Letter to Andy Warhol

Hi uncle Andy Warhol,

 

            Well done on your collection book! I found your book in our UCI library because I had to look your books up for my Artist as Writer class. I was fascinated by one of your pop artwork, especially a print of the famous 60s actress Natalie Wood, who was well-known in a movie called "Red Bull Without a Cause." On the canvas, there are duplications of Wood's pop art images. Some of them overlap each other horizontally. Some of the prints are half transparent; some of them have horizontal patterns. I really like that piece of art because it fully explains the critic of the conventional society. It criticizes the representation of women. The overlapping images show that the duplication images ruin the original image. The duplication of the celebrity shows that these women are like a representation of an “ideal woman” in a bourgeois society. This piece of art successfully shows how women are measured by the standard of what women should look like. Women are like objects- they are passive. You are criticizing how the modern world shape women nowadays. The repetitions of the image are so vulnerable that they overlap with each other. This destroys the image itself. The concept of overlapping destroys its own original image. It shows that the representation of women destroys its own personal uniqueness. There is also no original in the picture because there are too many representations that the original become a representation itself. There is no original image because all of the images are representations. The image is not Natalie Wood anymore, but a celebrity that has a perfect smiley face and a pair of big pretty eyes. I also have some suggestions regarding your artwork. Since this is a print, you can also use different colors, such as blue, organ and red. I would love to see a golden print of her just like the Golden Monroe you did. 

 

Best,

Angel Ho

Tienanmen Square

The professional dancers will do a reenactment of the Tienanmen Square protest – the infamous, unidentified person, who stood up to the lined tanks, portrayed bravery even when alone and without carrying any weaponry.

There are four militaristic tanks.
Four bodies will perform as the rotating wheels for each tank; one will impersonate the turret; and eight others will play as the tanks’ heavy armor.
The unidentified person will be played by a single dancer.

Props may be used only when necessary and effective to the performance.
The background is a plastered white wall.
The dancers will perform sideway, with safety gears around their waists.
The audience will see this reenactment in a bird’s eye perspective.
The sense of imagery is stressed here and heightened as the audience is allowed to see this performance piece in another angle and outlook.

Weiner Dog

I was sitting with my friend Weiner - well, his real name is actually Lawrence. Weiner is his last name. I simply thought it would be funny if we were both named after body parts; however, I suppose you could say he received the "lower end" of the stick.

We were sitting around in my crappy apartment one day when he suddenly asks me, "Hey, you ever wonder about parenthesis?"

Confuddled, I intelligently asked him, "What?"

Apparently, he had an inspiration for an art piece (he's a bum by day but artist by night), and in the heat of the moment he dashed off.

"Huh," I said.

The next morning, I discovered that the dick drew all over my wall.

~ Chin Ngo

Artistic More Than Anything Else

Dear Liz Kotz,

I am writing this letter to you because I was looking through a book of Ray Johnson’s correspondence works the other day and came across an image that reminded me of your writing about Joseph Kosuth’s One and Three Chairs. In your text, “Words To Be Looked At,” you explained that Kosuth’s work explores the relation between language, picture and referent, and brings up the question “what is real here?” Ray Johnson’s Correspondence sent to Joseph Cornell from Ray Johnson and Richard C. reminded me of you because underneath the signature of Ray Johnson there is a stamp stating “Fake Ray Johnson.” Although this letter in its entirety makes no sense to me whatsoever and I do not know the intention of the stamp, it translated to me as a way of stating that the letter is not actually by Ray Johnson but is a writing stating that it is by Ray Johnson. Furthermore, Richard C. concluding the letter with “Ray Johnsonly” makes me believe that the letter was comedically and intentionally written to sound as if it were written by Ray Johnson himself but in actuallity it was someone elses writing.
I was hoping that you could take a look at Johnson’s correspondence and provide me with feedback on what your take is on this rather confusing and seemingly random work that I view to be simply artistic more than it is anything else.

Passed Writings Revisited.

