Submitted by Andrew Oechsler on the 2017 summer session program in London, England sponsored by the Department of Art and Design …
Our world is forever changing. Those changes can be broken down into two columns, one side represented by a upwards arrow and the other by a downward arrow. In my lifetime, I have witnessed many ups, such as the inauguration of America’s first African American president and the spread of a little thing known as the world wide web. I have also seen downs, such as, the inauguration of America’s first non-experienced politician as president and the spread of a little thing known as the world wide web. The recent attacks by terrorist groups in the city of London is an event that I mark in the second column.
Watching three separate attacks taking place in London as I sat in the airport preparing myself to fly to that very destination filled my body with a cloud of anxiety and dread, almost as if the fear was about to ooze out of my pores like tar. Just as my body was about to give way to the anxiety, a single thought pulsated through my mind “terror has no face, if I give into this fear, then terror has won”. In that moment, I didn’t know what would happen, I didn’t know if our plane would land, I didn’t know if there would be another attack, but I did know that I wouldn’t give into terror’s plan. I don’t know what the future holds, but I hope these entries bring some insight and laughter into your life and show that just by living, you are refusing to give into the downward arrows in our forever changing world.
It is day one in London and maybe it’s the jet-lag or the lack of coffee choices, but everything is in slow motion. As if I’m back in drivers ed wearing drunk goggles, stumbling around the room and swearing to God I will never take a sip of alcohol as long as I live. If it were up to me, I would have taken an entire week to get adjusted to the time and life in London, however, Bill (our professor) does not feel the same way. We arrive at Pentagram (the upright kind) first thing in the morning soaked from the rain, which I hear, to my DELIGHT is part of a typical London summer.
As I sat in the studio of Pentagram a simultaneous chime happened from the various clocks sitting around the room. As the chime rings out, our speaker Dominic Lippa made a side comment: “Unless you find the problem, you cannot find the solution” and although he said a lot of other things, this particular one seemed to shatter a glass case around my mind that I was slamming up against this whole past year. I often struggle so much with finding the solution which is probably because I never take the time to fully understand the problem in front of me. I simply try to cover up the problem with some fancy image or sketch that never looks as good as I want it to, probably because I draw like a kindergartner or a student in drivers ed wearing drunk goggles.
I must admit this morning, I feel slightly terrified. This terror can be attributed to one of the most horrifying things known to the human race, the art of writing. Somehow I made it through my entire high school career without knowing what an adjective or a pronoun is, and thought one day the art of writing might rear its ugly head…I guess that day is today. I check my pulse and
think I may need to call 999 for the coast guard to heli-lift me out of this situation. Then out of nowhere, Wendy Scott sweeps into town like a character out of a Ronald Dahl novel, with her whips hair and stockings made from ribbons. At first, I cannot decide whether she will help me or send me into cardiac arrest, but at least I have the chance to find out what an adjective is. I wondered if other people were having the same anxiety as I was and as I looked around I saw others frantically writing in their notepads just as I was. Is it possible that I’m not the only one in this situation? Maybe Britain puts more importance on the art of writing than America does? If so ,why is that? As I ride home that day, I notice everyone around me reading various newspapers and books through their horn rimmed glasses, and the idea is reinforced. All of a sudden, writing is something I am not afraid of because who cares if something is perfect or not. Writing should be something free and personal, and while I scribbled notes for over an hour on the art of writing, I must admit I still don’t know what an adjective is, but maybe that’s tomorrow’s lesson.
