#adea lennox

[cardboardacid]

super dark times (2017) dir. kevin phillips

[scenesandscreens]

Super Dark Times (2017)

Director - Kevin Philips, Cinematography - Eli Born

“No, you never ever go back to the scene of the crime”

[cardboardacid]

super dark times (2017) dir. kevin phillips

[nairmillos]

Super Dark Times (2017)

Tenía muchas ganas de ver Super Dark Times y, cuando ya esperaba que no se estrenase en cines, va Netflix y la mete en su catálogo. Super Dark Times es una peli de adolescentes. Pretende ser madura e inquietante en su premisa, pero se estrella cuando quiere ir más allá. Se nos presenta el largometraje con dos adolescentes hablando de las personas que aparecen en el anuario. La conversación es muy…

View On WordPress

[writingstudio]

A Cure to Writer's Block: Prompts

PROMPT:

Compose a list of familiar phrases, or phrases that have stayed in your mind for a long time--from songs, from poems, from conversation.

I stumbled upon this (http://www.languageisavirus.com) awesome website that claims that it cures writers block by generating new prompts for you at your will. I generated this one and decided to run with it. Here are some phrases/song lyrics that have been stuck in my head. Most are from god knows where:

“When the sun burnt out, the moon began to shine. The stars trembled and the sky shook. The world was changing.”

“Mommy, what is an armadillo?”

“What is love? Baby don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, no more.”

“I saw a midget with a beer in cowboy boots. I don’t remember anything else.”

“Come with me! There will be pie.”

“Girlfriend in a coma, I know, I know it’s serious.”

“I took my tongue to the southern tip of your body your bones are too heavy to come up.”

“You should go home.”

“A single cell of wood.”

[writingstudio]

Older, Younger

The piece above is by a Berlin-based artist and illustrator, Riikka Sormunen.

When I came across this piece of art, I immediately empathized with the gigantic baby holding his “elder” up by the ankles. As teenagers, many of us strive to show our parents and teachers that we are capable of being independent, and that we (usually) know what we’re doing when in situations that require technological or “modern” know-how.

However, I am also reminded of the night my father told my brother and me that he remembered his birth. Not being in the womb, but everything that came after he was pushed into this world, and the gloved hands of a doctor in a tiny hospital room. This image brings to life the “thoughts” my newborn father had when the doctors were weighing him on the scale. (See below.) My brother stressed that it was “impossible” to remember being born. During the time it took for my father to smoke a cigarette, he managed to shed some light onto just how well he remembered it. The writer in me sensed good material for a scene, so, I wrote one.

--Adea Lennox '13

[writingstudio]

All In Good Spirit

This past weekend, I went to New York City to celebrate the life of my step-grandfather.

To my right sat a man who wore a scarf, even though it was seventy degrees inside. Already, I was suspicious. Before we all sat down for dinner, my aunt swooped by and deemed me the photographer for the night. I had just ordered a Nikon digital camera two days before and was still experimenting with it. The man with the neck scarf began teasing me with comments like, “You’re the worst photographer I’ve ever seen!” and, “What are you even doing with that camera? I mean, come on.”  Every time I would activate the shutter he would duck out of the frame or throw his hands in front of his face. This went on until I finally snapped a shot that I was semi-content with given the low lighting, then sat back down. He kept bugging me to see “my work” and I refused, saying that the photographs I had just taken did not represent “my work.” As soon as I said “work,” he shot back a snarky, “What do you mean ‘your work’?” He put the words “your work” in air quotes. When a stranger with a Welsh accent who sports a neck scarf judges me in my own home, I feel entitled to call them out.

“Why are you being so rude right now?” I said, genuinely curious as to why he wanted to make sure that I knew he thought I was a bad photographer.

“Am I being rude?” he said.

“Yes, I find that you are.”

“Oh I don’t mean to be”--he brought his hands up, palms facing outwards--“I’m in the business, so I’m curious as to what people consider photography these days.”

This piece of information was new and exciting to me.

“Great! Let’s talk about it. You’re a professional, and I want to be a professional. I’d love to hear what you have to say, other than 'you’re a shitty photographer.’”

My brother, who had been sitting quietly in between us, turned to him and said, “My sister is actually a really good photographer.” The man in the neck scarf processed this for a moment, then whipped out his air quotes once again and said, “Ohh, so you’re a ‘photographer.’” I confirmed and explained that I was in the midst of printing a photo book. He assumed I shot with a digital camera, considering my “teenage-ness,” and I had to correct him. But still, he was not convinced that I could operate a film camera, nevertheless develop my own negatives. He challenged me with names of photographers and various types of film cameras until I pointed to my father's big, old viewfinder camera.

I told him about the portrait I had taken using a camera similar to my dad’s viewfinder. It was a portrait of my friend Eduardo sniffing his armpit while showing the stitches on his arm. He scoffed and sat back in his chair with a cocky “cute.” Now he was talking down to me, like I was a two-year-old who had just snot on a piece of paper and held it up to her parents, who called it a “masterpiece.” I took this as an opportunity to prove myself. So, I pulled up the photograph and handed the phone to him.

*Cue jaw dropping*

“Well, I was prepared to hate this, but it is actually really good. Really good.”

“Thank you,” I said, trying to contain the sense of “in your face” I was feeling.

Shortly thereafter, a friend of my aunt came up to me and said, “I noticed you were chatting it up with Angus.” Angus?

“Who’s Angus?”

“The man you were just talking to. He’s a BIG deal in the fashion world.”

Oh, shit.

At the end of the night, Angus gave me his email address and encouraged me to contact him if and when I read the photography books that he suggested to me (ones he had to look up on his iPhone beforehand). He wrapped me in a hug, said, “Ot was lovely to meet you, sweetheart; I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon,” and left.

I was reminded of two lessons from this encounter: 1) Try not to take personal offense if someone is giving you a hard time, and 2) Don’t judge too quickly. You might be surprised by what somebody can do, despite their age, appearance or even gender.

--Adea Lennox '13

[writingstudio]

Coming Soon, In Black and White

A few months ago, I went to an art exhibit and saw a black-and-white print of a bandaged man in the forest eye-to-eye with a bird. Ever since then, I have been meaning to write about it. This is one of many pieces of artwork that has stayed in my mind but has never really became something tangible, like a piece of writing. For my special project that is a part of this semester’s edition of the writing studio blog, I will be pairing prints, photographs, illustrations, etc. with snippets of dialogue, description, narration, and poetry. The first post of this project includes the print mentioned above and a micro-story to go along with it. Here is a preview of that micro story:

“...as if a hurried child had pulled an eraser smudged with graphite across his forehead, nose, and cheeks.”

Keep your eyes open next week for the full post, print and all!

--Adea Lennox '13