In this exercise I used my voice as the object.

Original:

In California, home, the voice rings crisp and high, just like those around it. There is no fear because it is just the same. In Chicago, it wavers and trips over memories of snide men who have found it inauthentic and basic and utterly unbecoming! Every word of “that’s midwestern hospitality for you” sounds like that before and after it. With some time it has taken on a lower timbre, so as to resonate just barely; and at times it takes on a girlish lilt in the presence of unfamiliar company. Sometimes there is a deliberateness to it. It rises and it falls but holds steady, mellow, so as not to disturb the peace. It lulls like low tide, coming and going so softly that it’s often not heard, begetting a gentle and NOT, not, indignant reminder. It has steady momentum like a mare’s gait, so it is nice to hear, inoffensive to the poor ears that have been tragically grated by those with the outrageous audacity to be shrill. At times it cracks on the low notes, or when it strains valiantly to be quiet and soothing and calm and rational. Like a rickety, frail wagon bouncing along a freshly cobbled street, following the cracks are when the voice sounds loudest, striking a sharp juxtaposition to the moments of naked silence and unwitting intake of breath. When angry, the voice is hard and smooth, like brittle slabs chipped off the corner of a plastic block slowly launched into the watchful sky. Sometimes the voice is not in my mouth so much as it is clawing up out my throat, taking chunks of me with it in the words I must give, and in those moments it is not so much a sound of pitch or depth but a rather meaty thing of substance that you could just bite into. 

First revision:

In California, home, the voice rings thin and lofty, just like those around it. There is no fear because it is just the same. In Chicago, it wavers and trips over memories of staring men who have found it bogus and strained and frankly uncharming! Every word of “that’s midwestern hospitality for you” sounds like that which comes before and after it. With the passing of time it has taken on a richness, so as to resonate just enough, and at times adopts the healthful lilt of a metal spoon clinking glass, usually in the presence of promising company. Sometimes there is a deliberateness to it. It rises and it falls but holds firm, like an expensive pillow, so as not to disturb the peace. It lulls like low tide, coming and going so easily that it’s often not heard, begetting a pillowy and NOT, not, nettled reminder. It has sure momentum like a mare’s gait, so it is nice to hear, soothing like a gel to the red-blooded ears that have been badly grated by those with the ignoble audacity to be shrill. At times it cracks on the low notes, when it pines heroically to be quiet and soothing and calm and rational. Like a tottery wagon bouncing along a newly cobbled street, following the cracks are when the voice sounds deafening, striking an acute juxtaposition to the moments of bald silence and unwitting breathe. When angry, the voice is creamy yet unforgiving, like smooth brittle slabs chipped off the corner of an acrylic block, launched purposefully into the mute sky. Sometimes the voice is not in my mouth so much as it is clawing up out my throat, taking chunks of me with it in the words I must give, and in those moments it is not so much a sound of pitch or depth but a rather marrowy thing of substance that you could chew. 

Rewritten:

The voice is scary in how it changes with no control and gives everything away like a laugh, and in its laugh. When nervous, the voice is tense and saturated, like a new sponge filled with water. When it speaks, no matter of what, it seems to be recounting the drowning of a local. When my mind and body are elsewhere from each other and neither can seem to get a hold, the voice is full of air, and it seems the only things that could hold the words together are the rigid, printed outlines on a paper page. When I am full of hope the voice is nearly a hand mixed bowl of pancake batter, spilling over in delicious chunks that make sense only together, lovable in its rawness. When I care but the voice cannot, it spans the air between like rays of neon lights at a concert for dazed young people, nonchalant and smooth and garish. When I hurt, the voice creeps between my mouth and their eyes, ready to skitter at the slightest hint of coldness, testing the ice with a skinny croak before every noise.

Original Version:

The dress is not fashionable, but I imagine that in a few years, it could be again if a wave of clothing nostalgia were to sweep the country. The pattern is mottled dark blue, somewhere between paisley and cheetah prin. It has large, shiny buttons and a thick collar. The dress is anachronistic in 2020, a relic of a time that doesn’t seem so far away until you think about it. It reminds me of the dresses I used to put on my dolls, particularly my Groovy Girls, in the early 2000’s but I guess that makes sense. I imagine someone named Jan wearing it. The dress looks like it could hang a little short on a woman’s body, especially for someone with a long torso; I would solve this potential dilemma by wearing it with tights. It is not sheer. Even against the flashing of an investigator’s camera, the dress is opaque. It is casual, not at all like I expected; it is an outfit for attending a seminar or walking through a museum on a Sunday. It must be a modern convention that everyone wears a suit in the White House.