7-2-09 3 Scattered thoughts – trisha brown video

1. Gender
The person is walking slowly. Is it a man or a woman?
(My teacher, Marcus, mentions the title aloud: "Man Walking Down the Building.")
The man is walking slowly.
And, now with the title, I know why. He could fall; he is walking with caution and precision, because he is attached to the roof by a cable. He is walking down the side of a building!

2. Dying in Meditation
This demonstration reminds me of the Japanese artist-dancers who were held by rope or ribbon from their ankles, and hung nude from a building, meditating. One artist-dancer's rope broke; but he held his position, peacefully meditating into his next life.

3. A New Demonstration
The demonstration is in an exhibit now, it seems. The piece at this point in time had enough recognition to be displayed and compensated. However, the dancers walk in a different direction, across a wall instead of down. I wonder why they are considered dancers. I guess for this demonstration of wall walking, you do need balance at least, maybe grace, poise, and precision. Otherwise you might wobble and fall.

3.5. Bell-Bottoms
I love the bell-bottoms.

3.75 More Interrupted Thoughts
(Today in class we picked a letter from the English Alphabet and wrote down whatever words we thought of on old Monopoly playing cards.)
In order for the dancers to walk sideways at 90 degrees, they are harnessed to one particular side (left or right) at 90 degrees. I would imagine those harnesses would hurt after a while—dig in to whichever side they’re leaning toward
(Harnesses and Hurt. Those are two words I did not use in my card today. Woops)
Blood would rush the side of the body, too, maybe causing strains, muscle tension, and headaches. Such a simple-looking art takes more work than it seems.

4. Controversially Artistic
1970. The “70s”. The late 60s. That was such a controversially artistic time. Many questions and opinions came about regarding what is art and what isn’t. People demanded and/or experienced new freedoms in their lives. Some decided to express themselves artistically in unconventional ways.
I watch the small crowd people who watch the man go down the building. I feel that people appreciated art more back then—maybe because they were drugged all the time. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter though. That’s pretty cool…

4.3 Being a Dancer
(Video switch—I pause to watch the people on the wall)
I like that they’re having fun with what they’re doing, talking and playing with each other while walking back and forth. But does that break the audience’s experience in doing so? Is the art that the dancers are creating still the same art? Or is the art within the performance? Perhaps the art is in the performers being dancers—their grace and balance, their endurance even.

4.5 LACMA/Art for Art’s Sake
This piece also reminds me of 60s Modern Art Exhibit displayed at LACMA last year… I don’t know if I feel that some of the pieces should have been considered art—or at least art with meaning. Any art piece can and should be considered art, even if it is just for the sake of creating art and having new art living in the world. I personally call that art for art’s sake. Anyway, one artist spray-painted a six-pack of bottles as well as the box they came in. Another artist painted a large, bright, blue circle on a white canvas. LACMA had these on display.

4.7 Sprayed Gray Bottles and the Big Blue Circle
I see the sprayed gray bottles and the big blue circle, and I guess I am displeased with the lack of detail. And much of the art from the 1960s and 70s, and even through today, is like that—overly simple. These pieces may be considered art to the people who created them at that point in time. But this type of art, Modern Art, almost always makes me wonder what happened to the effort in creating art. Maybe I am just used what it conventionally considered art, such as Pierre-Auguste Cot’s Springtime or Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa; but nevertheless the I sometimes feel 60s and 70s artists emphasized in lazy art.

5. Confusion
What makes this man’s walk down a building art??? I’m sure there is some intention or concept behind this idea, but I don’t see it.

6. A Gift Given
The artists mock how people try to represent everybody’s daily life.

7. Intentions of Art and Politics
Art is a lot like politics—very deceiving in many ways, very controversial, sometimes with misplaced intentions, sometimes with no intentions at all, sometimes for self-satisfaction, a lot of times for self-satisfaction, most of the time for self-satisfaction.

