10.10.13 VOL. XLV, NO. 6
The Indy is celebrating National Coming Out Day! Cover Design by ANNA PAPP & ELOISE LYNTON
CONTENTS FORUM 3 Fallin' 4 U NEWS 4 Readers' Divest 5 Music to My Ears ARTS 6 Tony Winner 6 Evening With Passion 7 Seating Arrangement 8 Reading Faces 9 The Thing About It SPORTS 10 Your Love is My Club 11 Flashback/Future look
As Harvard College's weekly undergraduate newsmagazine, the Harvard Independent provides in-depth, critical coverage of issues and events of interest to the Harvard College community. The Independent has no political affiliation, instead offering diverse commentary on news, arts, sports, and student life. For publication information and general inquiries, contact President Angela Song (president@harvardindependent. com) or Managing Editor Sayantan Deb (managingeditor@ harvardindependent.com). Letters to the Editor and comments regarding the content of the publication should be addressed to Editor-in-Chief Christine Wolfe (editorinchief@harvardindependent. com). For email subscriptions please email president@ harvardindependent.com. The Harvard Independent is published weekly during the academic year, except during vacations, by The Harvard Independent, Inc., Student Organization Center at Hilles, Box 201, 59 Shepard Street, Cambridge, MA 02138.
President Editor-in-Chief Managing Editor Director of Production
Angela Song '14 Christine Wolfe '14 Sayantan Deb '14 Miranda Shugars '14
News and Forum Editor Arts Editor Sports Editor Design Editor Graphics Editor Associate News Editor Associate Forum Editor Associate Arts Editor Associate Design Editor
Whitney Gao '16 Curtis Lahaie '15 Sean Frazzette '16 Alex Chen '16 Anna Papp '16 Milly Wang '16 Kalyn Saulsberry '14 Sarah Rosenthal '15 Travis Hallett '14
Cartoonist John McCallum '16 Business Manager Albert Murzakhanov '16 Columnists Aditya Agrawal '17 Michael Feehly '14 Jackie Leong '16 Andrew Lin '17 Madi Taylor '16 Shreya Vardhan '17 Senior Staff Writers Michael Altman '14 Meghan Brooks '14 Whitney Lee '14 Staff Writers Manik Bhatia '16 Xanni Brown '14 Terilyn Chen '16 Lauren Covalucci '14 Clare Duncan '14 Caroline Gentile '17 Gary Gerbrandt '14 Travis Hallett '14 Shaquilla Harrigan '16 Yuqi Hou '15 Cindy Hsu '14 Eldo Kim '16 Chloe Li '16 Orlea Miller '16 Albert Murzhakanov '16 Carlos Schmidt '15 Frank Tamberino '16
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ear Diary,
Fall is just the greatest. Seriously, who doesn’t like fall? I’ve been looking forward to fall since July. This might sound weird, but it’s my absolute favorite season. I finally get to wear all my awesome boots! It’s the best time for me to wear my chicest Uggs with some comfy leggings and a fall sweater. FALL IS HERE. First off, nothing’s better fashion inspiration than a fall day outside with all the trees changing pretty colors. Have you ever noticed how the colors of the leaves coordinate PERFECTLY with fall fashion trends? It’s just the greatest. I was updating my <3fall<3 board on Pinterest and everyone was posting the most gorgeous fall accessories, so I need to go shopping stat and update my wardrobe. I bought two scarves the other day in aubergine, which is really in this season. I like wearing them for Starbucks selfies with my PSLs (if I even have to tell you what this is you may as well get out) because the purple goes so well with the Starbucks green. Add some chunky brown glasses, a cozy sweater, and you’re good to go! I just love cozy sweaters. Especially for reading. One of my favorite things to do is throw on my favorite sweater and some riding boots and head down to my favorite coffee shop with a good book. Nothing’s classier than a girl who reads, and it’s great cover to check out the cute baristas. I just have to remember to turn a page every few minutes or so! Speaking of fashion, I have the BEST costume this year. My roommates and I are going as sexy pumpkins! We found bright orange matching leggings, black bras, and little green headbands. Watch out ;) I still have some time to work out and get that Halloween body before the big weekend. I NEED to spend some time outside. Fall has the absolute best weather. I FINALLY don’t have to worry about the humidity messing up my hair, and the fresh air is sooo good for my complexion. I put together all my favorite Lulu workout outfits and marked on my calendar when I was going to wear each one out for a jog. It’s all just so exciting! It’s breezy without being cold and sunny without being hot… It’s almost like a transition between summer and winter, when all the mosquitoes go away and everyone bakes yummy things. OH, and I can’t forget to go out an apple orchard for a photoshoot, too. If I don’t have a profile picture at an apple orchard then I’m seriously failing fall. (Get it together, girl!) More importantly, October is the perfect month to start a relationship. I think if I lay the right groundwork then I’ll definitely have someone to cuddle with this winter, and then I can start planning a romantic fall date for our anniversary next year. October’s the best month for an anniversary. We can take selfies by the river of us kissing while red and orange leaves float down around us in a magical fall shower. And we can have an October wedding, too. October weddings are so timeless, and my bridesmaids can wear burgundy taffeta strapless floor-length dresses, and my maid-of-honor can tell the really adorable story about how I met my husband — so I have to make sure I meet him in some really cute way. Like, if it’s getting really close to November then I’ll just grab whoever and make the story up (November anniversaries are GROSS) but I really just want it to work organically! It’s definitely NOT hot when you force these sorts of things. I’m trying to think of something cute and embarrassing, but not too embarrassing. Maybe I could be sitting next to him in Starbucks and then I’ll spill my PSL on some of my papers, as long as they’re not actually important. Maybe I’ll just spill it on a book or something. Then I can run off to get some napkins and tell him how klutzy I am and just be my adorkable self. He’ll FALL in love instantly. Get it?! Aaaaah!!!! Love and kisses, diary! I’ll talk to you tomorrow and tell you what scarf/boots combo I’m wearing. It’s just going to be the greatest.
