Yesterday. The postponed interview at Radio Bronglais finally took place. I was the guest on its ‘The Brunch Show’ [extract], from 10 am to 12 pm:
I’d little idea of how things would proceed which, for a programme such as this, is probably the best position to be in. Breaking down what are abstruse and complex art ideas for public consumption, on the hoof, requires considerable perseverance. I had an opportunity to play and talk about three pieces from The Bible in Translation album. Rarely, if ever, does community broadcasting give air time to this mode of ‘music’. To be competent with radio interviewing of this type, you need to be doing it often (like everything else in life).
After lunch, I too slowly proceeded with on-line essay marking. The process has become painful, due to the strain caused by a significant number of mouse movements required by the Turnitin environment. The module’s Exhibition Report will have to be submitted manually, as hard copy, if I’ve any hope of completing the task in time. One has to take control of a situation when and where one can.
Today. I’m pacing myself – marking, then undertaking non-computer-based tasks in between. There’s a way through this. (Necessity demands.) I pushed on against the obstacles. Some principles and observations derived from today’s assessment:
- Avoid introducing too many ideas and, particularly, those not essential to the argument
- Read and revise before submitting.
- The essay could work, but you weren’t prepared to.
- Begin answering the question as soon as possible. Avoid discursive preambles.
- Art historical writing is not journalism or blogging.
- The nature of academic writing is to support your convictions by the deployment of argument and supportive evidence.
- Use subheadings to indicate the transitions from one set of ideas to another.
- Avoid appending a title to the essay. It can subtly skew the question.
Overcast and downcast: conditions of the weather and the emotions respectively:
There’s something disagreeable in the air: either a passionless neutrality or a sense of foreboding that beckons towards dismal events to come, perhaps. By the close of this day, people will have died, received appalling news, lost someone or something too precious for words, or fallen foul of their own folly to their destruction. If you aren’t counted among their number, then you’ve reason for gratitude. Your day will come.