7.5 People irritate me, especially when they lie.
The deception in both art and politics irritates me. I feel like yelling at people sometimes to just
Shut up!
Own up to your true reason for doing what you are doing.
Don’t mask yourself or your work to seem smarter or feel better about yourself.
:(
It’s a game, and a stupid one.
Art is supposed to be about honesty. At least that’s what I think—revealing the truth.
(Honesty. That’s another word I didn’t use.)
Some art is made for the sake of creating art. That’s perfectly fine! Some is made for a purpose, or with meaning, or a message behind it. That’s also great! No one art is better than another. No one person’s opinion is greater then another’s. People tend to forget that in favor of seeing their opinion progress to the public.

8. I want to be done writing but Marcus says to continue.
Marcus mentions across the room that some dance critics have expressed that this art reduces dance. But does it? Or does it perhaps expand the spectrum of what is considered dance. I would say that this demonstration is definitely not what we conventionally think of as dance, with specific costumes or music. However it still requires a lot of skills that dancers use. So perhaps what is going on is at least dance-esque.

9. Irony
The repetition of seeing these videos brings boredom to my mind. This is not an exhibition I would see multiple times on my own.
I wish the dancers would do something more interesting with what they are doing and what materials they have available to them. They are sideways, in harnesses, have two walls (or one, depending on the demonstration), lots of space, and of course each other, the windows, and the audience to work with. They could jump around, play with their space.
But I guess that would change the meaning and purpose of what they are doing—
if they had a meaning or a purpose.
That is actually not clear because toward the end the dancers begin to play with one another anyway.
Does this mean that they are even bored with their own art? That’s a little ironic.

10. Imprisonment
The audience sitting at the beginning of the man-and-building video looks somewhat boxed up—like they are imprisoned.

11. Cinematography and Sarcasm
The cinematography brings some authenticity and variation to the art. It gives it an age, and in a way a better understanding of the piece.
It also matches Marcus’ Media Player software settings, which are also colored black and white.
The marriage of the 70s and today. Wait! Is that art too??



7-2-09 1 If I Ruled the World

If I ruled the world it would not have as much hell and as much war. I am for peace, music, intelligence, happiness, and whatever heaven you choose to live your life for. I am also for helping out other people, places, and countries. However I would also help out my own people first, because I know that you cannot help others with helping yourself first. Nor would I help someone who didn’t want help, would be there for when they did. I would not harp on others for having different cultural existences, different religions, different ways of thinking, etc. In saying this though, if someone tried to significantly disrupt that peace—don’t think that I’ll hesitate to send him or her to hell (so to hastily speak). That would be a hair-raising experience I would not wish on anyone. I mean, what the heck? How could someone not be for peace and tranquility?



6-30-09 The red belly would dance the Bossanova.

The red belly would dance the Bossanova.



I do not know what I think of this Bossanova, this red belly head, face, mind.
A dance that is afraid, maybe of a pillow.
But it brings colors of orange, yellow, light and dark blues, purples
all mixed from the red.
Blurred people dancing on the street fading out in the distance,
dancing under a starry night, moonlight sky.
Others walking, sitting at a café nearby.
A painter watches and captures the moment.
The dancers hear the music in their heads, in their faces, in their minds. But unlike the red
belly,
they are not afraid;
and not inanimate objects of comfort that cannot move
but can only be moved/However, in a way they are like pillows
able to be moved, but only by
the music in their minds
and in their hearts.



6-30-09 Song-Song-News Mesh

Tainted

The dancers hear the musician Mr. Khatami, an ayatollah who came from their minds
Speaking
“And do I love you my river deep mouse?
Oh yeah.”
If he has not shown any signs of being lost, you—a senior scholar at Columbia University, who runs a website called Gulf 2000…
Just how far Mr. Oh-I-Love-You-Baby, by another unanswered question (the bang, boom, boom) would he demand for change to yield results?
He said, “I love you baby,” with flowing nuances of truth and deception.
In the earlier uprisings it was basically that same boom boom, by both the religious hard-liners, and the more pragmatists and reformists forces—jackin’ my style!



6-25-09 To Me a Drawing Should

My Opinions. My Words. My Art.

