The art of pasta

In the vast emptiness of this earthly experience, I have found strength and joy, passion and beauty, awe and awareness.

My art is my life. I am nothing without it.

I first discovered the power of creative expression as a wonder-filled child, living a vague, homogenized suburban existence.

It was finger paints, perhaps, that opened my eyes. Or it could have been the textural stimulation of Play-Doh, or Legos and the intricacies of plastic piecewise architecture.

Once I had that first taste, however, I could not help but gorge myself on the feast of rich and sumptuous delicacies that is the creative world.

That world, for me, is macaroni sculpture.

I recognize that many find macaroni sculpture obscure, simplistic, pointless. But I know macaroni can transcend the boundaries of ordinary arts and achieve a new level of being.

I wouldn't expect my narrow-minded critics to understand. They didn't understand Norman Rockwell either.

I can only hope that at the sight of my glittering, abstract masterpieces, the art world will rediscover the miracle of macaroni.

It is my mission to revive this lost art. It is a calling that I have heard and answered.

Each day begins with a pot of fresh macaroni. I lay it out to dry before heading to lecture, then lovingly coat each piece with carefully-mixed lacquer.

Later, I add glitter, colors or texture, and meditate on the project at hand. What is the macaroni trying to tell me? What can I and the macaroni, together, tell the world?

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Sometimes I work in two dimensions, forming intricate patterns on cardboard, plywood or poster-board surfaces. When I'm feeling a little wild, I construct elaborate three-dimensional structures. This is when the true art emerges.

My studio is my dorm room, because the University rejected my proposal for a creative thesis: a full-scale model of Moses parting the Red Sea in various pastas. Oh, the institutionalization of art. The straightjacket of the visual arts department is strangling creativity on this campus.

Creative expression is a way of getting in touch with one's inner soul. My inner soul sings of macaroni, of those delicate curves and gentle tubes. Who are they to reject that? Who are they to say this isn't worthy?

I think of this as I work. I think of the limitations I face. I have to pay for my own materials. I have to make due with paltry dormroom lighting. Eventually, I will have to cut back on my macaroni-sculpting to write my "real" thesis, on Wiccan spirituality, for the religion department.

At these moments, I curse the University. I curse the art world. What is a movie, a play, a photography exhibit to my macaroni masterpieces?

Sometimes, when the fury overwhelms me, I hurl macaroni around my room. What a cruel world! What a cruel existence!

I hope to have a full exhibit prepared by May. The Eiffel Tower in macaroni. The Matterhorn in macaroni. And my crowning achievement, a series on the attributes of woman — sensuality, innocence, temptation, lust, domination and rage — in cappellini, rotini, ziti, spaghetti and, of course, macaroni.

Andromeda Stardust '01 is a religion major from Woodstock, N.Y. She cannot be reached via e-mail, as she does not believe in modern technology.