Getting Personal in my Personal Statement

I am Sisyphus and the wrath of my gods have given boulders in the form of research proposals, papers, and "personal statements." Right now, my boulder has taken on the shape of a personal statement, and it's a little heavier than the ones I've pushed before.

This is the third time I've had to apply to institutions of higher learning and I'm still not entirely sure what constitutes a "personal statement." I mean, when journalists want to "get personal" with a celebrity or politician, they usually ask about their love life. Now, I don't think the admissions board of Columbia or Princeton wants to hear a Carrie Bradshaw-esque rant about why I'm still single. I mean, I'm no Elle Woods here... and this ain't no Harvard Law School -- a video of me in a bikini won't sufficiently plead my case.

What I do know is that the personal statement required for graduate school applications is not the same thing as the personal essay required by college applications. The "Personal Essay" allows room for creativity, for nostalgia, for anecdotes and for recollections of life-altering events. It can be sentimental. It can be funny. It can have a moral. It can be about a pet dog. etc. The Personal Essay is its own genre of non-fiction writing -- a great genre of non-fiction writing; my favorite genre of non-fiction writing.

The big difference between the personal essay and the personal statement is that the personal statement comes with that "statement" clause. Just as in the personal essay, I'm supposed to talk about me -- I'm supposed to tell my audience something about what makes me a beautiful and unique snowflake. And then I'm supposed to add a "statement of intent" which essentially means "research proposal." Oh, and I'm supposed to tell them what I want to be when I grow up. Can I say: "Simon Schama complete with the Emmy?"

So, not only do I have to explain why this girl with a BA in Economics and a MA in Art History would be a valuable addition to the PhD student body, but I also have to put forward an intelligent and original topic of research that some established academic would want to mentor into a dissertation.

Oh Good Grief.

No wonder this Sisyphus is sweating a little more than usual as she plods up her mountain of academia, personal-statement-boulder on her back. But remember, like Camus said, "Il faut imaginer Sisyphe heureux." And believe me, I'm far far happier pushing this boulder than the one I'd be towing if I wanted to be a banker...

An Art Historian's Take on Michael Phelps

Michael Phelps is the new Belvedere Torso.

I've been saying this for the past four years, but this month's GQ officially confirms the intuition I've had since that 2004 Vanity Fair Bruce Weber shoot. (I love Bruce Weber).

The Belvedere Torso, a fragmented male nude sculpted in the age of Ancient Greece, inspired artists for centuries. Not only was it held as an image of the ideal masculine physique, but it was also the model for bodies in the Last Judgment of Michaelanglo's Sistine Chapel and continues to be copied by artists, in all media, up to the present day. Google it and you'll find thousands of 19th engravings that are either pure copies of or are images inspired by the Belvedere Torso (I'm also fairly certain several plates in Goya's "Disasters of War" are modeled on the Torso... morbid, but Goya was an artist who loved his art history).

And now we have uber-Olympian Michael Phelps. There are so many levels on which this comparison between an Olympian and a Grecian sculpture works, so I'll leave most of them for you to ponder while I gush over this particular photograph and why it's so interesting to us art history nerds.

To me, the true beauty of Mark Selgier's image (above (c) GQ) lies in its reference to the classical masterpiece -- an image of marble-white torso caught in action, twisting to reveal his divine musculature. I should mention that the Belvedere torso is thought to be a representation of the demi-God Hercules. And let's face it, Phelps has become the modern version of a demi-God, both for his athletic prowess and for his A-list celebrity status.

So many photos of Phelps are images of pure sex (check out the GQ cover and the water shot from the same issue). Yet while the composition of this photograph does ultimately draw our attention to Phelps' "manhood," we don't look at the image and think nights between satin sheets with an Olympic stud-muffin. We see an athlete and an ideal masculine body -- which is pretty sexy, but is also breathtakingly beautiful in a very chaste sort of way.

Curled up in front of the fire with a....

laptop.

Yes, that's right. I just enjoyed a Rockwell-esque Thanksgiving and now, as I sit in front of the fireplace of my parents' circa 1900 farmhouse, terriers at my feet, I am the quintessential image of winter-time domesticity. The quintessential bug-in-a-rug, except for the small detail that in my lap is neither a book nor a cup of cocoa. No, in my lap is a computer.

Man, the times they are a-changin'.

Once upon a time, I'd fall asleep in front of the fire, curled up on a tattered baby's blankie. Eventually, I started taking a novel, a coloring book or a copy of the New Yorker to the leather armchair and throw an extra log on the blaze. Last year, I had a pile of term papers to edit before the final end of semester crunch. But this yuletide season, thanks to wireless routers and accessible outlets, I am seated by the hearth with my laptop and a glass of wine, pounding away at PhD application personal statements (and ever insightful blog posts).

At least I'm not text messaging and listening to my ipod...

Famous First Words

Behind every adult is a "funny" baby story. A story her parents like to whip out in fits of nostalgia.

