Euphoria

Short Story: Freefall

2009-04-29T23:10:00.003-04:00

The Diver - David Hockey

Freefall

Splash!

Cool water rushes in around him as the pressure increases. His ears pop. He opens his eyes to tile glazed over with the familiar blue haze. Air bubbles rise up around him. It brings him back to his childhood.

He'd been about three-feet tall when he had first attempted the sport. He tried it out on his own, in the backyard, purely out of curiosity. It was hot, he wanted to be cool. Back then, the pool in his backyard was small and he had barely enough room to jump into it. He remembered his mother, glancing up from her magazine and gasping. She was terrified he would crack his head wide open - but then what was the point of having the board there in the first place if he never learned to use it?

He remembered the cool blue of the inviting pool; the water lapping lazily against the edges of the white tile. He curled his toes over the edge of the plastic board, exhaling. The blood was pulsating through him in a purely welcomed way. He liked the feeling - it was like he'd eaten too much sugar. He pressed down, using his body weight to bend the board beneath him. And then - much to his mother's dismay - he leapt.

By the time he'd grown to six-feet tall, he was using the hobby to his advantage. It got him recognition in high school and it calmed his nerves. He would climb to the top, stare down into the pool and know he was looking at an escape - a world devoid of noise and feelings, a momentarily relief to any and all of his problems. He'd managed to turn his stress reliever into a way to get gold and glory. The high that came along with it was an added bonus. He loved the thrill of the thousands of eyes upon him, (his mother included) watching, waiting - holding their breath and hanging on every twitch of muscle and motion - waiting. He’d breathe out and they’d breathe in. Exhale – inhale; Inhale – exhale. He bent his knees slightly, exerting just a little pressure. They gaped. He bounded. They clicked and flashed. And then – Splash!

They cheered.

And now, he was at the World’s Biggest Stage. Millions of eyes were watching, were waiting. Him – they were watching and waiting for him. He was the representative of his country, his nation. One of hundreds of millions. But they picked him. They wanted him. They knew he was the best - and he was only going to get better.

He knew his mother was in the stands, here amongst the hundreds of countries’ participants and spectators. She was still terrified he’d kill himself – even though the pool was (literally) Olympic-sized and he’d been practicing for years. He smirked to himself because she hadn’t changed much either since that first day when he jumped.

This ledge was much higher than the one in his backyard – multiple feet higher. His blood was once again rushing through his veins, the habitual high was intoxicating. The room was eerily, yet reasonably, silent. He steadied himself, pushed and leapt –feet aligned, limbs together for now – and now he soared and –

Splash!

Cool water rushes around him. He opens his eyes, fogged by the recognizable blue of his goggles. He pushes air through his nostrils, adding more bubbles to the ones that stream and gust about his body. He’s alone beneath the world in the spacious pool. It’s the perfect end to the perfect dive.

It’s quiet beneath the waves, the crowd, the world. Nothing but blue surrounds him. His body alone is the sole being in this alternate reality. He welcomes it, invites in the calm, serenity of it. His escape. His lungs remind him that he’s still human. He knows they’re waiting.

He kicks, propelling himself to the surface; he breaks it and the crowd of millions erupts in cheers and applause around the world. Noise and color fill his senses. He glances at the judges as he treads water – perfect tens. He would be the gold medalist again.

Community Interaction

2009-04-14T20:09:00.002-04:00

For my Community Interaction, I'm going to poll fifteen people. Since euphoria is an overwhleming feeling of happiness, I want each to think of the happiest moment he or she has experienced. Then, I'm going to ask him or her to draw a quick symbol or simple picture of something that reminds him or her of that moment.

Short Story: Heatstroke

2009-04-01T22:31:00.003-04:00

Sun Table - Salvador Dali

"Heatstroke"

The sun is long gone, but it is still much too hot. The sand is still illuminated, radiated. The wind is still sparse. You’ve lost track of the days, the nights, the time. It could be years by now, but you would never know. Your camel might, but he doesn’t even grunt anymore - doesn’t even acknowledge you. You think he may be dying. You know that you are. You trek on.

Your feet are numb, singed. You’ve grown to ignore the pain in your stomach, the ache in your sides. You’ve got to keep moving, keep walking. You’ve got to get out of here.

There are mountains in the distance, the very distance, which you’ve been walking towards. You could make it there by sunrise – or so you hope. The temperature will drop significantly tonight. It’s the only remedy for your burnt flesh. So you go on.