To me a drawing should make a statement—however small, ridiculous, ordinary looking, or not—reflecting an artist’s opinion. An artist should focus on his or her work as well as the message he or she is trying to convey, and not worry about how people will react to their piece. In fact, it is a compliment to an artist if any opinion or commentary is made regarding their work because that shows the artist’s message came across through their art.

The piece An Anglo Frenzy was created by artist Hachivi Edgar Heap of Birds. The work was created with the use of rag paper (a paper material imbedded with bits of fabric) and an assortment of thick absorbent paints, applied with a thick brush, enabling Heap of Birds a bit of ease with his creation. The paper is divided in 15, three-by-five sections; and within each section are phrases or groups of words. Each of those words seems to describe a memory, an interest, a piece of the past, a physical characteristic, a personal present belief, etc.

I must confess that the name of the piece, along with the simple-looking, hasty, brush strokes was deceiving at. This artwork at face value, to me, looked quickly done, without much thought or effort. I initially pictured a Caucasian man painting this textured paper speedily and intensely, with a bit of anger or unrest in his mind. In all honesty I thought less of this work, believing it to have come from a stereotypical anger-posed artist who may have possibly created this piece in a fairly small amount of time, and then decided to call it an art that carried a deeper meaning, just so he could cause some controversy. But when I searched for Mr. Heap of Birds I came to the startling (and informative) discovery that he was Native American. His name made much more sense and his art took on quite a different meaning. I had preoccupied my thoughts with what the work looked like, not with who it may have came from, what it could possibly mean to the artist, nor a possible message behind it.



To go further into my initial reaction to An Anglo Frenzy, the piece looked like it could have been used as a sign in a protest, which is why I did not think much into it as art. It looked like a collage of signs to me. I paid more attention to the colors and the detail then what was written on the paper. A few words and phrases connected with me. The word “Anglo” reminded me of an English physics teacher I had in high school. He wasn’t racist, but he did carry that typical, British, dry, quick-witted humor about it. He always used to make random commentary on Anglo-Saxons. I thought “paint with memory” was a cool poetic phrase, and paired with “spirit of tree,” “bark,” and “grass,” I was reminded of the song “Colors of the Wind” from the Disney film Pocahontas. (After realizing who the artist is, I thought that was a little ironic). “Watch and act” also jumped out at me. I thought about it in connection with the thoughts of protesting that I had when I first saw the piece, and thought that was a little out of place. This was because, although protests; strikes; etc. are usually planned events, I have most often been of the opinion that many of the reasons behind those rallies are usually not put forward, and much of those events are there to make some noise. What I mean is that, again—to me, a lot of those events seem to harbor a lot of rebellion with lost or unvoiced causes. However, that is not to say that I do not believe they are effective. Protesting can be a very effective for a person or group of people to overcome an obstacle they are facing.

My initial reaction slightly shamed me after I saw who the artist is. Perhaps because he is considered part of a minority, I was keener to accept his art. Nonetheless, I feel that by seeing the artist who created this work, I feel as though I got a better understanding of this piece. The nature references made more sense; Native Americans tend to be in tune with nature. The word “Anglo” is more a term of reference than, and less a word put there to seek attention. The word “disengage” popped out; I did not realize that was one broken-up word. This work may now contain some historical references that I have forgotten about or am unaware of; or even maybe some opinions of Heap of Birds, or those of people he knows or has come in contact with.

The piece itself feels freer to me, perhaps because I put less mental restrictions on it. I came to the conclusion that although this piece looks done rapidly and without much thought or effort, that is more likely to be completely untrue. An Anglo Frenzy could have taken much more effort than it leads on. I thought about my opinions on the artwork in general. Who is to say that this collage of signs couldn’t be art? I can certainly be no judge of that. This piece also revealed my slanted view the artist stereotype, as well as my comfort with art that comes from a minority group of people, as opposed to the majority. I guess I am a little racist, but isn’t everyone?