Diary of a Fall Girl Your fave college girl does fall. By LAUREN COVALUCCI
Photo by Lauren Covalucci
Very sincerely, [name redacted] Lauren Covalucci ‘14 (covalucci@college) is disgusted with herself. The Harvard Independent • 10.10.13
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News
Photo by Xanni Brown
Seeing Green Harvard allows economics to trump environment. By XANNI BROWN
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n Thursday, Harvard President Drew Faust issued a statement through the university website which clarified the university’s commitment to remain invested in fossil fuel companies. “The endowment is a resource, not an instrument to impel social or political change,” wrote Faust. She went on to outline a number of practical and philosophical objections to divestment, while reaffirming the university’s commitment to environmental sustainability. This detailed analysis of the divestment issue has much to do with the work of groups like Divest Harvard, a student groups seeking to unite with faculty, alumni, and the broader campus population in order to bring pressure on Harvard to withdraw its endowment funds from fossil fuel companies. Last spring, 72% of College students voted to support divestment through a referendum on the Undergraduate Council balloting sponsored by Divest Harvard, and they have continued the pressure this fall, hosting a combined student-alumni rally last month. At the event, they called on President Faust to host an open forum to address climate change, Harvard’s role in addressing climate change, and divestment at a specific strategy to that end. Alyssa Chan ‘16, cocoordinator of Divest Harvard, expressed disappointment in President Faust’s refusal to engage in further conversation on the issue, saying that after the rally, “[Faust] did not give us a response by the deadline that we asked for, and then she published this letter instead.” The letter did make a nod to the work of 4
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“students who advocate divestment from fossil fuel companies,” though it did not mention any specific student, alumni, or faculty advocates. Faust focused instead on laying out the argument against divestment, emphasizing the university’s responsibility to past benefactors who had donated with strictly academic intentions and warning that the financial cost of divestment could induce a “substantial economic cost.” Chan disputed that last point, stating, “There’s no proof that divestment will actually hurt Harvard’s endowment at all, financially.” She cited recent studies that have found no significant increase in risk among fossil-fuel free portfolios. President Faust also wrote that the impact on fossil fuel companies of withdrawing university funds would likely be negligible, and that by divesting, Harvard would lose its privileged position as a shareholder to argue to environmental reforms. Said Faust, “Universities own a very small fraction of the market capitalization of fossil fuel companies. If we and others were to sell our shares, those shares would no doubt find other willing buyers.” Faust also pointed to a “troubling inconsistency” in boycotting investment in fossil fuel companies while still relying heavily on their products for day-to-day life. Chan rejected this charge, pointing out that this everyday dependence on fossil fuels is precisely what Divest Harvard is protesting. “Right now, it’s not really possible for an individual to decide that they don’t want to be reliant on fossil fuels at all” said Chan, “…
what we’re working for is systemic change that will allow individuals not to rely on fossil fuels.” Chan went on to say that divestment would make more of a political than economic point. While recognizing that divestment, even by every university, would make little financial impact on fossil fuel companies, Chan held that it would “send a clear message to the fossil fuel industry, and politicians, and people around the world, that this is no longer something we are sanctioning.” President Faust, on the other hand, stressed that such action would be at best symbolic and is likely to ostracize companies whose cooperation will be crucial as we seek to develop clean energy sources. “Divestment,” she wrote, “pits concerned citizens and institutions against companies that have enormous capacity and responsibility to promote progress toward a more sustainable future.” The tone of President Faust’s letter was that of a decision made and announced, not a discussion ongoing. Divest Harvard, though, is unlikely to take this as the final word. “Now that we’ve seen this response we understand the necessity for us to continue with what we’re doing, and not only to continue but to intensify…” said Chan, “It will be a big semester for Divest Harvard.” Xanni Brown ’14 (afsbrown@college) isn’t willing to divest from the sweater vest. I tried.
