Layered matcha 🍵 and chocolate 🍫 pancakes 🥞 Sunday ! How good does this stack look with fluffy pancakes, fresh fruit, warm berries and coconut shreds ✨ My Sunday is spent studying home for a lot of assignments before the end of the semestre. Hope your weekend is more exciting !
Recipe for around 12 pancakes :
1 + ¼ cup plant based milk whisked with 3 tablespoons of lemon juice
1 cup flour
1/3 cup sweetener of choice
1 teaspoon baking powder
Optional : 1 teaspoon matcha, 1 tablespoon chocolate powder or vanilla extract
Le the milk and lemon juice sit while you combine the dry ingredients. Pour in the liquid and whisk until your dough is nice and thick without lumps. In a non stick pan, pour the batter and flip when bubbles are starting to form at the surface (should take about 20-30 seconds)
Infested Frame has been officially named “Nidus” + Spear Gun It’s also stated that this isn’t a completed model (he is missing his attachments, and will eventually be added to him. They raise i think depending on stacking)
His move set is rather really good, he stacks up to 4 (about 10 enemies) and CC’s, and his final move is only usable when you stack up to 4. He has no shields, but he has natural health regen. (Similar to Inaros, but instead of life steal, he depends on time)
So Phichit would totally be every kid’s favorite camp counselor since he’s outgoing and is really friendly. Yuuri is good with kids too, just not as well as Phichit on the first day, but he does get along well with the quieter kids.
Phichit has the best ideas for games. Yuuri shoots down the crazy ideas, but for the most part they consist of try to tell a funny story without laughing or go on a scavenger hunt with items like “your best friend’s left shoe” or something ridiculous but funny.
Phichit would so get all the kids to watch The King and The Skater. He’d teach them how to sing all the songs too, both in Thai and in English.
Yuuri makes the best smores. He’s good at making huge stacks of them. Phichit always burns his marshmallows because he’s too busy looking at Yuuri’s creations with amazement.
Yuuri’s also good at making crafts. He’d make little charm bracelets for each kid on the first day, and on the last day each kid makes one in return before they leave on the last day. Phichit walked into their office to see Yuuri crying over all the beautiful charms the kids gave to him.
Yuuri is the mom friend that always has a first aid kit or anything needed for small emergencies in case one of the little kids gets hurt.
Phichit takes selfies with all the kids piling on top of him or doing dramatic poses.
Phichit and Yuuri would have a mini competition to see whose group could perform the best skit for the entire camp (is that the right word? like they perform a little show).
I think I got pretty good work done today. Not a ton read, not as much as I might hope for on a day when I have no classes–but I got a head start on synthesizing the notes from things I already have read in preparation for what is always the worst part for me, learning/remembering the damned titles. The ecclesiastical architectural history reading continued, and I must thank @plinytheyounger for welcoming with my related rantings in good grace! I also took a crack at rewriting, outside of any connection to my narrow topic, the chaos vs. order essay prompt I had done for my independent study this meeting. I think the “point” is even less clear; I had such a struggle to find words in which to write about the aesthetics of Milton Babbitt–not a topic in which I regularly exercise myself–that I wanted the time to write a proper concluding paragraph.
Now it’s 10:00, and I have no lesson plan for tomorrow. Whoops.
How does the tension between chaos and order—liberty and structure—manifest
itself in American culture, history, and society?
the few decades immediately following World War Two, American composers of
concert music faced a new series of challenging problems regarding whether
their works should have stylistic disjuncture or stylistic continuity with
those within the repertoire. The tastes of concertgoers were now bound to an
unprecedented degree to a canon that ran the course of the nineteenth century
and little further; at the same time, modernism that enjoyed limited popular
support was earning more and more intellectual prestige within the somewhat
closeted world of connoisseurs and conservatories. This conundrum was most
pressing for composers who, regardless of their stylistic orientation,
maintained an essentially classicist vision of art as ideally transcendent and cosmopolitan. Those who
remained within the world of high modernism, and more particularly serialism,
risked alienating their audience with compositions that won the approval of
fellow composers but were perceived as chaotic and incomprehensible by much of
the concertgoing public. Those who instead worked with neo-Classical and
neo-Romantic idioms had to compete with the tried-and-true (and recognizable)
canonical composers of old, while also fending off accusations of
derivativeness and irrelevance from their professional fellows. Thus, it became
increasingly difficult for composers to pursue a stylistically consistent path
while also making a living and maintaining
a professional reputation. Despite the current perception of the twentieth
century (and the twenty-first) as an era without a guiding aesthetic, the
hegemony of the canon in the concerthall and serialism in the university made
it difficult for some postwar composers to successfully forge a middle path.
