|I drew this for my dear old mum because she's an awesome human being|
|I painted a heart and got all inspired by Van Gogh's A Starry Night but then I felt compelled to do something to the background and now I think I may have ruined it|
It is difficult to come to terms with the fact that I can't come home and have the luxury of an hour or so to make a blog post. It's only the third week into the school year and last weekend I had homework for every single subject. It's mind boggling to think how that's only the beginning.
This afternoon I did two seminars at school that focused on history/herstory, and how everybody does indeed have a story. In my Lit class at the moment we're looking at how different individual factors like age, race, gender, education, era and past experiences influence how a person interprets a text.
I've thought a lot about this and how something exactly the same can be something totally different to two people. Something it takes a while to grasp is that 'equal' does not mean 'same'. What is one thing if it can be seen so differently? What is a search for truth? Truth seems to sometimes imply a wholesome answer, but how can interpretation ever end?
At the end of the last seminar I did today I was browsing through an old school magazine from 1973. I was really interested because the speaker had been working at our school during the seventies and I asked her about how the changes that happened at our school paralleled with those in society at the time. I find the seventies such a fascinating era of rapid change and re-evaluation, and I wonder if, although we are now a society that changes faster than ever before, if such a turn around in ideas could again happen as quickly as it did then.
On one of the pages of the magazine there was a record of all the girls in the senior years' final grades. A lot of them did really badly. In biology, there were mostly Ds, some Cs, and one B. At the time science just was not valued for a girls' education. I adore science, and every day of my classes I surprise myself with how much more I enjoy it. I can't imagine not having that interest. But is that interest just a product of my era? Am I just lucky to be in the right place at the right time?
I have asked so many questions lately; I've noticed in my posts I tend to comment on the disorganisation of my thoughts at present. Recently I've started to feel like my questions are my answers.
The Siren - John William Waterhouse
Meadham Kirchoff S/S 13
|Merle Bergers by Olivia Da Costa for Please!|
|Mick Jagger. Please. Enough.|
|Heatwave from Oyster Mag by Ryan Kenny|