10.10.13 • The Harvard Independent
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“Play Me, I’m Yours”
A look at the pianos in Harvard Square and Boston. BY KALYN SAULSBERRY
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f you have walked in front of Chipotle, past the Longy School of Music on the way to the Quad, near Cambridge Common, or through the Science Center plaza, you have probably noticed the colorfully painted and decorated pianos, bearing the invitation “Play Me, I’m Yours.” The pianos around Cambridge are a part of a larger public arts exhibit sponsored by Celebrity Series of Boston. There are a total of seventy-five pianos spread across Boston and Cambridge in a variety of public spaces, and anyone can sit down and play a tune or ten. The pianos were donated by Bostonians themselves, and each one is decorated in a unique way. The exhibit is an extension of the “Play Me, I’m Yours” international piano project started by Luke Jerram, a British artist. Since the exhibit’s beginning in 2008, more than one thousand street pianos have been placed in cities as widespread as Sydney, Australia, and Sao Paulo, Brazil. Jerram started the project as a way of combating the seemingly inherent anonymity associated with large cities in which people are constantly bumping into each other, but rarely taking a moment to actually interact with each other. In walking past the pianos for the past two weeks that they have been in Cambridge, I’ve seen a grown man stop and play Fur Elise, but I have also seen a baby perched on his mother’s lap and gleefully pounding on the keys of a yellow piano outside of Hi Rise Bread Company on Mass Ave. Most of the time, I just keep walking and enjoy a fleeting moment of a classical masterpiece or simply a joyful baby learning how pianos operate. However, the one time I exited my typical Harvard mode of rushing from one place to another without stopping to catch my breath, and I stopped for a few brief minutes in front of the Longy School of Music on my walk home to Pfoho and listened to a pianist play on this bright yellow piano in the middle of the afternoon. The young man was dressed casually in jeans and a plaid button-down shirt, but was intently and carefully playing the song. It was a slow classical piece that I didn’t know the name of, but he played emotionally and beautifully, so I stopped to appreciate. I was a part of a tiny audience of two other young, female college students who, like me, were donning backpacks that made us slouch a little. We smiled at each other briefly and continued to listen to the song, and silently enjoyed each other’s company. For a moment, I could stand and be a part of a shared experience of music. I left before the pianist finished his song, but two other people took my place at his impromptu concert as I was leaving it. For the few minutes of my stop, however, I felt connected to the strangers standing next to me, and was glad to have taken the time to stop hurrying and just be. Too often, musical spaces can be exclusive due to cost, but these street pianos allow music to be unrestricted in its reach. The pianos allow individuals to form itty-bitty communities of listeners even for brief moments, but perhaps these moments wouldn’t have existed, even in brevity, otherwise. However, the pianos will only be here until Monday, October 14, when they will be moved to a new city. Therefore, anyone wishing to try their hand at being a pianist should take a minute to stop and tickle the ivories.
Photos by Kalyn Saulsberry
Kalyn Saulsberry ‘14 (ksaulsberry@college) would love to play the piano in a huge concert hall, but the Science Center Plaza will have to do. The Harvard Independent • 10.10.13
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Not Enough In tribute to a great man who left too soon. By FRANK TAMBERINO
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nough Said, starring Julia Louis Dreyfus and the late James Gandolfini, is suitable for anyone. Normally, I would not have taken the trip to the theater to see a romantic comedy-drama. This was, however, a special case, as Enough Said is the last film starring James Gandolfini, the actor is who perhaps best known for his role as Tony Soprano and who tragically passed away on June 19 of this year. Essentially, I saw the film for him and it turned out to be an incredible experience. I believe James Gandolfini is one of the greatest film actors of at least the past fifty years. He populates an extremely select group of artists who are defined by colossal personalities that pervade every role they take. In this sense, I consider Gandolfini to be in the same category as Woody Allen. The two are vastly different in styles, but similar in that all of their roles are tied to a common character, a single, complex personality that is infinitely fascinating to behold on the screen. This is what allows Woody Allen to play the same exact character in all of his films and remain an absolute genius, and it is what allowed The Sopranos to continue for six long seasons, supported by the strength of Gandolfini’s starring role. Gandolfini’s genius was a mixture of his obvious mental and physical strength, which was often brutal and intimidating in its power, and a deeper sensitivity that shone through in masterful subtleties of performance. He could shift from frightening to endearing to empathetic in the course of a single scene. It was also never evident that he was performing or pretending to be someone for a camera. This sincerity made him more than an actor or even an artist. It made him a force of nature, a permanent voice in the mind of the viewer. Returning to Enough Said, the film was brilliant for a multitude of reasons. It had me laughing in several scenes. I suppose this is why it is advertised as a comedy. The humor is original and dry enough to feel real. In truth, however, its power comes from a much more intimate effect. It emanates a sense of reality and
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meaning in a way that makes it one of the most touching and profoundly sad films I have seen in a long time. It’s not a tear-your-heart-out sad, nor is it over-indulgent. It’s just an honest film, and the scenes that might bring you to tears only do so because they depict everyday human suffering and address questions that are close to the heart. Enough Said deals primarily with learning to tolerate imperfection in ourselves and others. It asks meaningful questions, answers some, and leaves the audience to contemplate others. In this sense, it encourages self-reflection. Many films have emotional depth, but this depth is often set against an unfamiliar context: a bank heist, a natural disaster, or a Formula One car race. Enough Said, on the other hand, is set in an easily imaginable world, and this tightens its effect on the audience. Julia Louis-Dreyfus’ performance as the protagonist should not be denied special mention. Her main achievement is that her character was close to detestable at times when she was making destructive decisions, but when she realized her faults and witnessed the consequences of her mistakes, she became remarkably empathetic. This is a feat reserved only for the most masterful actors. In summary, Enough Said is a rare film that captures the truth of the human condition in a modest yet brilliant manner. Everyone should see it, whether you are familiar with James Gandolfini or not. If, by chance, you are not, you should not only see Enough Said, but there are six seasons of The Sopranos waiting for you, an intelligent and infinitely entertaining series starring a spectacular artist and human being who will be sorely missed. Frank Tamberino ’16 (franktamberino@ college) thinks that’s just about enough said.