conundrums troubling composers were one facet of a more general societal sense
of uncertainty in the face of changing circumstances over which individuals
felt little sense of control. The conclusion of World War Two certainly brought
Americans some sense of triumphalism and renewed security, but it was one that
was admixed from the beginning with unease. The interwar years had in a limited
way been a honeymoon period for modernist music within the United States, in
both avant garde and populist forms. Yet the support structures that had
allowed that brief flourishing were either gone or rapidly changing. Populist
modernist music in particular had been very closely associated with leftist
political agitation. Indeed, the hope of involving ordinary people in political
causes by using music that appealed to them was the main reason that some
composers originally more aligned with high modernism turned toward a more
populist idiom in 1930s or early 1940s, as Mark Blitzstein did in his pro-union
musical The Cradle Will Rock. The
general turn toward political conservativism in the postwar years, followed
most dramatically by the renewed red scare in the 1950s, rendered this kind of
path more personally and professionally risky for composers than it had been.
Another disappearing advantage for modernist composers was the lively connections
that, particularly in the 1910s and 1920s, had given (North and South!)
American and European artists access to an international public and allowed
such figures as Antheil, Slonimsky, and Varese to forge cross-continental
careers as advocates of musical modernism. This situation began to deteriorate
leading into World War Two, and the flood of emigres into the United States
that began in the early 1930s left American composers at least temporarily
feeling that everyone worth competing with was suddenly competing for the same
jobs and the same audiences. A final reason was that the Works Progress
Administration that had provided infrastructure for some of the modernist art
of the 1930s and early 1940s (including Blitzstein’s mentioned above) had
outlived its Depression-era purpose and was dissolved just before World War Two.
problem was felt all the more deeply by composers who aspired to have their
works viewed as transcendent and cosmopolitan, and who therefore could not take
refuge in the extreme avant garde nor yet in particularism. Even though this
essay addresses composers who were one or another flavor of modernist, this
view is still an essentially classicist one, very much indebted to nineteenth-century
aesthetics in particular. For those who did not ascribe to it, it was possible
to create art that was openly unserious and ironic, or that was specifically
tied to time and place by borrowings from popular music or an overtly
nationalist focus. For those who did aspire to write music that was meant to be
“serious” and “timeless” in outlook, there was little option but to continue working
within conventional performance and academic institutions, even if those
institutions, as alluded to above, were growing somewhat hostile toward one
another and inculcating very different sorts of musical styles and cultures.
many a non-specialist listener, high modernism of this era must have sounded
chaotic, since it borrowed so little of its frame of reference from music with
which they could be expected to be familiar. Recordings and radio—particularly given
the prominence to which concert broadcasts rose during the Depression years—would
have provided the casual listener of classical music with a framework of
nineteenth- and some eighteenth-century music, interspersed only occasionally
with more recent works. Popular music was equally at an aural and indeed
conceptual remove from high modernism. For those who took their listening more
seriously and were regular attendees at orchestral or chamber concerts or the
opera house, that same framework would generally have been true, with some
conductors of the time “slipping in” recent works but only a few ensembles
(such as, toward the end of the time period discussed, the Louisville Symphony)
clearly invested in continuing to perform contemporary music. Who, then, would
listen to high modernist music? The most notorious answer to this question was
surely voiced by Milton Babbitt in his (unintentionally so titled) article “Who
Cares If You Listen?” and who embraced with unusual fervor the increasing
relegation of high modernism into the world of academe. Babbitt, whose father
was a mathematician and who had considered going into math himself, was inclined
to view music as a scientific area of study. Like other forms of science, its
basics could be appreciated by anyone, but its more specialist levels, in order
to contribute something important to the field, would almost inherently be
unintelligible to the layman. This view was cogent because Babbitt’s particular
interest at this point in time was the strain of high modernism—serialism—that
became a kind of new gospel in academic composition of the 1950s–1970s, led by
Babbitt’s “Princeton School.” For integral serialist works like Babbitt’s to be
fully appreciated, the ideal listener would have such a finely attuned ear and
familiarity with the technical intricacies of the style as to actually
apprehend in the moment the interplay of repetition with variation. Babbitt’s
infamous essay is about of a period with some of his most dedicated forays into
integral serialism, such as the second string quartet.
