#PATTeRNPicks #1 Dec 2023
The purpose of our writing here at PATTeRN is twofold: We hope to keep you engaged with the happenings of the research generator, but we also strive to share our honest feelings and reactions on the art we discuss. Given the formal medium of an article, we understand that this can sound a little “high art-y” in theory. But in practice, we want to share this art with anyone who might be interested, not just art majors and couch connoisseurs.
In order to accomplish this, the minds of PATTeRN have decided to come together each however long to deliver to you a handpicked list of some of our favorite art and all the reasons we love it. This can be film, music, literature, visual art, whatever might be making us tick. This entry will kick the segment off in celebration of the changing season by showcasing the art we associate with winter.
— Ryan Mueller
Dead Poets Society (1989)
Ryan Mueller
No art captures the contrasting emotions of winter to me like the film Dead Poets Society.
The movie follows the lives of a group of private high school boys as they learn to appreciate the beauty of poetry and channel it into their lives. It’s a deeply romantic film that spans the entire emotional spectrum, hitting hard on themes such as transition and loss.
Dead Poets Society perfectly parallels the exciting festivities and beautiful nature that are characteristic of winter with feelings of contagious excitement and passion that permeate the first half of the film. The somber malaise that haunts the season are given the same grace through the more heartbreaking moments of the movie as well.
I find that there is so much to love on both extremes of the emotional axis. Winter is a season as majestic as it is solemn, and even in the more morose moments of the film I feel that there is a peaceful charm to be found in its muted colors and beautiful snowy landscapes. It leaves me with a warm sense of serenity and comfort in spite of the devastating subject matter. It is because of the movie’s indulgence in the entire emotional spectrum that it stands to me as a perfect embodiment of all that is to be loved and experienced in the season of winter.
Disintegration by The Cure (1989)
Dr. Peter Moore
When the weather turns cold and the days short, my first inclination, fighting against the dying of the light, is to turn to those albums that feel like fall to me. No musical genre better equips me for embracing the darker seasons than New Wave.
I could recommend any number of albums by any number of groups, but the one that stands out as a classic is Disintegration by The Cure (1989). As I drive down I65, the dirges of goth romance seem at home among the scruffy ruins of the harvested cornfields.
Think about it this way: If the disorder that makes you sad in the winter is redundantly called SAD, then doesn’t it make sense that the cure be known simply as The Cure?
January 18, 1979 by John Yau (1974–1988)
Annie Bonnett
In a well-loved, secondhand book with a peeling cover, I discovered my favorite poem, January 18, 1979 by John Yau.
Often, I find poetry both moving and confusing. This poem is different: while deeply evocative, it is also accessible. Unlike more esoteric writing, this digestible work allows me to share my passions with friends who do not care about poetry.
At 73 words, it only took up half a page; immediately, I was struck by its brevity and straightforward, everyday language. It is a love letter to a single moment, painting an otherwise insignificant day as extraordinary. Yau pulls us into his memory, illuminating the beauty of a woman simply existing in her apartment, brushing her hair and singing.
Though his muse is likely unaffected, Yau is stopped in his tracks by a revelation which, for me, brightens the dreariest pits of January: there is elegance and wonder everywhere.
In the unglamorous apartment bathroom, Yau brings warmth to winter. As I reread this poem, I picture the woman shivering, the narrator’s body heat rapidly transferring to the chilled floor tiles. Still, Yau’s words bring an undeniable glow to a frigid scene. On days when my teeth chatter and my spirits dampen with the setting sun, the cold feels less biting as I remember a poet’s profound, banal joy.
Each line speaks to the mundane loveliness Yau sees not only in this woman, but in the work of countless artists before — and after — him. In this pure, uncomplicated snapshot, Yau reminds us to cherish people going about their lives, half in love with themselves and half in love with the world.
Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009)
Khanh Nguyen
People say don’t judge based on appearance. I say this is absolute BS, especially since a movie can have questionable plot and I would still give it a solid 6/10 so long as the cinematography satiates my need for visual stimulation. It thrills me to no end, then, when something is able to unite both worlds like Wes Anderson’s Fantastic Mr. Fox.
The movie is an eccentric rendition of the popular tale by Roahl Dahl, recreating children’s all-time-favorite fox hunt entirely using stop-motion. Albeit how Anderson sequences his frames might come off as jarring, I’d argue that the distinct jaggedness of stop-motion is precisely what makes Fantastic Mr. Fox so humane. Clearly seeing Mr. Fox’s trembling whiskers in times of tumult feels like I was sympathizing with a real person as opposed to an animated character.
However, what I actually love most about the movie lies in the abundant warmth it elicits, both visually and emotionally. Consider the color grading, for example: almost all scenes contain a combination of rustic beige and burnt orange that matches perfectly with a cozy blanket in the dead of winter. Now add Anderson’s tailored attention to detail, witty banter, and a reclusive family who nurses their shared singularities as a defense against the world to the mix, and I swear my heart melted. This last bit reminds me so much of my own family I cannot help but get all fuzzy inside.
In an age where action thrillers usually take the limelight, Fantastic Mr. Fox provides a touching, much-needed reprieve. The world it creates is sure to be quirky — but gloriously so.