Passion on Ice An Evening with Champions melts spectators’ hearts. By THEODORA KAY
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hush looms over the crowd as the lingering notes of the approaching event rise above the coughs and stuffy noses. The crowd huddles close to keep warm, cameras click on, and the multi-colored lights flash onto the ice: An Evening with Champions has begun. The event served two major purposes, aside from melting our hearts: first and foremost was to support the Jimmy Fund of the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in its battle against cancer and on improving the care of cancer patients worldwide, and secondly, it was the chance for iceskating champions — young and old — to fill the ring with their passion. There is both heart and art in ice-skating—actually, there’s heart in almost anything that people do when they really, truly feel the motivation to do something, but rarely do you ever see them wearing their hearts on their sleeves, so to speak. It’s not solely because of the effort and cold sweat that drench the ice ring, but it’s also the skaters’ intent. It’s an essence of freedom, an atmosphere of flight, a sensation without restraints as the cold breeze brushes against your face. But as the audience, you don’t sense what they do. It all depends on their efforts, their movements, and the meaning of why they are on the ice at that moment, to make the audience share in their emotions. During the event, the ring was overwhelmed with the unique personalities of each champion. They were evident from their music preference, their choreography, their costumes, and above all, their appreciation and love for the art itself. Some were graduates while others are still undergoing their education, yet despite age differences and future plans, they all shared one thing in common: passion on the ice. The pinched eyebrows are not just for show, the sparkling eyes are not made up, the swoops and jumps are not just memorized choreography, the bows and outstretched arms of victory are not done simply out of custom or tradition — they are felt. They are felt in the skaters’ hearts, expressed in their movements, seen on their faces, annunciated through the dance routines and music, and then, only then is the audience brought onto the ice. Ice-skating, similar to dance, is a silent art. It draws people in and the ice skater’s body becomes a vessel of sensations. Every movement, action, expression, and outstretched arm are tangible and creative forms of expression that reverberate from the physical motions of a single being, or even two or more beings acting as one entity. An Evening with Champions was an event to cherish, not only because of their genuine intent to support the Jimmy Fund, but also because we caught glimpses of a once-in-a-lifetime chance to share the ice rink beside past and present ice-skating champions. When the event was all over, the only thing that remained was the ice and the deep crevices dug into it from their skates. Soon enough, they too were gone. But the memories of cheers, laughter, and the awe of their movements, their dances, their music, their personalities reverberating from every limb, will always remain in our hearts — as they intended it to be — and within the halls of Brighton Hockey Center. Theodora Kay ’14 (kay@fas) is proud to have finally brought Evening with Champions to the Arts section, the only Indy section EWC had yet to grace. 10.10.13 • The Harvard Independent
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Hyacinths and Biscuits / by michael feehly
Poetry and painting collide in new exhibits at the Institute for Contemporary Art Boston
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he Institute of Contemporary Art Boston celebrated its newest exhibition with a gala opening on October 1st. It was a Tuesday, it was seven o’clock; it was a members’ only afterhours affair complete with the typical accoutrements of gallery receptions: the open bar, the gawking open-mouthed dilettanti, the serious, discerning squinters, and the tables bearing metric tons of cheese, fruits, and oily bread. And there, too, was I. Having gotten hold of a student membership to the ICA, I’ve enjoyed such glimpses into the world of the art museum; I’ve learned how to chameleon myself, pretend to belong, to be in the know, to dress just smart enough to avoid sneers, yet casual enough to avoid flashbacks of junior prom. I didn’t know exactly what to expect. I had arrived cold, knowing perhaps only three things: Amy Sillman exists, Amy Sillman is a painter, Amy Sillman’s paintings are hanging four stories above my head while I stand here, peoplewatching and sipping my prosecco. Amy Sillman, though, is far more famous than my ignorance implies. Sillman received her MFA from Bard, won fellowships from the Joan Mitchell Foundation in 1999, from the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study in 2010; her work can be found in the permanent collections of museums like MoMA, the MFA in Boston, and the Art Institute of Chicago. What makes Sillman unique is her range across media. Her first museum survey — ICA Boston’s Amy Sillman: one lump or two — tracks her progression from drawing to painting, painting to zines, from canvas to animated film, and even works drawn on an iPhone App. According to the show’s curator Helen Molesworth, Sillman “move[s] effortlessly from figure to landscape, playfully and often humorously exploring problems of physical and emotional scale with observations that are both wry and revealing.” Perhaps this is why I find Sillman so effective — so moving — and so poetic. Sillman manifests the poetic in a series of her drawings called Seating Charts. One in particular from 2006 is striking: Sillman uses colored pencil on paper to create a diagram. A black rectangle represents the table of an imagined social gathering; the rectangle is flanked by colored circles representing seats, and each seat is captioned. Captions are satirical, sardonic: “Extreme Sibling Rivalry” sits beside “Controlling Personality That Covers Up Chaotic Lack of Personal Control,” just as “Complete The Harvard Independent • 10.10.13
