U is for Unmarkering

| April 30, 2014

I don’t care about my little dog—where, oh where, have the markers gone?

Somewhere in the darkest corners of my memory, I have fading images of classes gone by, when the room was filled with magic(al) markers and rags and we wrote on the desks and the walls and everything was good.

And then they were gone, and now it’s like all light has been sucked out of the world.

They say when you walk through the room, you can still catch a faint whiff of Dry Erase… It lingers, and it disappears…

Oh, such melodrama I write.

Missing: Markers. If found, call Chris Moffett.

But actually, I do wonder about this every now and then, because the markers seemed to be one of the more aesthetic-y (and experiential, if aesthetic experience is participatory, à la Artificial Hells or The Emancipated Spectator) parts of our class.

(Of course, this post has no relevance if the apparent marker abduction was explained, and I just don’t remember or wasn’t paying attention. But I’m going to proceed with the knowledge I have. Which is none.)

Then again, I guess nobody really used them post-Lines, and there didn’t seem to be much usage before that anyway, other than the class drawing squiggles down the walls. I can only really remember doing one thing of note with them, a doodle of a baguette-wielding Frenchman I’m particularly proud of.

I doodle in stereotypes.

Were the markers really fusing education and aesthetic experience? Probably not, in practice.

But what if one person in our class, one poor soul, was learning his best by drawing on his desk? And then you took the markers away.

Moffett, you fascist.