The beige, granulated landscape stretches on for miles – miles and miles of nothing but mounds and hills and dips and valleys of sand.

Miles.

Nothing surrounds you but the endless horizon. You are lost in a sea of beige, granulated landscape - a sea of mounds and hills and dips and valleys of sand.

There is no hope.

But there! There, in the distance! Do you see it? Do you?

Before the horizon, before the mountains, it’s there. You see it.

In a flash, you hop on your camel (he grunts) and ride. Ride, ride, go. You see it clear as day. It catches a last ray of light and gleams, provoking you.

A table… a table. A silver plated table. A table upon a mat, a mat upon which to welcome you. A table with three goblets upon it, goblets most likely full of water. One for you, one for your camel, one for the boy - the boy standing there, waiting.

He’s waiting for you.

You can see his grin from where you are, riding towards him. His teeth flash a brilliant white against his dark skin. He’s waiting. Ride, ride faster.

The temperature certainly has dropped and the slight breeze rustles against your charred skin, your aching body. It’s been days – no it’s been…how long has it been?

You are getting closer. The boy is waiting.

You pass a broken boat – the boat of a poor soul lost here in this endless sea of sand. You know it must have been years for them – maybe months – no, days. How long has it been for you? Still the boy waits.

Oh how happy he is to see you! He’s smiling and laughing and oh, how elated he looks! It’s like he’s been waiting only for you.

At last.

At last you arrive. You jump off the camel, the jubilation like a contagious disease. You kneel by the table, ecstatic, rapturous. You grab at it, clawing. Warm, soft texture and cooling air greets your calloused palms. The boy laughs louder. You laugh with him. How silly this all is.

You laugh and laugh until tears are streaming down your face, and all you can taste is the salt of them, mixed with the sweat and dirt from your cheeks and it stings your lips, but you laugh.

Your camel is grunting, braying, now – like he’s laughing too. He’s leaping and bucking and the whole scene is just ridiculous. You’ve fallen onto your back and you’re rolling in the sand where the table was just moments ago and you don’t care where it went because you’re laughing and the boy’s laughing and you realize the sun isn’t even out anymore but it’s still much too hot to do anything but close your eyes.

And behind your eyelids you can still see the endless panorama of nothing but sand horizon and sky.

And then nothing.

Critique: Red Canna

2009-03-31T12:19:00.003-04:00

At first glance upon Georgia O’Keefe’s Red Canna, the viewer is immediately entranced by the bright vibrancy and smooth texture. The eye is immediately entranced by curving lines and highlights. The focal point appears to be the very center of the painting where the bright yellow mixes with the deep red to create an energetic orange area. What really calls attention to the center point is the surrounding areas of contrasting darker colors.

Overall, the painting strikes an intense feeling, mainly due to such bright, rich colors. The warm color theme also helps to draw such strong intensity to the viewer’s eyes. Most importantly, the rich reds and vivid yellows, added with a mix of pinks and oranges, create an overwhelming sense of contrast. This helps produce a sense of unity in the work and a calming emotion to the viewer. The texture created by contrast and depth appears to be soft and delicate, as with an actual flower. The depth and proportion is so real that the viewer might feel as if he or she could reach out and touch the flimsy fold of a petal.

While there is no narration to the piece, Red Canna does ignite some extreme emotions from the viewer. One might get the sense of strength, noting that the warm colors inspire him or her. Also, the upwards direction of the petals adds to the sense of power and optimism. Another emotion one may feel upon feeling this piece is passion. Red is often attributed to a zealous emotion and the surrounding bright colors, in addition, remind one of such fervor. Collectively, both the feelings of strength and passion come together to generate a euphoric feel.

Hockney Portrait & Poem: The Garden

2009-03-23T22:47:00.004-04:00

The Garden

You will not find Adam and Eve here,
For this is no paradise -
It’s all boards and lines and nets,
And skate marks on the ice.

There’s comfort in the black and gold seats,
A particular feeling in the air -
It’s the smell of popcorn and nachos,
It’s the sight of Blades the Bear.

The starting lines have been announced,
And then Rene serenades the crowd -
The puck is dropped – they’re chanting,
It’s getting near deafeningly loud.

The forwards fly up the ice,
The defensemen take their spots -
While Timmy makes another save,
He’s blocking all the shots.