Physical Self-Hatred” is flanked by “Homophobia and Misogyny.” Seating Charts are not paintings, yet neither are they drawings. Molesworth explains them as diagrams and adds that: “As artists started to question painting’s role in an age of reproduction and mass media, many looked to photography. Sillman turned instead to the diagram.” Diagrams, like photographs, lend themselves toward mass production in their simplicity. I can think of few artists who have attempted to transform what we often regard as prosaic husks of data into works of art. The art of the diagram is often accidental — a diagram well-executed and considered beautiful, efficient, powerful. In my view, Seating Charts is a series of more than diagrams; the Seating Charts are poems — words on the page arranged according to pattern. They use a laconic and acerbic diction to create in a few words a full character of a person, with a vagueness that invites the viewer/ reader to join in the process of meaningmaking. The descriptions, when taken as a whole, create a persona of the artist or create an identity for the speaker. And an adorably grumpy speaker at that. Within the context of the art exhibit, the charts gain power as a critique of the pretensions of the art establishment. It’s nearly impossible to resist glancing around and picking out in the crowd a face or two that could match the descriptions in the seating chart. Seating Charts speak to something universal about human relationships, the tension between artistic individuality and suffocating social conventions, and the perverse desire to be liked by those whom one cannot stand nor suffer to sit beside. Another series of note is Williamsburg Portraits. Sillman paints identically sized portraits (head and neck, sometimes shoulders) of individuals she met in Williamsburg. She blurs the line between painting and cartoon, between visual art and poetry, by overlaying text on top of the portrait. Phrases like “I could not get his one right” or “(She looks better in person)” seem to vitiate her achievements as a painter; however such self-deprecation is refreshing, humble, and funny. It relieves the burden of interpretation or appreciation. Sillman reminds us that a critical attitude must be maintained; it is not enough to stare at a painting on a wall and say ‘that’s nice’ and move along. Sillman’s exhibit is filled with many types of painting and drawing; she is a master of figurative and abstract techniques, and it is a delight to trace her
development from one end of the spectrum to the other, her move from figuresdrawing, diagrams, poetic overlays of text to painting and abstract lines. Leaving the exhibit, I felt acquainted with an artist of huge talents and humility. But Mary Reid Kelley...You must see her exhibit — that’s not an endorsement, just a fact. You will have to walk through her space in the gallery to enter or exit from Amy Sillman’s rooms in the west gallery. Mary Reid Kelley’s art is performance on video: there are three films and the most watchable of the three is “Sadie the Saddest Sadist.” Kelley plays all or most of the roles — the films are essentially plays recorded on film with interludes of graphics and dancing words and letters — in stark black and white make-up, covering her eyes with goggles or black face paint. She looks much like Lady Gaga in “Paparazzi.” Her work is very much inspired by poetry. Her words are an interesting cocktail of sonic beauty, name-dropping, repetition, cliché, and dissolution of syntax. But I fear that there wasn’t much to be said for the content of them. The black and white film, the outlandish costume, and the make-up that transforms Kelley from human female to día-de-los-muertos calavera is arresting, shocking, and attention grabbing. But opaque — I do not know to what end she would use that attention. Between the rooms screening her films, there is a lovely collection of rare books and ephemera in glass cases. These are the materials that inspired Kelley’s works. It is clear she had done her homework; she even turned her homework into a lovely work of art, a collection of book art, photographs, of memory and nostalgia, longing and loss. What sealed Kelley’s fate, in my eyes, was her latest work a film called Priapus Agonistes. An adaption of Greek myth, Priapus imagines the titular god as a volleyball player. It was hard to follow. At one point, Kelley wears prosthetic make-up to look like a bulldog. Definitely territory more appropriate to the ARTPOoPed-out Lady Gaga than a budding classicist. The whole affair makes me wonder if just anybody should be allowed to study the classics. The ICA Boston has a wonderful season of art underway. Those who are interested in the intersection of poetry and visual art — fields coming closer than they’ve been since the days of Frank O’Hara and Joan Mitchell — will find much to mull over, without or without gratis booze. Patrons of the museum will see two competing visions of art and poetry. I invite them to judge for themselves which is the better. Michael Feehly ’14 (michael.feehly@college. harvard.edu) is still studying the seating chart, for he is not quite sure where Amy Sillman would like him to sit. harvardindependent.com
