“If I had never dropped out, I would have never dropped in on this calligraphy class, and personal computers might not have the wonderful typography that they do. Of course it was impossible to connect the dots looking forward when I was in college. But it was very, very clear looking backwards ten years later. Again, you can’t connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.”—As Steve Jobs steps down, remembering what made him an extraordinary leader with his brilliant 2005 Stanford commencement address about the creative value of dot-connecting and cross-disciplinary curiosity. (via curiositycounts)
Sitting down to write 1500 hundred words about humor is awfully serious business. It took some careful arranging of my desk space, a quick bike ride around the park, and a light meal of bagel and juice that somehow seemed to stretch itself out into several courses. I put it off because we all put off work in favor of play, and writing — and humor alike — is great work.
1) I Don’t Get It:
My first real encounter with art was near the end of high school. I had driven over to a local art college that my older brother was attending to see his end of semester show. I had been to art museums on school outings or with family, but for this show I was going alone. Later I would realize how much this would shape my perception of what art is. But back then I was just there to see what this thing was that my brother had created over many focused and labor intensive months.
At the back of the main building I found several unmarked doors leading into galleries. I entered the closest door. The room was filled with an ominous swirl of suspended chairs, arranged to look as if they were being sucked into a bright light at the center, while a soundtrack of loud, droning white noise blared from hidden speakers. There was only room to skirt around the dark edges of the room. It was claustrophobic and uncomfortable, with no room to walk and no room to think.
The only thing I knew about the art was that it was serious, like so much art is. The message and the meaning was lost on me. Maybe I missed something. Maybe I just didn’t get the joke.