The Lady with the Mismatched Facial Expressions

One of the most important aspects of conversation is reading facial expressions. These allow us to interpret the flow of a conversation, the other person's feelings and their reactions to what we say. In fact, it's not unheard of to hold entire exchanges solely through the power of facial expressions. But what happens when these physical cues go awry?

The other day I was in the department and I ran into a lady who I had met some time earlier at a job seminar. We spoke briefly there, as she is also studying in the same department as I am, and I remember I was quite taken aback by out chat. Mind you, nothing out of the ordinary was said by either of us and the conversation stayed within the realms of general chit-chat. But when I would try to make a joke or lighten the mood my remarks were always met with a raised eyebrow and a dubious glance, making me feel that I had said something offensive...or so I thought.

But on closer inspection, meaning after my second encounter with the lady, I surmised that I had been the victim of mismatched facial expressions. When I encountered these suspect glances for the second time, I used the lady's dialogue to gather that she had never found my talk objectionable. Rather, it seems that she simply does not coordinate her thoughts and reactions with her facial expressions in any sort of familiar way. So when I say something to the effect of "oh yes I've been looking for a job too, it's just such a hinderance that I all of my qualifications are in history," her response, similar to this,

is not meant to suggest "what the fuck are you talking about," but rather to agree "yes, that is funny, and sometimes I feel similarly." And to think that I was under the impression that I had been unable to get through to her! A non-drinker, my Italian friend assured me that I was alright in her book as she told me her name, which I repeated, "Temperla is it?" To which she kindly responded, shaking her head with a somewhat more recognizable semblance of a smirk, "E-Tem-e-per-la." Oh yes, I repeated, "E-Tem-e-per-la." We were fast friends.

THINGS AREN'T WHAT THEY USED TO BE

Best Kept Secret

I'm sure anyone who has a dog is privy to the (not-so-new) trend of dog bakeries. These canine confectioners make intricate baked goods which resemble human desserts for animals who purportedly have a remarkably unrefined sense of taste.

Today I was in such a bakery shopping for biscuits for a third-party's pooch. You may have heard of it, it's called PetCo. Although there was a limited selection, consisting only of "chocolate chip" cookies and mock custard creams, they looked wonderfully delicious; like something you'd pick up from Keebler.

My curiosity rose as I pondered the idea of shaping dog biscuits like cookies if they all taste the same anyway. Why would a dog give a shit whether his snack is shaped like a tart or a danish? So I decided to do a little investigation and popped one (first a chocolate chip) into my mouth. And I'll be damned if it wasn't wonderful! Tasted just like a genuine cookie. Not too sweet and perfect texture. I had to have more. I reached for a custard cream next and delighted in its sweet cookie crunch. What is more, at four bucks a pound it's a steal! Not to mention they have digestive enzymes and will probably make my hair look fantastic.

So the next time you're out and about, stop into one of these joints and try a delicious dog biscuit for yourself. And no worries, as we were at the checkout counter I asked a professional, "Is it cool if humans eat these?" She gave a knowing nod.

Tales of the Riverbank

RUN-N-LATE 14TH CENTURY ITALIAN ALTARPIECES

Much to my pleasure, my masters education includes a practical workshop in reconstruction 14th century alterpiece panels, mirroring the "authentic" process (as specified, of course, by Cennino Cennini) as closely as possible; we cut a few corners though. As such, I have just returned from the studio having had the pleasure to work with glue made from rabbit skin! I wish to detail the process so that any of you can try this reconstruction at home.

First you must sand your wood panel smooth (although poplar is traditionally used, anything with a fine surface-i.e. oak, pine, mahogany, 2x4, etc-will work) and be sure to take ALL varnish off. Next, apply tree layers of rabbit skin glue (you can buy the resin boiled from the skin in pre-fabricated crystals to avoid having to kill and skin your own rabbit; just follow the directions for making on the stove), allowing each layer to dry before applying the next. Go over each very lightly with a dry brush as it is solidifying to get the air bubbles out.