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How [not] to read a graphic novel I
am going to say it. You cannot read a comic like a book. I’m not going to decide what sort of person you are by how you read one. I will not ask you which you look at first — text, type, the whole page — I don’t care if you read it backwards or forwards or if you flip to a chapter at random and start from there. True, that last method is hardly bound to get you very far, but still — if that is how you decide to go about reading, I withhold judgment. But you cannot read it like a book. Or, perhaps simultaneously more accurately and confusing: you cannot read a graphic novel like, well, a standard novel. I must elaborate: I read a book like I’m eating dinner. I swallow words. A novel is about digesting sentences like fiber and things that are good for you, and things that are not — words make up the full meal. There are going to be parts of a novel you fly through, others that may well be the plate of Brussels sprouts that you know you must trudge through to continue on. More importantly, from the world to the faces, appearances are sketched out in the verbal and filled in by our imaginations. Those things fall away with the addition of graphics, but pay attention to only the words in a graphic novel, and you’re only filling one part of your place. A comic is a different species. You cannot read it to your children at night. You cannot sing it aloud a la Homer. What are you going to do? “Well, in this panel, the character’s looking a little angry. But not as angry as he is in the next panel. See, his eyebrows are furrowed, but his mouth is still quirked, as if he does not understand his growing irritation.” Every panel could be translated into 8 harvardindependent.com
novel-speak. It is true. But the graphic novel is not the same as a novel, and any attempts to translate it into one are going to be both exhausting and lacking. Because unlike novels, graphic novels and comics are not meant to rely on words—in fact, I’d say the best-quality ones err on the side of fewer verbal devices. So let’s cross over to the extreme and take out words altogether. To risk losing myself to the proverbial, I’ll reiterate partially the old idiom: pictures are worth words. A thousand, generations have long insisted, but I’d argue — not exactly. They mean as many words as they are intended to mean, whether that message be a single-word exclamation or an entire exchange. Before coming to college, I had had next to zero experience with the graphic novel, the sole exception being freelance artist Sara Varon’s Robot Dreams, which is situated upon the simple premise of a dog and his robot friend who become separated. I don’t remember how I came upon it, but I recall wiping a tear from my eye when I finished. I had been moved by a book of pictures, one that had taken me under an hour to go through, the way no novel had ever done. The special thing about Robot Dreams is that it is completely wordless, save for a few sound effects here and there. Varon’s main storytelling devices are facial expressions and panel composition. Action. Motion. And yet those things alone had brought tears to my eyes. To reveal the reason why would of course venture into spoiler territory, but suffice it to say that I firmly believe that a literary novel version of Robot Dreams would somehow not be as powerful. A half-and-half job with inserted speech bubbles and dialogue would, to me,
somehow, be even worse. Varon’s drawings, expressive and whimsical, cover all that might possibly need to be expressed. Why cheapen the effect with words when the only extra effect would be redundancy? In a novel, words are everything. I do know this from experience. But in a graphic novel, they are ancillary, and like your favorite spices: to be used sparingly, in extreme moderation, and only if you know how to use them correctly. And so I reiterate: you cannot read a graphic novel as you would a regular book. Don’t force it to become one — the fact that they both share the outer appearance of a spine and a pair of covers reveals nothing about what lies within. Whatever the ratio of pictures to words may be, the number of words on a page means nothing about how long it should take you to read the page itself. Take in every twitch, every blink as a sentence, and every panel as a paragraph, but remember that they are not those things. Respect the fact that the graphic novel has figured out how to convey emotions to you, the reader, in a different manner, one that requires you to view closely instead of skim syllables. Indeed, you are going to have to learn to read all over again. And perhaps, in a world that’s continually focusing in and narrowing down to the minute details of text on text, it’s not necessarily a bad thing to step back and refresh the way we appreciate the story woven before us. Jackie Leong ’16 (jacquelineleong@college. harvard.edu) has both novels and graphic novels in her bookshelf. She highly recommends Robot Dreams and wordless graphic works in general.