I do not regret my opinions though, because in the end they are mine—just like with Heap of Birds. The opinions captured in his art are his. And just because they are painted on rag paper, that makes no difference than my words typed up on a computer. In this sense, my typed words are an art of their own. And I try to never have regrets with any art piece. If I do not feel it is done, then it is simply an unfinished piece that I can come back later to if I want. If I do not like the color, or phrasing, or style, then even though I don’t like it, maybe it was just meant to be that way, at least for that moment, because again, I can always come back to it and change it if I want. It is my art.

Tianaman Square--Writings Combined.

Walk to the center of the street, and stand firmly unwavering as he tanks in line approach.
It has been quite an eventful morning here in China as military tanks have been
trying to pass Main Street to get into Tianaman Square. One student of China University, whose name has not yet been identified, has created his own barricade to prevent the tanks from entering the area. The military men inside the tanks are doing their best to move forwardl but the student is moving toward whichever direction the lead tank seems to head for.
NO! You will not move any further. I am staying right here! … Just go back from
where you came from you robots! … You chickens …. You cowards! NO! You
don’t scare me… Leave!!
If he attempts to move forwards, stop in front and stand your ground.
that’s what she said. POW.
These people are preventing you from attaining you freedoms.
messed up right pointer finger
facial pokings
Attempt to invade the lead tank. Grab a soldier and attack him (verbally or physically). Make him stop.
Whooooaaaa. There’s a person there. Where is he going? What is
SO, doing? He’s just standing there… Hello! Move—
No no no no nope. You’re not going anywhere
YOU if I have my say! FREEDOM!
They won’t leave their tanks. Have no fear of them fighting
KNOW, back. Just climb and enter.
Concentrate on the freedoms you want and freedoms you’ve earned.
Well, Umm.. The student is carrying two unidentified items, one in each hand. Oh my. Now he is climbing the lead tank and trying to enter it.
Two on my left knee from an arthroscopy.
If the tank moves If you move do not succeed, get off and continue to
left, move to left as stand you ground.
well to block it. If Damnit! I am going to get you myself! (Climb up, use bags, it moves back right, kick, bang on tank). Come out and fight! … I’m not getting
do the same. off of here! Come out!
You’re not moving, Move! Ugh. Stupid person… Why is he blocking the road? – I’ll try right… What are you doing?! I’ll try left. Get off, the road!!! What the heck? I’m going to run you over! Move!
The man seems to have some intense rationale for creating this invisible
line, delaying these tanks.
*cough* *cough*
Oh my gosh! Can I run this person over? (Partner Repeat 1-4 until you succeed
shakes head) Why not? He’s in the way. in them leaving.
This is so frustrating. MOVE. The guy needs to
move. Why can’t I run him over again? Like, ugh gag me
Huh. What are you afraid of?? Come on, w/ a spoon.
open the door!
Lalalalala, Zzzzz, Shhhhh
Knick on left ankle from shaving.
Continue to use your arms and bags to speak to the take driver.
Do not worry if you are holding anything in your hands. If you are,
use them to express your thoughts of anger. Flail your right arm up
and back to its original state
of stillness.

--Justine

THINGS PEOPLE LEFT AT HER HOUSE

The door closed. She waited. She wasn’t worried, but she waited because she felt the time wasn’t right yet. She kicked the covers off and ran to the stuffed animals next to her dresser. She unzipped a black bag and pulled out the digital camcorder. She sat, hunched over it, and the blue glow lit up part of the room as the screen turned on. The logo danced. She watched intently.  She leaned to one side. She picked the camera up and took it to the window, set it down recording and watched and saw nothing but black but thought when she would play it back it must decode the blackness into something visible. She could see the horizon out of her window, the camera couldn’t, but when she played it back the horizon should be on there. She watched, bows and ruffles on her nightshirt. She worried that the camera was only recording the night. She could see two lights in the distance, and that wasn’t even on the screen.

“Emme?” mother opened the door. Emme turned her head to the door. “Emme what are you doing? You shouldn’t play with that.”

“I’m not playing. I need it,” Emme said, ruffles on her night-pants. “The elephant is going to be here tonight, and I need to show you and everyone so that you know there is an elephant.” 

