So, I the DSRL ads are pretty humorous, but I don’t think the dialogue for the latest one was thought out very clearly. In the ad, Serena has one line….”That cookie isn’t very good.” Now, it is fairly obvious that she is talking about the morsel’s tennis skills. But subliminally, I seems she could really be talking about the taste. That double entendre could have been eliminated just by add two little words…”at tennis.”
See the commercial here.
History has defined numerous painters, sculptors and other fine artisans throughout the world. Most primary and secondary (and even some post secondary) art education in the United States is Eurocentric in focus. We learn about artists like Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Cezanne, Picasso and Mondrian. Many of the artists I learned about were Americans, such as Pollack, Warhol, Hopper, Wood and O’Keeffe. In retrospect, I realized that the overwhelming majority of my early art education focused on caucasian men. I was oblivious to this fact for many years. That is until a very good friend of mine, an amazing artist in his own right, introduced me to a number of black and hispanic artists. Why does it matter? Why is it so important that I, or for that matter you, be introduced to artists of different cultures and backgrounds? The amazing thing about art is the fact that it transcends time and cultural boundaries. All pieces tell a story. Some stories make political statements, while others give us insight about a particular person, culture or historical event. By studying art from people of different backgrounds, we are in essence, obtaining a more well-rounded understanding of our world.
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Sal-VAH-door. It is spelled Salvador, but when pronounced the emphasis is on the V-A. The O in the trailing D-O-R is pronounced with a long O sound. Sal-VAH-door. He only stood about 5′ 4″ tall with short but neatly groomed hair. A sparce patch of fine black stubble decorated the peak of his caramel toned chin. Stubble which seemed to contradict the boyishness of his large brown eyes.
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The harsh lines of her brow openly told the story of her lifelong struggle for survival. Even when she smiled the frown lingered, giving the appearance of a sinister scowl. The permenant crevices of her forehead made her look far beyond her meager 38 years. Her name was Juana, a common Mexican name which means God is gracious. This was ironic becuase her life had been an uphill battle since she was a small child growing up in the state of Zacatecas, Mexico. It seemed that God had been anything but gracious to her. Still she stood strong in her faith, evident by the small fourteen karat gold amulet of the Virgin de Guadalupe whcih she wore around her neck everyday. Her papa gave her the trinket when she was just a small child. Each day he would return from the mines, which were the main industry of her home state. Smudges of soot and lead decorated his leathery round face. Only his big brown eyes shown through. All knowing eyes. Eyes that could coax the truth out of a little girl when she lied about completing all of her chores. Her mama filled her days cooking, cleaning and taking care of Juana and here five sisters and brothers. She was a kind and generous mother, but stern when it came to disciplining Juana and her siblings.
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The twigs and dry leaves crackle underneath his feet with every step. His rushed breath is barely audible above the chorus of tree frogs and crickets whom only come to socialize at night. The night air of the countryside is muggy and still, almost suffocating. The perspiration begins to find its way through the fibers of his cotton shirt, causing the shirt to stick to his back. A pin-sized itching irritation suddenly afflicts the meaty part of his forearm, just below his elbow. He swats his flesh and scratches feverishly. Somehow the mosquitoes have sensed the moisture that his pores have started to produce. Like bandits in the night, they sporadically attack in gangs of twos and threes.
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