10.10.13 • The Harvard Independent
When The Curtains Rise | by Shreya Vardhan
A Somewhat Turbulent Journey T
he stage of the Loeb Ex is strikingly unembellished: stark black walls, dim lighting, and a low, bare floor. A perfect space, in short, to depict the inside of someone’s head. Over ninety minutes of perplexity, tumult, and amusement, HRDC’s The Thing About Air Travel has us accompany a young woman named Marie on her long flight back home from Kenya. She has been called back suddenly by some dreadful but unknown tragedy involving her brother Franklin, who appears to her as a dog. The thought of home is far from welcoming, however, and not only because of whatever terrible news awaits her there: there is a lack of sympathy between her and her parents (and further, between her parents), and in addition to her work amid disease and starvation, she is leaving behind unexpected, newfound love. As Marie sits in an airplane seat suspended in the middle of nowhere — the “real world” in the play, floating in the middle of a dark stage — thoughts and questions take shape in the blankness around her. (This meant plenty of spotlights and soliloquies: a very promising scenario.) What has happened to Franklin? Will she ever be able to return to Kenya? A human mind left alone with its thoughts is probably one of the most exciting and daunting terrains for a story to venture into: an endless and maddening expanse of imagination, apprehension, memory, reasoning, and raw emotion. It was particularly interesting to watch this explored on stage; I wondered if it was possible to represent the jaggedness and overall incoherence of thoughts — especially when they are free to stray — in a form of storytelling that employs individual speeches and concrete images. As the show proceeded, however, it stretched these limits in ingenious and thoroughly entertaining ways. A scene towards the end, for example, combined the stewardess’s goodbye speech with the speech at Franklin’s funeral that took place in Marie’s imagination: a delightful soup of banality, imagination, and absurdity. I also realized that in describing our perceptions of people, a play can go much farther than almost any book, although this effect relies greatly on the acting. In the scenes involving Marie’s parents or Franklin the dog, the fact that they spoke and acted for themselves made it difficult to keep in mind that we saw her perception of them rather than their actual selves. In a narrative, intervening words would remind of this distinction, but in the theater, we constantly consider The Harvard Independent • 10.10.13
our ideas of people synonymous with their reality. It was interesting, then, to see how Marie’s parents came across as rather one-dimensional and cold at some points and as sensitive and layered at others, changing with the light in which she chose to view them. While they seemed wholly unaware of her existence in their midst at the beginning, there was a gradual, subtle growth in the communication between them. I think the actors did a great job in making these dynamics subtly perceivable. It never quite lapsed into a clichéd representation of an estranged couple or a parent-child gulf; it came close to showing the kind of simultaneous alienation and affection that is more realistic, and also more moving. As for the matter of Franklin, the crux of the chaos in the story. Facts blur into a zany ambiguity around this character, anxious speculations arise about what the mysterious tragedy surrounding him might be, and — most disturbingly — some genuinely funny jokes find their way into the unsettling scenes where Marie converses with him. You are made to wonder until the very end: What did happen to Franklin? Why is he the only one with whom Marie succeeds in coming face to face? And is he, just to get things straight once and for all, a dog or a human being? The play’s unrestrained experimentation with storytelling comes to a high point in Marie and Franklin’s conversations. She is desperate to understand his language, an attempt that initially meets with frustration for understandable reasons. Gradually, though, she succeeds in understanding and speaking the language of dogs — this may or may not be due to the inadvisable amount of alcohol she has consumed by this point. Some parts of these bilingual conversations are hilarious, made more so by the subtitles which appeared in English and dog-tongue depending on what the line required. Interestingly, you actually heard the words and sentences of the alien language in a way you wouldn’t necessarily have while reading a similar scene in a book, where you’d be more concerned with the translation; I think these bits added to the texture of the story in an amusing way. The play also pointed out, touchingly, the times when a simple question cannot not be answered even when the barrier of language has been crossed: a question like “Are you happy?” to which he could only reply “I don’t know.” The show isn’t entirely set in the
realm of thought, though. Reality imposes itself every so often, in the form of the intimidating, disapproving stewardess or the somewhat irksome co-passenger, a missionary returning from Africa, who abruptly emerges several minutes into the play from beneath a blanket over the seat beside Marie (which I, for one, had definitely not noticed until that point). The outside world, with many of its absurd and even unsavory details, keeps coming in and out of focus. In her interactions with this zealot, there are many amusing moments, some profound ones and several that can only be described as strange. Overall, as imagination overlaps with reality, we’re left with an impression of disharmony and confusion: an appropriate impression, I suppose, and certainly an entertaining one. When a piece of art seems to turn too abstract, though, I can’t help wondering at times whether it can still be described as a story. I usually decide by seeing whether I really want to know what happens next; if there are questions about it that I simply must find answers to, I know it’s a story. I can definitely say that of this one: I wanted to know, from the very beginning, just what would become of the characters by the end. What was more, not only did the ending inspire my curiosity, it surprised me when it actually came. It’s quite rare for what is discovered in the end to be a complete revision of all earlier concepts, a really unforeseen shock, and I haven’t really found this many stories besides Gone With the Wind — although that, of course, is another kettle of fish entirely. The Thing About Air Travel is bizarre. It makes you deeply uncomfortable at times, but a touching appeal runs through its various tones — a desire to be heard and understood by those we ought to be closest to — and it is warmly sensitive to many experiences we’ve all had: experiences like wistfully imagining conversations we might have some day, or braving the assaults of interminable flights of insanity. Shreya Vardhan ’17 (shreyavardhan@college. harvard.edu ) is aware that many people didn’t find the ending of Gone With The Wind as entirely unexpected as she did, although this perplexes her, much like the origin of the phrase “another kettle of fish” does.
