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[08 Nov 2009|02:08pm] |
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checking out
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[22 Sep 2009|11:08pm] |
i built this little nightstand arrangement out of cardboard for 3d. everything is to true scale. and everything is functional except for the lamp. the camera does not take pictures although you are able to look through it.
I really cannot figure out why people have liked the work I have produced so far. It seems so elementary and bad in comparison to others in the class. I don’t know what makes the “rough-ness” of the craftsmanship in my work acceptable and not in other peoples. I try really hard to make things neat and tidy with clean lines and awesome glue techniques but I keep getting shabby results. I don’t start too late and I don’t rush. Why cannot I not do something neat? Even my handwriting is messy. I think that is the reason I like photography. Numbers cannot be disorganized. My Fstop dial is always going to be in the same place no matter how many times I drop it. Overall, in regards to my piece, I am frustrated and slightly annoyed at myself. Maybe getting away from cardboard will help. Lets hope so.
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| porches |
[22 Sep 2009|10:45pm] |
Today I am sitting on my front porch. The concrete is old and peeling beneath my feet. Despite my attempts to wash away the grime of unwashed tennis shoes and paw prints the dirt is still holding strong. I’m wearing my 12.99 movie star shades that seem to enhance the dirtiness. The broken clay bird that hides the spare key looks tired. Her beak is facing forward, towards the grass. I think she wants to escape. It’s not easy being a secret key holder. Whenever I have to use my spare key I’m usually annoyed and quickly toss her aside. Who wants that job? Beside her rests two white columns. Their paint is peeling and they resemble old men waiting in line at the grocery store, wrinkly and indignant. I asked my landlord if I could hang a porch swing between them, he said no. “The roofs rotten, it’ll probably cave in,” he explained. That makes me feel safe. For now I will have to settle with reclining between two mosaic rod iron chairs. If I wedge one in a crack it rocks, sort of, then I can use the other one as leverage and a foot rest. I think the owner bought these chairs from pottery barn. They are comfortable, as comfortable as rod iron can possibly be.
I’ve spent a lot of time on porches. You wouldn’t think it but a lot of important things happen on these covered walk ways. Many people kiss their first loves, fathers peeking out the blinds, a shot gun never too far from grasp. Others say quick goodbyes, not expecting this exchange to be their last one. Most have slammed the door on a nosey neighbor, overly enthusiastic evangelist, and door to door salesperson. There are long goodbyes and short ones. There is always the mother who forgot to turn the stove off, or at least thinks she did not, and has to turn around when she’s half way across the city just to check. Her steps are usually angry, heels abusing her porches wood planks. I don’t think porches like her too much. One thing about porches though, they are patient. They are always waiting and willing to put up with our constant cigarette breaks and hushed phone conversations.
I remember the exact day I started believing in the romance of the front porch. It was the fall of my fifth grade year. I was living in rural North Carolina, surrounded by hog houses, tin roofs, and terrible weather. We were in the middle of the second hurricane of that month. Young and ignorant to the danger that encompassed me, I was eager for the storm. To me it represented no number lines and learning of that tricky photosynthesis. The whole family, dogs and all, huddled together in the living room. My mom looked on edge and my father was grinning. He loved storms, and to this day, still does.
The house seemed to sway back and forth, slow dancing with the Hurricane’s angry wind gusts. Our house suddenly felt very small and I felt even smaller. My father still grinned. After what seemed to me as an eternity, the house stopped dancing, the dogs stopped howling, and our white candles Mother had placed around the living room appeared to shine a little brighter. My father was immediately on his feet. The eye was here, his favorite part. I watched my Mother argue with him for a moment and finally throw her hands up in the air, sighing. He was going outside, whether she liked it or not. He grabbed a flashlight and hurried towards the door to the front porch, as he turned the knob he looked back, locking eyes with me, “You coming?”
“Davis!” my Mother argued. He smiled and she eventually relented. We rushed onto the front porch. My Father handed me the flashlight and I bravely thrust it forward, piercing the darkness. The holding of the flashlight was quite a task to bestow on a 4 foot tall fifth grade little girl with bushy hair and an active imagination. My hands started to shake, the light faltering. Standing on the front porch my Father looked into my eyes and grinned. Looking back into his I somehow knew we were going to be okay.
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[03 Aug 2009|12:10pm] |
i don't know who you are, i'm just laying on you
-t
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| chicken scratch |
[27 Jul 2009|02:39pm] |
raining on the outside or the inside?
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[04 Jul 2009|03:36pm] |
thinks it's wonderful that everyone is on vacation in different states and spending time with the people they love ♥
except
she is going to work to serve people she hates then home to bed so she can prepare to go to work early tomorrow morning after closing tonight
happy 4th of july
bitter? nahhhhh
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[02 Jul 2009|09:47am] |
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Should I be offended that my work is ripped all over the internet, or should i be flattered?
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| i am 21 |
[29 Jun 2009|12:22pm] |
Do you remember me mentioning the artsy fartsy pictures would come later?
here
they
be
Polaroid
Wilmington, North Carolina
June 2009
( ++++ )
if any of you care about monroe&avedon and are bored enough on this hot summer evening to read a paper on them and give me your feedback/ass kicking critique i would truly appreciate it.
"Avedon and Monroe: The Gazer and the Gazed Upon"
I wrote this essay for my theory class concerning Avedon's infamous photograph of everyone's favorite celebrity icon Miss Monroe. I have the work cited page and all the proper documentation if anyone would like to see that as well. This paper was truly a joy to write and that epic situation was fascinating to think about. Can you imagine Avedon and Monroe interacting?
LINK: http://jessichu.deviantart.com/art/Avedon-and-Monroe-127080487
as always,
jessica canady
http://www.jessichu.deviantart.com/
www.jesscanady.com
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| North Carolina |
[20 Jun 2009|12:24pm] |
These are some snapshots of my much needed vacation to North Carolina.
I am some awesome polaroids but I still need to scan them in. They'll come next post. I feel really happy right now and it is sort of scary. You know that feeling of happiness that always seems to be accompanied by a flatline of nastiness?
enough of that pseudo deep bullshit
here are the FOTOS ::
( m o r e )
and here are some contact sheets with photos that have yet to see the light of day;;
any ones worth scanning in?
( m o o o o o r r r r e e e e )
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| dirty towels |
[31 May 2009|06:32pm] |
i am amazingly happy with a good tunes, good people, a job i hate, and no money!
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[15 Apr 2009|11:47am] |
i liked the way he pulled my hair
lord i am a bitch in heat
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[15 Apr 2009|11:41am] |
Yesterday at 8 p.m. (central time) I put on a pair of black boy shorts that I found squished inside what remains as the remnants of my underwear drawer.
Around 11 a.m. I removed them anticipating a long shower. The long shower was had but the sexy/cute underroos I sported dyed my buttocks black.
Whatttt?
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[14 Apr 2009|07:02pm] |
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i want new friends.
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[13 Apr 2009|01:10pm] |
I WISH HE WOULD FUCKING DIE.
I WISH HE WOULD FUCKING DIE.
I WISH HE WOULD FUCKING DIE.
I WISH HE WOULD FUCKING DIE AND TAKE HIS FUCKING NASTY BROKEN PENIS WITH HIM
SUCK MY BALLS.
thanks,
jess
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[06 Apr 2009|12:27pm] |
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Winners write history and losers get to read it centuries later.
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[05 Apr 2009|01:41pm] |
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i am going to do something epic with my hair today
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[04 Apr 2009|01:18pm] |
what
the
fuck
i have to grow up soon
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