In the blink of an eye, we’ve scored a goal,
Savvy’s made it one to nothing -
‘Zombie Nation’ blares, as the crowd roars,
This building is vibrating.

Up and down the ice they go,
The clock is ticking down-
Twenty-Three men dressed for the black and gold,
Seventeen-thousand fans rooting for our town.

All seventeen-thousand hearts stop,
As the puck nearly slides in the net -
Thomas makes another save,
But we’re all starting to sweat.

Numerous power plays and PK’s,
Several Lucic hits and some fights -
The game is nearly over,
But we’ll chant all through the night.

The buzzer sounds - it’s over,
The Bruins win four to three -
Seventeen-thousand fans are cheering,
Seventeen-thousand fans and me.

There’s something about this place,
An air of mystery -
It’s not quite like the Ol’ Boston Garden,
But still shares in the history.

A part of my soul is in this building,
It’s with this team – this game -
The heartbreaks and victories,
In here, mean all the same.

For I’ve spent countless hours in this place,
Collected memories from this ice -
It’s the hub of hockey, of the black and gold,
And this building is my paradise.

Short Story: Nightlife

2009-03-12T00:04:00.006-04:00

Marc Chagall – Paris Through the Window

"Nightlife"

The setting sun against the glow of the city skyline reminds me that it’s nearly time. The air of the city is heavy with both noise and light pollution. Cars honk, music blares, lights flash and dance across the darkness. The infamous tower stands like a colossal beacon in the center of it all. This is Paris after sundown.

I’ve been waiting all morning, all afternoon, all day for this. This is Saturday night à Paris! And it never gets old.

Oscar, jumping onto my bureau, carefully pads around the various containers of makeup strewn across it. He purrs loudly as I lightly pat the top of his furry head – I can’t mess up my nail polish. Tonight is not a night for any noticeable blemishes. It’s not a night for flaws.

No, it’s a night for seeing and being seen. A night where money is no object. A night that I’ve been yearning for all morning. The vibrant colors of the night give me the old familiar sense again.

In a moment, the doorbell’s ringing. I adjust the strap on my left heel. Now that my friends are here, my heart rate’s beginning to race. It’s getting closer to the time. I quickly snatch the little, empty bottle off my desk and shove it in my clutch. Later, it will be filled.

Outside, the socialites are gathered - glamoured and glittered from head to toe. They dazzle like the city. They sparkle like the stars. They’re out here every night. They help to remind me that I will not crave for much longer – As I may do the same for them.

We walk down the bustling street, where groups like ours loiter in the downtown scene. Flashy clothes and beautiful people swarm like bees. You’d never know it’s nearing midnight. This night has only just begun for us.

A couple avid paparazzi members snap our picture. It’s a tired routine. They never do decide if we’re something important or not. But yet, they snap away. Flash. Flash. My heartbeat continues to thud, louder and louder.

Almost.

As we wait in line outside the club, I see him approach me slyly. He knows that I’m in need. He knows just what I’m longing for. I reach in my purse, grabbing the small wad of cash. He knew that I’d be here.

He makes it quick and simple, as if he’s an old friend – one I haven’t seen recently; he knows as well as I do that it was just the other night. He embraces me long enough to slip the little bag into my palm and retrieve the cash from my other. I trust that the pills are there as I watch him walk away. No one says anything. My friends know better.

This is what I need. This is what I crave.

I waste no time once inside the club. I pop the tablets instantly, no water necessary – not anymore. With the neon strobe lights and the pulsing music, it takes no time at all for them to get into my system.

The high is instantaneous. All at once the effects of the pills explode into my bloodstream. And then it’s not just the lights and sounds making my head spin. I can not get enough.
Faster and faster and faster – my heart is racing.

Thump a thump a thump a thump…. A thousand beats per second. It feels like my limbs are on fire. They flail around in all directions. I’ve lost all control over them. It’s an old familiar feeling; a welcome one. I inadvertently smile.

Thump a thump a thump a thump…. It just keeps racing and racing. My eyes take in the scene. Bodies, tons of bodies, surround me. People brush by from all sides, faces unrecognizable. I wonder where my friends have gone.

The feeling is electric. Pulsations crawl across my skin, making the tiny hairs stand on end. It’s like every fiber in my body exploding in an orgasm in hyper-speed.