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indy
Goin’ Clubbin’ By SEAN FRAZZETTE
I
n case you haven’t noticed, the Harvard Women’s Rugby team was promoted from club level to a varsity sport this past year. But despite the coverage the team has received as it rucks through its first varsity season, there are still a number of club sports out there for the every day Harvard student to join or try out for: from the traditional club soccer team to the club wushu group. In all, sixty-two student groups hold the noble honor of being a Harvard Club Sport. First, the question stands, what makes a club sport and Harvard Club Sport, and not some random group of Harvard students playing catch in the Mac Quad? Well, to be honest, not too much. Club sports are theoretically open to any Harvard affiliate — from that scrawny freshman in the Wiglet to the forty-seven year old graduate looking to relive the glory days of his basketball career. Now, if your sport happens to join a club league, that old-timer may not be able to compete. But the club could still be open to him. Also, the process of becoming a club sport isn’t as simple as just going to City Sports and buying the cheapest football you can find. Like any club at Harvard, a club sport must find a faculty advisor to support the creation of the team. The team must have an adequate amount of players to fill offices, and also, if necessary, the team must find a coach or coaches. But once the process works itself out, the club sport enters a whole new process. Since the team is completely student run — like any other club or student organization of — the students that run the organization must find games, tournaments, players, and field time to support, develop, and run the program. Some club sports, like the men’s rugby team, have a vast history. The club is the oldest collegiate rugby program in the country and competes in the competitive Ivy League, as a varsity program would. The Cricket team plays in the American College Cricket conference and competes at a national level. Other clubs, like the Self-Defense club, offer students education in several tactics of martial art, but it is not a competitive organization. So that’s pretty much it. Club sports practice like any sport would, but with less of a time commitment than, say, a varsity organization. The teams may have team dinners. Maybe there are road trips for tournaments, social events with the visiting teams, or other sorts of team bonding activities. On the other side of the sports spectrum, a number of students participate in the great practice of Intramural Sports, or IMs. These, much less casual than a club sport, are the classic battle of house versus house, Hogwarts-style. Who doesn’t love to watch the great rivalries of Quad versus River, Dunster versus Mather, Adams versus Quincy, and Everyone Ever versus Dudley. Intramurals range from the River Run to volleyball, soccer to flag football, basketball to… The Harvard Independent • 10.10.13
well, you get the picture. The point of IMs in the end is solely for fun. Oh, and the Straus Cup. Actually, the only point is the Straus Cup. The glorious, glorious Straus Cup. Winthrop might as well claim the cup as their own, as they seem to win year after year. But that’s counterbalanced by the fact that Winthrop deserves at least some good in the world. Between cockroaches, small rooms, and pee in the dining hall, I suppose the Straus Cup is not too much to ask for. But that stops no other houses from valiantly fighting for the beloved cup. Regardless of athletic ability, IMs are simply a place for house bonding. Showing up at your house’s B Volleyball match may just be the place where you meet that person you always wanted to talk to in the d-hall or that connection that you needed to meet people that aren’t in your blocking group. It’s a unifying experience that allows a house to be closer and it’s members to be more spirited — which is never a bad thing. So in the end, I guess this article, whether the focus is on club or intramural sports, boils down to one thing: school spirit. Wearing a Harvard or House uniform with pride is something that can benefit much more than just your sense of community. It allows the Cambridge passerby to see that we are much more than a bunch of bookwork nerds who know how to program weird apps and cure strange diseases (n.b., I can do neither of these things, nor can I comprehend most basic scientific ideas). It allows those people with this false perception of the Harvard student to see past the stereotype and into the paradigm — we all care about our Crimson colors and we all care about are friends and family that wear the same. Maybe that ending is too cheesy for some. So try this: go work out, take a break from studying, run around a little, and see how much fun that is. I joined club rugby this year basically on a whim, and (despite the fracture in my face I received) I have never been happier playing a sport for a school. If you’re not the athletic type, that’s fine too. Go cheer on your friends, support your IMs, or write about sports for the Indy. No matter how sports factor into your life, I can only assure you that Harvard Club and Intramural sports would be a beneficial addition. Between the camaraderie and the activity, Harvard provides a countless — well, not quite, but a lot — of options for some sort of sporty addition to life. So try out cricket, maybe ruck a little for rugby, or even learn some sort of random martial art you’ve never heard of. No one will be disappointed.
Why Clubs and IMs are so vital to sports at Harvard.
Sean Frazzette ’16 (sfrazzette@college) is in da club with a bottle full of water.
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Some things never change... Circa 2003
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10.10.13 â&#x20AC;˘ The Harvard Independent
captured & shot CHRISTINE WOLFE