is starting to catch on to the scene here.

I was interested to confirm that the saying that I’ve heard in Australia is definitely one that comes from the US slam scene—“He tried to win with poetry.” Page poetry of course isn’t likely to win the day: a slam is a performance. In showing us what it’s all about—and he did preface it with the disclaimer that he hadn’t slammed in a few years (though he previously participated in National teams)—Heath gave examples of the types of moves—almost a choreography, or perhaps something that reinvents the movements of Elizabethan oratorical handbooks—the slam poet makes, and a number of times he sang. Apparently singing (provided you can do it well) is always a crowd pleaser.

Slams here—the big ones at least—sound like they’re a lot stricter on the rules. Slams I’ve been to in Melbourne felt like glorified open mike events, and as the judging was always based on audience response, it was always the poems about sex or football that won. (What can I say? Even in a poetry crowd, we’re pretty predictable!) In the US, the rules are enforced: a strict 3 minutes time limit. There are five judges picked from whoever in the audience volunteers, and all the slam poets can vet the judges, to ensure there are no friends or enemies on the panel. Also, the poetry is a lot more sophisticated than poetry I’ve heard at slams in Australia. It really is text that’s designed for performance, and it tackles a range of issues. Like in hip-hop, there are some amazing rhythms built into the language. I’m hoping I’ll get to go to a high level slam event sometime while I’m here.

Heath also talked about some collaborative work he’s doing with a musician in recording his poetry. What fascinated me was that he referred to this as “the archive”—perhaps because he simply didn’t have a clear idea of who the eventual audience for this work was going to be. It reminded me of conversations I used to have at the conservatorium with the other composers. Adrian Watkins, who was then recording and performing under the moniker of White Sirens, said that for him the recording was the end point his musical endeavour. Performance was great, but ultimately, what he wanted was this immutable product, the CD. At that time I was working quite a bit with electro-acoustic music, but what interested me the most was the intersection between a pre-meditated electronic backdrop and a live performer: and the experience of that as a live event. I have recordings of the performances, but the problem with recordings is that they flatten space. If I go back to music, space will be the major thing I want to explore. I’m hoping to ask Scott about this notion of the archive—I may report back.

On Saturday morning, Helen Hughes (a fellow Australian in DC—my own kind!) and I went to see an exhibition at the Kennedy Center: Japan! Culture and Hyper-Culture. It was fascinating: we saw three installations, as well as a few pieces in the foyer to the center.

The first installation we saw was Reiko Sudo’s work of giant suspended textile fish. (I have to admit, when I first saw them their shape reminded me of cannons) and, in a little room behind these, there was a projection of a fish pond on the ground. Some people walked through the fish pond—after all, it was only coloured light—but I was struck how so many people, myself included, skirted the edge of the pond.

Next we saw Yayoi Kusama’s installations Day and Night: the first, Day, was a room painted yellow with black spots everywhere, and large, amorphous balloons suspended from the ceiling, and odd, blobby shapes emerging from the floor. The second, Night, was the reverse of this: black walls and yellow spots. It was interesting to see how much my mood changed between the two rooms. (I don’t think it was just the claustrophobia caused by the large number of people in the Night room.)

Between these two rooms was a work by Tadao Ando: Four Cubes to Contemplate Our Environment, consisting of glass cubes covered in words (Water, Rubbish, CO2, and Future?) filled with different things: empty plastic water bottles, aluminium cans crushed into blocks and stacked, a video projected on the ground and—emptiness. There was something wonderful in circling all these.

Saturday night saw me at Politics and Prose bookshop, where Anne Enright, author of last year’s Booker Prize winner The Gathering, was speaking. It took me a while to find my way to the shop, as I hadn’t ventured that far up Connecticut before, but I’m glad I braved it. Enright read from her book for about half and hour and then answered a lot of questions. I think she’s still recovering from her newfound fame: her publishers initially published a run of 8000 copies of The Gathering. Since she won the Booker (which of course prompted a reprinting) the book has sold over 230,000 copies.

It was a convivial event, and I have a copy of the book now, which I hope I will eventually get to read (oh… time) although not a lot stayed with me from the question time—one woman made the comment that when she read a book with such beautiful prose she always despaired of writing herself. Enright responded that writers don’t write these books, or not straight away. First they write 17 books, starting with a terrible one, and getting increasingly better. Something to hold onto. I got a feel for her humor (dark, Irish) and I look forward to reading her work. I have to admit that hearing prose read is usually a frustrating experience for me. I’m so used to the compactness of poetry, that when I hear prose I want to slash it and find the one page poem. Brutal.

Nonetheless, I love to sit down and read. I played hooky from my study on Friday night and spend the whole evening reading Curtis Sittenfeld’s second book—I had hoped to interview her on Tuesday, but it’s not happening. Despite the fact that the interview is not-to-be, I have to admit I enjoyed the book, although The Man of My Dreams has got to be the worst title on earth! There were a lot of things to like about the book—a lot of crispness, and a real feel for the way a character develops—but I did feel, in finishing, that it was a book that made a point.