Station 1 – choose one of the following three options Objects Action Less than 4 take a photo 1+ poses/gestures Argument that tells a story about showing off status, social credentials or accomplishment Objects More than 5 Action take a photo Argument that tells a story about the passing of time or the inevitability of death Objects 2+ objects 1+ expressions 1+ persons Action take a photo Argument that seems to be affirming a certain lifestyle, identity or behavior but is in fact warning against it Station 2 – choose one of the following two options Objects 1 of the photos from Station 1 Action Collaboratively write a poem Argument that anthropomorphizes 1+ objects in the photo Objects 1 of the photos from Station 1 Action Collaboratively write a poem Argument that, like OOO, advocates for “a greater appreciation of nonhuman actors”1 Station 3 – choose one of the following two options Objects 1 of the photos from Station 1 Action Argument Individually write that explain how your photo 1-3 paragraphs blends features of selfie & vanitas art Objects 1 of the poems from Station 2 Action Argument Individually write that explain how your poem 1-3 paragraphs reflects the ideas of OOO *****Homework: To receive credit, one person in each group should email me the group’s photo and poem. Everyone should email me his or her paragraph(s).***** 1 See Levi Bryant’s The Democracy of Objects: http://quod.lib.umich.edu/o/ohp/9750134.0001.001/1:10/--democracy-ofobjects?rgn=div1;view=fulltext Hamlet waxes poetic about skulls: HAMLET To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander, till he find it stopping a bung-hole? HORATIO 'Twere to consider too curiously, to consider so. HAMLET No, faith, not a jot; but to follow him thither with modesty enough, and likelihood to lead it: as thus: Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam; and why of that loam, whereto he was converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel? Imperious Caesar, dead and turn'd to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away: O, that that earth, which kept the world in awe, Amy Lowell (1874-1925) anthropomorphizes flowers: Grotesque Why do the lilies goggle their tongues at me When I pluck them; And writhe, and twist, And strangle themselves against my fingers, So that I can hardly weave the garland For your hair? Why do they shriek your name And spit at me When I would cluster them? Must I kill them To make them lie still, And send you a wreath of lolling corpses To turn putrid and soft On your forehead While you dance? Sylvia Plath gives a voice to a mirror: Mirror I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions. What ever you see I swallow immediately Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful--The eye of a little god, four-cornered. Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall. It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers. Faces and darkness separate us over and over. Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me, Searching my reaches for what she really is. Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon. I see her back, and reflect it faithfully. She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands. I am important to her. She comes and goes. Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness. In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish. Google Search poems bringing human and nonhuman actors together: Thomas Lux anthropomorphizes food: Refrigerator, 1957 More like a vault -- you pull the handle out and on the shelves: not a lot, and what there is (a boiled potato in a bag, a chicken carcass under foil) looking dispirited, drained, mugged. This is not a place to go in hope or hunger. But, just to the right of the middle of the middle door shelf, on fire, a lit-from-within red, heart red, sexual red, wet neon red, shining red in their liquid, exotic, aloof, slumming in such company: a jar of maraschino cherries. Three-quarters full, fiery globes, like strippers at a church social. Maraschino cherries, maraschino, the only foreign word I knew. Not once did I see these cherries employed: not in a drink, nor on top of a glob of ice cream, or just pop one in your mouth. Not once. The same jar there through an entire childhood of dull dinners -- bald meat, pocked peas and, see above, boiled potatoes. Maybe they came over from the old country, family heirlooms, or were status symbols bought with a piece of the first paycheck from a sweatshop, which beat the pig farm in Bohemia, handed down from my grandparents to my parents to be someday mine, then my child's? They were beautiful and, if I never ate one, it was because I knew it might be missed or because I knew it would not be replaced and because you do not eat that which rips your heart with joy.