For Babbitt, the
question of who would perform and who would listen to this music was a
relatively simple one; it would be appreciable by his fellow-specialists,
within the academy. Although perceived as ungrammatical or unsyntactical from
outside this specialist frame of reference, serialism aptly addressed the
anxieties of the postwar period for those who chose it as their own language.
Its newness, particularly within Babbitt’s “scientific” conceptualization, had
the promise of progress. The contrast between its apparent incomprehensibility
to the layman and its endless fascinations for the specialist, certainly provided
a sense of meaning, if of a gnostic bent; people were reassured of their
ability to find significance within apparent confusion. Finally—and again particularly
in Babbitt’s language for it—serialism offered the impression of objectivity
and emotional distance, something that was both of a character with the postwar
ethos in general and at as much of a conceptual as a stylistic disjunction from
the Romantic-dominated concert canon in which it was in practical if not
comparison, the imagined frame of reference for an “average listener” of this
era described above would have lent neo-Classical and neo-Romantic works at
least largely familiar-sounding and comprehensible—yet this did not necessarily
make them eager to listen. As much as the availability of radio and audio
recordings had helped to spread the sound of classical concert music to more
and more Americans, they had also accustomed those listeners to a comparatively
narrow frame of reference. The ability to hear a particular performance over
and over again on recordings, in particular, must have been a potent solidifier
of the canon—not merely certain works, but certain works in certain ways.
Unlike the taste for novelty that had characterized American audiences well
into the nineteenth century, those of the mid-twentieth overwhelmingly wanted
to hear music they knew they liked, or music by composers they knew they liked.
Thus, even contemporaneous composers whose works were overtly and happily
indebted to that canonical repertoire struggled to get their own pieces
premiered. Even composers who managed to successfully strike that balance
risked mockery from fellow-musicians or from critics who were more aligned with
high modernism. Since academic music of the time was so focused on a style so
alien to the canonical concert repertoire, it was easy to level criticisms of
derivativeness, unoriginality, or simple pandering on others who were not. One
such composer was Gian Carlo Menotti, who perhaps had the most success of
anyone in the mid-1940s through mid-1960s in seeing new operatic works
premiered to popular success. Opera was perhaps even more bound than any other
sort of music to its canon, one that was (with scattered earlier works) almost
exclusively Romantic. The idiom of Menotti’s vocal writing aptly reminded
listeners of Puccini or late Verdi, but in other ways his operas broke strongly
with what they were used to, with English (invariably self-written) libretti in
contemporary settings and often that often address sensitive social issues.
Moreover, he overlaid that vocal writing onto an overall musical structure that
was clearly more aligned to neo-Romanticism than a simple imitation of Romantic
idiom, often more modal rather than tonal and flavored with dissonance and
quartal and quintal harmonies.
Menotti’s own aesthetics were not far removed from those of some of the nineteenth-century
composers to whom his style was so cheerfully indebted (viz. the quite clearly
articulated philosophy in the ballet The
Unicorn, the Gorgon, and the Manticore): art was first and foremost
idealistic self-expression, and he did not need the benefit of anyone else’s
approval to formulate the style he preferred to. Nonetheless, he was unusually
successful in getting traditional operatic audiences to accept his music,
typically by entering their awareness by the “back door” of other publics more inclined
to have a taste for novelty—hence, his early involvement in writing opera
specifically for radio and television, and the premiere of such works as The Consul (very much an opera in style
and scope) on Broadway. Once his works had won a reputation in these
nontraditional arenas, they often had successful second premieres with regular
opera companies who were already convinced of their value. Menotti was subject
to the endless derision of more academically-inclined musicians and critics,
however, and none of his non-operatic works have had either significant popular
success or significant critical acclaim, certainly none in the most “serious”
abstract genres. Despite this failure to strike a balance between the demands
of very different audiences, Menotti’s music certainly addressed the anxieties
of his time as much as Babbitt’s did. Within the comfort and stability of a
familiar genre and idiom, it could address uncomfortable contemporary problems;
rather than the deliberate “objective” remove of the Princeton composers, the
neo-Romantic and especially the operatic idiom was a natural outlet for
intensely felt, often overtly pessimistic emotion. In the case of The Consul, for instance, Menotti’s
libretto deals perhaps surprisingly frankly with the paranoia, alienation, and
helplessness many people felt during the Cold War.