You know what kind of stories I mean -- your parents have at least three about you that they've told you 1,000 times, your cousins 50 times, and your friends at least a dozen.

Well, for those of you who haven't had the fortune of meeting my parents, these are the stories they're likely to tell about me when you do finally meet them (potential boyfriends, take note). For those that do know Mama and Papa Reckling, you'd understand why these are probably their favorite toddler-Kathleen tales.


Famous First Words:
Apparently, I was a late talker. I was almost 2 and there had been no "Ma ma" and no "da da." Just some squeaks and hand gestures. They were starting to get worried I was "slow." But then I had a break-through that quieted their fears... and gave rise to a few new ones.

There I was, with my big blue doe eyes and my curly blond hair (yes, blond), perched on the stairs joyfully playing with my stuffed dog. But oh no! Fiasco! I dropped the dog down the stairs.

I looked at the beloved toy dog, and cried "Oh, Shit!"

Personally, I think it was a sign of genius-level intellect -- obviously, I understood that phrases like "oh, shit" were best used in moments of frustration. My father took this a sign my mother would be a bad influence. My mother was relieved to know that, along with her curls, I had inherited her brains...



Born to Shop
My father was holding a toddler me in his arms while the cashier was ringing up a few items he had purchased at the drug store. In my father's other hand was his wallet, open, poised to provide payment for the listerine. I reached over to the wallet, pulled out his Amex and handed it to the cashier. Clearly, from early on, I understood the ease of paying with plastic.


Hockey Players Don't Cry
When I was 4, I slipped on a bar of soap and split my head open. Of course, it hurt and there was blood and I was crying frantically all the way to the doctor's office. Then when they told me they were going to have to sew it up, well the sobs and screams soared to new decibels. My father looked at me, and said "Hockey players don't cry." Well, for whatever reason that turned off the waterworks and there wasn't another peep out of me, even while the doctor stitched me up.

I think this is my father's favorite toddler tale, especially since the day he overheard three of his 6-foot, 200-pound rugby players talking about what kind of tea they prefer -- which just so happened to be the day after he heard a 20-year-old me compare how much I could bench-press with a few of my girlfriends.

All About Me As Breifly as Possible

Not long ago, I purchased a copy of Not Quite What I Was Planning: 6 Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure. It is a book that confirms beyond a question of doubt that brevity is indeed the source of wit.

So what would this obscure writer say if she were asked to contribute a pithy yet telling 6 word biography? Here are the possibilities (I'll let you pick your favorite)...

Plays hard, has many bruises.

Always takes the scenic route.

Feet built for heels; knees disagreed.

Always wears mascara; doesn't own hairbrush.

Never learned to ride bike. Walks.

Brilliant moments balanced by frequent incoherence.

Always makes it work...usually.

From hiking boots to high heels.

Played to win; lost often.

Bought friends with baked goods.

Jeans didn't fit thighs. Blamed genes.

Many boyfriends and yet still single.

Laughs loud, often.

I read too much Jane Austen.

Learned to embrace carbohydrates and thighs.

Art? Art History! It's reputable!

Questions folks have asked me about my life as an art historian, my replies, their responses:

At the salon to a visibly very wealthy woman:
"You're at Columbia! That's fantastic. So is my son. What are you studying."
"I'm a grad student in art history."
My mother: "But she did her undergrad there in Economics."
Woman: "Well thank goodness for that. She knows some men then."
Me: "Not enough that make enough money. That's why I study in the business school library."

With a friend:
"So, are there any straight men in art history."
"Yes! There are 3."
"In your program?"
"No. In the whole world of art history. oh, and 2 are married."


With my High School Physics teacher:
"What are you doing graduate work in?"
"Art history."
"So that means you're going to be a barista at Starbucks."
"No, that means I'm going to own a coffee shop in the east village."
"So really you plan to unemployed."
"More or less."

With my nail technician:
"What can you do with a PhD in Art History? Be a curator at the Met or something?"
"Sure. But I want to be a professor and write books."
"Is there any money in that?"
"Not really. But I plan to marry well, so it'll be okay."


at a book launch at an art gallery:
"So what kind of art do you study?"
"American art, but I focus on the period between 1860 and 1940."
"Why that particular field?"
"Because no one believes there was art in American before 1940."


At an alumni event 2 days later:
"What kind of art do you study?"
"American Art made between 1860 and 1940."
"There was art in American before 1940?"


At a downtown party, with a lawyer:
"What are you writing your paper on?"
"I'm working on a piece about images of logging on the West Coast of Canada and in general, the history of environmentalist concerns in Canadian painting. So, I'm focusing on this fantastic early 20th century Canadian artist names Emily Carr and a contemporary indigenous Canadian painter."
"There are artists in Canada?"


A Friend:
"So why exactly do you want to rush back into academia?"
"Because my boobs are too small for me to have a viable career as a porn star."
(tilted head, squinted eyes. pauses. I laugh, they laugh. inquisitor assumes look of relief)