KEEMYA ESMAEL / MICHIGAN DAILY When you walk through the Stephen M. Ross School of Business, a lot of things may catch your eye. Perhaps it’s the flock of sharply-dressed men, unwavering and determined, barreling forward to an unknown destination. Or maybe it is the brazen coloring that targets your eye like a harsh ray of sunlight – orange paneling, yellow bricks and blue windows eerily mirroring not the colors of Michigan but the electric uniforms of Stephen Ross’s Miami Dolphins. And maybe, just maybe, it’s the bizarre interior design of the school — hanging cyndrilic lights and zig-zagging staircases to nowhere that are as if someone had a fourth grader read Kurt Vonnegut and then draw what it made them feel. I admit I am a bit of a hypocrite for poking fun at the atmosphere of Ross; I study there more than anywhere else on campus (though in large part to the fact there is a Starbucks, a cafè and it is a five-minute walk from my apartment). And for me, everytime I enter the extensive building there is one thing that draws my attention more than anything else listed above: the art. Yes, believe it or not, Ross is full of art. Two- hundred and fifty pieces of it to be exact. It is hard to notice the collection, especially after a seven-hour bender in the Winter Garden that leaves your eyes feeling like they got the “A Clockwork Orange” treatment. But it’s there, in all of its beauty, irony and oftentimes weirdness, art permeates Ross from floor to ceiling. I will begin with the horses. You have to know the ones — beasts of welded steel protecting the entrance to Robertson Auditorium, a room named after the very man who gifted these impressive brutes. The horses are a duo, one is titled “Forgetting the Other” and the other “With the Current.” I love these horses, I really do. Not only are they the result of extreme horse-girl syndrome (Deborah Butterfield, the artist, said “I knew when I saw my first horse that it was the most important being on earth”), but they’re really fucking cool. Giant horses made of steel? How hardcore is that? I like to think they come alive at night à la “Night at the Museum” and gallop freely through the empty halls until sunlight returns them to their permanent home. Journey past the magnificent beasts to the water fountain next to the Starbucks and you will be greeted by a series of sketches and drawings by California artist Chris Johanson. Entitled “Perceptions,” the pictures depict humans, ants, bottles and other objects accompanied by phrases like “PLEASE STOP YOUR HORRIBLE WAYS EARTH PEOPLE” and “IT IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW, ACT NOW.” The irony in these pictures being hung in a business school at the University of Michigan comes flowing in heavily from every direction. Johanson wanted to make the sketches look like kids drew them because, as he said, “I hated school, and I hated education.” Johanson’s work is also seen as a critique on advertising and capitalism — need I say more? As we walk out of Ross and into the Blau building, may I turn your attention to the man who made this all possible. A portrait of Stephen M. Ross hangs not from every rafter of the ceiling and above every doorway as you may expect, but rather in a humble corner in the lobby of the building. I have witnessed many a misidentification of Mr. Ross, from a poor, confused boy commenting that he didn’t think Bill Gates looked like that to a young girl proclaiming “Grandpa!” as she pointed at the image (though honestly, that may have been his actual granddaughter). Yet his persona should not be mistaken. Ross stands poised in front of a window bearing the same orange and blue that pervades his namesake school. He looks presidential, all the way down to the small American flag cufflink exposed on his left wrist. And in fact, the image was done by American artist Everett Raymond Kinstler, the same man who did the official presidential portraits of Ronald Reagan and Michigan alum Gerald Ford. Rumor has it, if you stand in front of the painting and say Ross three times outloud, J.P. Morgan will contact you about a junior year internship within the hour. Walking through Blau, the poetic younger sister of mighty Ross, your eyes will be directed towards frame after frame of abstract modern art. My personal favorite hangs from the left as you walk out of the building, a geometric little piece by American artist Sol LeWitt. The piece is entitled “Irregular, Angular Brush Strokes” and is composed of colorful — you guessed it — irregular, angular brush strokes. Much like a business education, this art is straight to the point. When I first looked at and subsequently tried to interpret this art, I thought the lines were an abstract take on stick figures, welding together people of all colors to speak towards inclusion and diversity. Apparently, the true meaning is highlighting the unexpected aspects of our mental process. Either way, they’re pretty cool lines. As you leave the building, what do you feel? Do you feel enlightened? Inspired? Indifferent? Annoyed by this treatise? I could write 900 more words about the art in Ross. I want to know who chose it, where it came from, why they chose it, how much it cost. It’s like a friend’s annoying habit, once you notice it you can’t stop thinking about it. I’ve highlighted a few pieces of art, but there are still over 200 for you to seek out yourself. If nothing else, I hope you feel encouraged to look around while you’re walking through life instead of straight forward. You may be surprised by what you see. Discovering works of art over at the Business school SAMANTHA DELLA FERA Senior Arts Editor KEEMYA ESMAEL / MICHIGAN DAILY Spouses have been and still are designing together, and they’re doing it well.As early as the ’60s with the prominence of designers like Charles and Ray Eames, to today in the Chip and Joanna Gaines phenomena that was once the HGTV series “Fixer Upper” and has fabricated itself into a interior design collection at Target. Blending the romantic and creative, couples are redefining what it means to work in a team. Even high-end brands like Tory Burch are making things a family affair, Burch naming her husband Pierre-Yves Roussel the chief executive of her company. Why, you might ask, would people mix home life with work life? Or even choose to share something you’ve made with someone else? Coming from an artist’s perspective, I am not sure I could so willingly share my creative endeavors. Yet, when looking at such power couples, something clearly seems to be working. Ray and Charles Eames revolutionized the worlds of mid-century modern furniture, graphic and architectural design. And Tory Burch is a timeless, high quality brand in the world of fashion. These