“There is no elephant, Emme,” her mother said. She walked over and took the camcorder. Emme screamed and reached for it. “No, Emme! Things are well, can’t you see? You don’t own an elephant.”

“I don’t own an elephant!” Emme said. “Well, I do own the elephant, and the elephant owns me. We own each other.” Emme gasped. “Noooo.”

Her mother walked out of the room. “Go to sleep Emme.” She closed the door.

“I bought him!” Emme screamed, and started to cry and sobbed that she bought him.

It was very bright when Emme looked up. She thought it was because she was closer to the sun. She screamed. The kids at the bottom of the tree looked up at her. One had a large stick. They had chased her up there, and now they just watched. Emme screamed again. “Just climb higher,” one of them said. “Sometimes you can find a way down that way.” Emme looked up and was blinded.

“Error 404,” she said. The kids at the bottom of the tree were silent. “There’s an error!” she screamed. The kids made noise at the bottom of the tree. “Part of the tree didn’t load!” she yelled. “I can’t climb any higher,” she looked down at them. “Part of the tree didn’t load.” The kids stirred, and some sighed. The older one tilted his head and leaned forward. He took a few steps closer and craned his neck. He couldn’t tell where she was.

“Well,” he began slowly. “Make sure you don’t go there. Just come down.”

There was silence for a long time.

“I think I can reach it,” she said.

“Don’t do it!” the youngest kid yelled, who had believed her. “Don’t do it!” He felt he was important, yelling at her. Emme looked down and saw a patch of grey through the trees. She gasped and started moving. She didn’t care about gravity pushing her towards the ground, she could feel herself holding on and she skinned her knees and could feel her palm expanding to hold and slide around the branches. She found herself five feet from the ground on the opposite side of the tree and jumped, feel the pain shoot up to her knees. The elephant had gone somewhere down the plains.

“But I did need his help,” she said. She looked back up at the tree, and how high it was.

She started collecting twigs and carrying them around. If one of the kids got near her, she could hit them with it. But they never provoked her. What she really intended was to collect twigs for the elephant. She thought maybe elephants liked twigs, if not to eat then to carry around with their trunk, somewhere out there. They were piled in the corner of her room, on top of the stuffed animals. She also thought that she would someday find a trap for the elephant that needed twigs. She held the twig down, looking at the ridges, walking home from school.

“Hey, Emmeline!”

Emme looked up. It was Mary. She had a velvet skirt and a golden button to keep her collar closed.

“Come to my house.” Mary had never talked to her before.

Emme sat in the living room. There was a white carpet and white couches. She was drawing with crayons on a white coffee table. She had scraped a patch of red onto a piece of paper, while Mary pulled out another sheet for herself, the others covered in circles and pictures of many different colors, mostly blue. Emme looked at the open balcony, the white wall of the balcony that was too tall to see the horizon from where she sat. There was just the white wall and where that ended there was the sky that was nearly white. Mary’s mother walked in, or at least Emme assumed that’s who it was. She was wearing a white pantsuit and sunglasses. She sat down on a couch to read the newspaper, but instead watched Emme with her brows furrowed above the black sunglasses. They had never seen each other before. Just then a trunk flopped over the edge of the balcony. Emme’s chest expanded suddenly and she held still. The trunk was searching. Mary’s mother looked up at the trunk and watched it. Emme could see the elephant’s head coming up over the edge, the ears pulled forward. Mary’s mother unfolded the newspaper and placed it in front of her face. Emme wanted to leave. The trunk moved and snuffled and made motions to grab at her. She sat still, nothing on her sheets of paper except that scratch of red. The elephant wanted her. All this time the elephant had just come by to check on his property, to check that she was still in her natural house enclosure. She knew that she shouldn’t have agreed to let the elephant roam free like that, she wanted to keep him in a cage.

“You should find white sunglasses with white lenses.”