A surprising amount of the existing photographs of the dress are in black and white. It’s almost as if knowing that the dress is blue is information too sensitive for public consumption. The black and white photos are funny: the dress looks like a convict, rather than a simply garment, likely a polyester blend.

The dress isn’t really the point, however: it’s the stain. The stain, which is hidden amongst the gaudy pattern, the stain that the dress’s owner wasn’t even aware of until she needed to be. The stain is not visible on camera. But it’s there and thank god it was because, as in so many cases, no one would have believed Monica if it weren’t.

First Revision:

The dress is not currently en vogue, but I imagine that in a few decades, it potentially could be again. The pattern is mottled, medium-dark blue, somewhere between paisley and cheetah print. It has sizable, gleaming buttons and a flat, broad collar. The dress is anachronistic in 2020; it looks like a strange fossil. It reminds me of the dresses I used to put on my Groovy Girls as a little girl. I imagine someone named Jan wearing this dress. It looks like it would hang short on a woman’s body, especially when paired with a long torso; I would probably wear it with tights. The fabric is not flimsy or translucent. Even against the flashing of an investigator’s camera, the dress is opaque. It is easygoing, almost folksy, not at all like I expected; it is an outfit for attending a seminar or walking through a museum on a Sunday. It must be a modern convention that everyone wears a suit in the White House.

A surprising amount of the existing photographs of the dress are in black and white. It’s almost as if knowing that the dress is blue is information too sensitive for public consumption. The black and white photos are hysterical: the dress looks like a convict, rather than an unassuming, poly-blend frock.

The dress isn’t really the point, however: it’s the stain. The stain, which is hidden amongst the gaudy pattern, the stain that the dress’s owner wasn’t even aware of until she needed to be. The stain is invisible on camera. But it’s there and thank god it was because, as in so many cases, no one would have believed Monica if it weren’t.

Second Revision:

The dress is a strange culprit; it does not look like an entity that changed American politics. That could be because the dress is a little ugly. Or, at least, the dress is not currently en vogue, but I imagine that in a few decades, it potentially could be again. The color is a medium-dark blue, the pattern a blurry mélange between paisley and cheetah print. The collar is flat and broad, and the buttons are sizable and gleaming. The dress looks like a bizarre fossil, completely anachronistic in 2020 despite only being 20 years old. I used to dress my Groovy Girls in a dress like this one. I can imagine someone named Jan wearing it.

The dress looks like it would hang short, somewhere like upper thigh, especially on a tall woman. As a medium-ish woman, I would probably pair it with tights. The fabric is not flimsy or translucent. Even against the flashing of an investigator’s camera, the dress is opaque. It is easygoing, almost folksy, not at all like I expected. It is a dress for attending a Socratic seminar or walking through a museum on a Sunday. It must be a modern convention that everyone wears a suit in the White House.

A surprising quantity of the photographs of the dress are black and white. In those cases, it’s a black dress, almost as if knowing that the dress is blue is information too sensitive for public consumption. The black and white photos are hysterical: the dress looks like a convict, rather than an unassuming, poly-blend frock.

The dress isn’t really the point, however: it’s the stain. The stain, which is hidden amongst the kitschy pattern, the stain that the dress’s owner wasn’t even aware of until she needed to be. The stain is invisible on camera. But it’s there and thank god it was because, as in so many cases, no one would have believed Monica if it weren’t.

In these readings, I was struck by the question of truth that seems to be posed by the works in one shape or another. There seems to be a longstanding dialogue, spanning cultures and eras, about whether the truth is something that can be defined by certain characteristics or whether it is simply felt and cannot be pinned down. Lippmann’s Liberty and the News, which could not feel more relevant despite being published 100 years ago, asserts that there is some factual truth and while there should be “freedom” of information, a society depends on the quality of the information that is disseminated; a quote that encompasses his points well is “…liberty is the name we give to measures by which we protect and increase the veracity of the information upon which we act” (p. 68). Calvino joins in this dialogue with his case for exactitude. He speaks more to emotional truths which are exhibited in artistic endeavors and posits that society is infected with a “plague” that makes artists tend to the abstract and the infinite, rather than crisp, clean precision. Both Lippmann and Calvino make a strong case for the notion that certain things can be defined as good, factual and/or true and are therefore the best things for the public to consume. However, the poems we read from Williams and Moore point in the other direction: there are certain ways in which language can be used that evokes a truth that exists on some other plain than the literal and cannot be simply defined.