couples have shaped design so much so that other spouses are following suit, inviting their significant others to design alongside them. When looking at the relationships of these creative pairs, it begins to make sense that one would want to work so closely with their spouse. While it is an extremely personal process, design is one that relies on the people around you to challenge and better your ideas. Why not choose someone who will be brutally honest with you or will listen to random creative discoveries that pop into your head at three in the morning? Designing is a lifestyle, so why not blend the personal and professional? When you have constant conversations, brainstorms and sketching, the outcome is almost always better designs and new discoveries. When including a spouse in the process of design, brands inherently become more family-oriented in the eyes of the consumer, creating a sense of comfort. Knowing that not one, but two individuals are constantly revising, bettering, thinking about the product they are creating, customers feel connected to the product they are buying, knowing the investment is one of true value. While on the surface, Burch’s decision to elect her husband as CEO narrows her field of work within the company, what she is doing is showing herself as a true professional, willing to do what is best for her work and the world of design as a whole. The aesthetic of being a couple in the workplace MARGARET SHERIDAN Daily Style Editor Unlike the students who were willing to test the waters with some brand of a biology major and organic chemistry, I learned really early on that pre-med wasn’t for me. Maybe it’s my lack of willpower for work of disinterest (i.e., anything my parents expected of me). Or, perhaps, my willingness to better exert myself into topics of my interest. I can’t truly put my finger on it. All I know was that there wasn’t enough space for me in physics, so I took an art class my sophomore year of high school and my life changed forever. While my grade in the class soared and I scored a place in the city-wide art show, my math exams were about as dismal as they had ever been in my entire life. My mother scorned me, but in retrospect, it strikes me a lot more as a tradeoff than as a failure; I’ve gone through a lot of charcoal over the years, but not very many math books. And though I still do believe I embody this artistic spirit, I can’t help but think of my earlier perceptions of what it meant to be a disillusioned artist. At 16, I saw artists on a different plane from people who had more “pragmatic” goals for the future in mind. Who really needed to know anything beyond their purest craft when guided by passion? I thought that simply because I enjoyed portraiture (and, not gonna lie, I was pretty damn good at it), I would make it as an artist simply by merit of this fact and the idea that other people who were guided by fear of financial stability were sellouts. For people like a 16-year-old me, I have one thing to ask you: Are you miserable yet? As heavy consumers of art, whether it be on Soundcloud or at the Detroit Institute of Arts, we’re quick to blame artists when it’s obvious their piece was produced for mass appeal. We challenge them to revert back to truer versions of themselves, to adopt a style that strikes us more genuine. But can you truly do this when you base your entire career off of art? Is it really that easy to brave your most personal work to the world without fear of rejection? I say all of this because I wanted a career based off of art. I wanted all my life’s accomplishments latched onto a project that spoke to my personal experiences and those of others. And perhaps that might’ve come to fruition if I stuck at it. But when I graduated high school, it struck me that passion and talent alone wouldn’t get you anywhere; you had to be able to sell yourself and if there’s anything I can’t do, it’s that. I opened myself up for commissioning and Instagramming my artwork a few months prior to starting college. My art teacher recommended me to some people in the city interested in portraits and then people on the internet would message me. I remember thinking, “This is my big break.” I just had to get my name recognized. I tried everything from submitting my work to art galleries to buying fancy frames to make my work look more professional. It was a lot of paper filling, a lot of time inside and alone in the summer. But it was worth it for what I loved, right? I quickly learned that the thing with trying to get people to buy your art is that your vision doesn’t mean much to them. This isn’t to say your signature and work doesn’t matter — it does, and people will appreciate it regardless. The thing is, you lose a bit of what makes your art yours when your production is dependent on the approval of others. I remember looking back at my art at the end of that summer and despising everything I made; it struck me how different it all looked from pieces I had made in the past. It lacked the pops of color I liked integrating into my black and white pieces, the 3-D textures I carved in for a signature style. There was no development as far as I could see; there’s just not much leeway when people request very specifically that you draw a photoreal portrait of their dog in black and white. I don’t think these feelings apply for everyone. Some people master the art of business and the business of art. So go on, make your YouTube channel, post your photography on Instagram. I think the problem for me was that I couldn’t find balance between the two. I was always either way too fixated on promoting my art or not doing enough of it. Perhaps I could’ve done things differently as an artist — found projects I liked or stuck to a more authentic representation of my art before promoting it to others. All things considered, I don’t think I wasted my time with this experience. I learned that even though I love producing art, it requires a lot of alone time, something I’ll already apt at providing myself with as an introvert. And now, as I study to become a teacher, I find my artwork a lot less prolific, a lot more deliberate. I’m genuinely content with my portfolio slowly expanding in the top right corner of my dorm room, even if no one ever gets to see any of it. In pursuit of a paycheck, or, how I learned to stop worrying and not get paid DIANA YASSIN Daily Arts Writer So go on, make your YouTube channel, post your photography on Instagram. I think the problem for me was that I couldn’t find the balance between the two B-SIDE B-SIDE B-SIDE Why, you might ask, would people mix home life with work life? 4B —Thursday, January 24, 2019 b-side The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com