Next you must mix up your gesso sottile for later. This is simply plaster of paris and can also be purchased at an art store. You must mix in proportions of 1 kilo to 10 litres of water. Add the gypsum to the water and stir slowly for about 75 minutes. You cannot stop or it will harden! After the mixture has thickened it will become thinner again, once it begins to thicken for the second time you will know you are about 75 in and can stop.

Now laddle about two cups of the mixture into a linen cloth and squeeze gently to extract the water. This will leave soft clumps of gesso sottile which should be formed into hamburgers and left to dry overnight on a rack. Repeat until all is used. We will return to this later

For the gesso grosso, mix plaster with the rabbit glue so it is fairly thin, then grind in a mortar and pestle until smooth. Apply a thin layer to your glue-panel. Allow to dry, and apply two more layers this way, preparing the gesso grosso each time so it doesn't harden.

After the three layers you are going to distill your gesso sottile in a bit of water to make it liquid again. Grind in mortar and pestle until quite smooth, and apply 7 layers to your panel, allowing each to dry of course.

Once the panel has been coated with the gessos, you must scrape it smooth with a blade, but careful not to gauge it! Now you are ready to paint!

*For instructions on preparing egg tempera or for guilding, contact me personally. Also, above instructions will cover about 8 small panels, so adjust your measurements accordingly.

Rob Goes International

As a friend recently told me, "going international is so hard." This is true. Aside from the emotionally destabilizing experience of being on "foreign" soil, there is a vast amount of nuances which separate life abroad from life in America. For example, I've never been in a situation before where I've had direct access to my power/electricity through a parking meter in my bedroom. Having to shove pound coins into it daily to keep my toaster working (especially considering that my diet consists mostly of breaden products) is unsettling. And using multiple appliances at once (i.e. toaster + kettle)? Forget it! I've never seen such a rapacious meter. What is this "power?" Who is putting it into this magical meter and why is it so expensive?

Perhaps of more concern is my inattention to these British subtleties, especially as they've affected my hygiene. I did not realize that there is a hot water switch in my kitchen which controls the flow throughout the flat. Until this point (and even still b/c of that damned meter) I figured that perhaps hot water didn't exist in my Victorian building and therefore didn't bother turning the shower on (I still can't figure out how to do that but the bath does work I imagine). Instead I adapted my bathing practice to standing in the shower and sponging my privates with a bowl of hot water boiled on the stove. I don't own a proper towel either so I'm usually quite cold even after I attempt to dry myself with a kitchen rag.

My British sup usually consists of sauteed potatoes and carrots, which I accompany with, you said it!: toast. And when I'm not trying to decipher mystery paintings from 16th century Flanders, I enjoy renting DVDs from the language center library. Although halfway through Kika I begin to have self-depricating thoughts about how poor my Spanish is and how lacking my academic interests are, only to feel worse from the bitter cold of my unheated tenement. I still cannot tell whether this condition is exacerbated or not by the tepid can of Tennent's lager in my clamy hands (I could be drinking piss and not know the difference).

I think perhaps what is most unsettling is that romanticized notion that going international is mystical in some way which, in me at least, remains unsatisfied. And what is the result of these international lessons, you may ask? I've still ended up at McDonalds after a night of drinking alone in a sad, sunken, overweight bar; just once though, just once.

MMMMMM

Yesterday. Mid-afternoon. Riding bike home. Sort of drunk. Cruising down hill.

I come to a street at the bottom of the decline, and some punk kid is standing there, in the street, on his bike, perpendicular to the sidewalk. He sees me coming. I know he does. He doesn't move.

I fly across the street and pass him, slightly banking the curb as I pass him. I keep riding. The result; bent wheel. What bothered me most was that I was drunk and didn't register what happened in a way that would have allowed me to do what I should have done (besides stop and go around him).

What I should have done is yelled, "Get the fuck out of the way! You and everyone like you should be murdered so I have less idiotic shit to deal with every day! Jackass!"

So for all of you bashful barrys out there: Give em' hell!