I think I am somewhat torn between these two camps. I don’t find Lippmann’s definitions of truth and liberty very compelling, especially as it seems like it would quickly become censorship. I think the author I agree with most is Calvino in Six Memos for the Next Millennium; I like “exactitude” best but still want to read and appreciate authors who seek the infinite. I also really liked and agreed with Ketaki’s analysis about Calvino’s concern for carelessness in use of language.

First description, edited to replace vague words with more exact ones:

The bottle sits on a strip of glass that is approximately an eighth of an inch thick. The light shines through this strip, making the bottle look like it is atop a glowing pedestal. Bright red polish fills the inside of the bottle and a matte black cap rests on top. It is somehow neither bumpy nor smooth when I run my fingers across it. The brand “OPI” is stamped into the top of the cap. The thickest point of the cap is closer to the middle than the bottom, which is higher than I would’ve expected. The height of the cap is slightly more than that of the bottle, making it look lopsided. There is a sturdiness to the glass, and the bottle is smooth except for the inscription on the front. The light hits the high point of the glass — the hard edge created by the “ledge” that the cap is placed on. The glass is scratched along this ledge; it is the least-protected part of the bottle. There is a white sticker on the bottom of the bottle, one that you would only find if you were looking for it, that assigns this color a name (“The Thrill of Brazil”) and a number. There is something mesmerizing about the way the glass looks up close, both impenetrable and incredibly delicate at the same time. There is a certain weight and sturdiness to the way the bottle sits on the table, like you wouldn’t be able to move it even with the knowledge that if it were to get knocked over, everything would shatter, leaving behind a bloody, red scene.

Rewritten description:

At the bottom of the bottle, there is a strip of glass that does not hold polish. It is completely clear but distorts the shape of anything that you look at it through, like a magnifying glass. The polish is a solid, classic red. It’s the color that comes to mind when you think of “red” without any further descriptions or qualifiers — it’s not a deep red or a wine red or a rusty red, it’s just “red.” The title of the polish, however, makes a (what I would classify as failed) attempt to describe such a red. “The Thrill of Brazil” is printed on a white sticker underneath the base of the bottle along with the serial number “600622.” I suppose these are all ways of referring to the same object: “The Thrill of Brazil” and “600622,” simply put, just map to “red” either in our minds or in a database of sorts. The glass is entirely smooth aside from a few scratches along the edges and lettering that reads “OPI Nail Lacquer.” The bottle has a matte black cap that contrasts the shiny glass body of the bottle. The top of the cap is imprinted with the letters “OPI.” The brush extends from the inside of the cap and is saturated with the so-called “Thrill of Brazil.” The bristles, while separate, operate as a unit to drag strips of polish across the nail. The bottle stands strong atop a clean, white tabletop. I can’t help but think what just half a fluid ounce of this polish could do to the pristine surface.

Process notes: 

I was daunted by the task of writing a specific, objective description of this nail polish bottle because it seemed futile. I was grappling with how this written description could possibly give my reader a more accurate or effective understanding of the object than simply looking at the bottle or a photograph of it. In completing the exercise, I think I have a better understanding of the art of dynamic description. Regardless of whether this is conscious or unconscious, the writer’s interpretation and background will surface in their description. I suppose this speaks to why two writer’s exact descriptions of the same object can turn out so differently. The exercise showed this phenomenon in an even stronger way that was surprising to me in the sense that my own two descriptions of the exact same nail polish bottle turned out differently. Does this mean that I failed in my task of producing the most exact description of the object as possible? Or rather, does it speak to something intrinsic in the art of writing? My goal in these descriptions was not only to be as accurate and specific as possible, but to write a paragraph that could bring the object to life more-so than a two-dimensional photo could (even though it would capture the object exactly as it is).