Mary looked up from her work. The curls in her hair were coming out. Mary’s mother lowered the newspaper and looked at Emme. Emme breathed faster and wanted the elephant to find her bare leg and pet it softly with its trunk. The trunk floated back over the balcony. He started walking around the house to find the pool. He had decided to spray them all with water because he was being ignored.

“My family owns two elephants,” Mary said. “We keep them in the enclosure. I can take you to them.”

“I paid for my elephant myself,” Emme said.

“Really?”

“Well, yes. But it turns out we paid for each other at the exact same time, so now we own each other. He put those bars around my house.” Mary didn’t responded but merely looked at Emme as she talked. “He used to come by when I was sleeping. He’d come by very quietly and stay a short distance away.”

“Elephants tend to be quiet.” Mary nodded. “We can go feed them.” Mary crossed her arms. “Did he ever wave at you?”

“Wave?”

“Yes, wave.” Mary stretched out her fingers at Emme.

Emme thought for a little while. “I thought maybe he was reaching, sometimes. He would put his trunk through the bars that are around my house. Maybe he was waving.”

The elephant made a loud noise. Emme was on the floor, holding her head. “That’s not an elephant!”

Mary looked down at her. “Of course it is.” She was still holding the hay. The elephant tried for hair and she yelped. She gave it the hay and batted the trunk away, and it stayed away. “These are the elephants,” Mary said, trying to convince her.

“My elephant doesn’t look like that.” Emme shook. “My elephant doesn’t look so ugly.” Emme’s elephant didn’t have wrinkles. Emme’s elephant didn’t have mud or shit and when she looked in her elephant’s eyes the elephant’s eyes looked back at her.

“Emmeline, behave,” Mary said. “I wasn’t supposed to say this, but if you don’t start behaving better my mother won’t let me see you again.”

“It’s time to place the flag, Emmeline,” her mother said. There was a world map within a child’s reach. There were many flags, almost on every continent. Some were red, some were pink. Some places were completely covered in flags; some cities had more than one flag. Emme walked over to the map slowly, eyes barely recognizing anything. “Today, daddy is here,” her mother said, and placed a flag in the middle of the ocean. Emme’s eyes widened and she began to cry. Her mother tried to quiet her, but she continued to cry and cry until her mother took her father out of the middle of the ocean.

“I have a present for you,” mother said. Emme looked up at her and what she pulled out of a box. It was a starched white shirt that had a golden button to close the collar. “I thought you would like it,” she said. “It’s so you can continue to see your friend, Mary. It’s nice isn’t it? I didn’t know that they had elephants, you should have told me. It makes so much more sense now.” Emme watched the shirt move, wide white and square with little puffy sleeves and ruffled collar lips.

“I don’t want it,” Emme said.

Mother was surprised. “You don’t want it?” She looked down at the shirt. She started folding it up quickly. “You don’t want it? It’s fine if you don’t want it, but are you just saying that? Well, it is a bit too similar to Mary’s. I can go get you another color.” Mother put the shirt back in the box and walked out of the room. Emme dropped a crayon.

Emmeline went out to the gate at night and reached for him through the bars, she felt that if she stretched hard enough the elephant would come and stretch out his trunk.

“Elephants have a strong sense of smell,” Mary said, spraying perfume on Emme. She continued to spray and spray. Emme winced away, holding her nose.

“Stop, it stinks!”

Mary sprayed and smiled.

“Stop it!” Emme grabbed the bottle but Mary wouldn’t let go. She could feel her hands dripping as Mary continued to spray. Emme slapped Mary. “It stinks!” Emme continued slapping Mary, as hard as she could.

Sometimes there would just be a glimmer of his side in the distance.

Emmeline decided to arrange the twigs around the house. The twigs started looking thinly dispersed and pathetic. It turns out she didn’t have as many as she thought. She was done finally, but she didn’t like it. She crouched on the kitchen floor and started to cry, the sticks almost falling down. She cried for a long time, until she was done. She gathered up the twigs because if she didn’t like it then they shouldn’t be around like that. By then the sun was going down, she had wasted a day but she was sleepy so she went to bed, gladly.