They say this feeling never lasts; this feeling fades away. How could something so full of pure, intense emotion ever end?

Sure, when dawn approaches, the club will close and the people will leave. The day will begin again. But with every tomorrow comes a tomorrow night. A constant I live by. I no longer count the years by hours and days, but rather by nights. I count by the way Paris comes alive after sundown; the way I come alive after sundown.

There is no feeling quite like this. It’s something too wonderful for words, something contrasting with the polluted Paris air. But I only feel the night.

I’m moving at a thousand miles an hour and images are blurring past. The steady rhythm of the bass beat resonates in my ears. But I don’t think. I just dance.

I am safe up high, in this high, where no one can touch me. I can not get enough.

And it will never end.

Euphoria Declaration

2009-02-25T23:40:00.004-05:00

When I first was brainstorming topics for my Conceptfolio, I had trouble deciding on one. I knew I wanted to do something positive and happy, since I'm a really optimistic person. At first, I was going to settle for 'inspiration', since it covers a lot of ground. But then, I realized that that topic was a little too broad. So after a little more thinking, I came up with the idea of "euphoria". Euphoria is a feeling of happiness, confidence, or well-being sometimes exaggerated in pathological states as mania - or basically being happy past the point of sanity. I thought it would be interesting to discover everything that could cause such an emotion and find works of art, music, etc, that relate to it. Plus, I thought it was a creative idea and something that would challenge me. I hope to find out what causes the intensity of a euphoric moment and how it impacts a person and offer my own take on the concept while still leaving it up for debate.

Critique: Der Spaziergang

2009-02-12T16:23:00.003-05:00

http://www.bankaustria-kunstforum.at/media/image/600/2119.jpg

Pure happiness is a difficult emotion to capture, but in his painting, ‘Der Spaziergang,’ Marc Chagall crafts the emotion in such a way that it is easily conveyed. Most noticeable is the woman in pink who appears to be suspended above ground. Elation has been known to make one feel as if they are floating in midair. The brightness of her dress in comparison to the paleness of the background makes it easy to for the eye of the viewer to find it first. Chagall did this intentionally to make the joyous woman his painting’s focal point. Bright colors are also used commonly as a symbol of cheer. The vivid greens of the foreground contrast sharply with the artist’s use of polygon-shaped shadows, adding to the overall intensity of the painting’s hues. The flatness and multiple lines help to unify the overall theme of euphoria by allowing more attention to be placed on the colors and composition.
It is easy to imagine a scenario that inspired Chagall to paint ‘Der Spaziergang,’ as the narration within the piece effortlessly triggers the imagination. Perhaps the inspiration came from observing a married couple. Chagall pictured the woman as being so elated to be in love that she can no longer keep her feet on the ground. He saw her husband laughing, feeling joy at her happiness, while keeping her from floating away. Whatever the case may be, it is obvious that Chagall’s overall intent is to express a happiness too full to contain - a certain euphoria that touches all.

Critique: Mind's Eye

2009-02-12T16:04:00.001-05:00

Upon first glance at ‘Two Halves,’ it is easy to feel an immediate sense of relaxation and serenity. The eye easily rests on the center of the painting, the dilapidated shack, the intended focal point. The shack is a different color than its surrounding green areas and has a depth to it. It is more detailed and fine than the background, causing it to be more defined. What really draws attention is the bright highlight of the cabin, most noticeably the brightest area of the piece.
Overall, the painting has an earthly tone to it. The colors range from various shades of greens to blues to brown. The blurry, unfocused background consists of hills and trees. A beaten path winds its way from the top right corner to the bottom left, taking up a majority of the horizontal piece. On both sides of the shack, the painting is balance equally, furthering the viewer’s sense of tranquility. The proportion remains consistent with reality as it is neither abstract nor exaggerated. Also, lack of line usage helps to create the serene theme. The brush strokes are quick and sporadic, but easily make each object appear to blend with the others around it calmly.
The artist has created such an intimate setting that it effortlessly suggests a subtle narrative for the viewer. Instantly, he or she can picture his or herself strolling along the worn and weathered path, wandering through the quiet woods. As the trail opens, the shack comes into view and immediately, he or she is curious. The decrepit hut is broken but full of character. He or she has to stop, has to take in every quirk about the shack. When the curiosity is finally fed, he or she will continue back along the shabby path, taking in the bright day and the serenity of it all.