If I could create a tool for a problem we don’t fully understand yet, it would be something I call “The Unseen Pain Map” it is a travel safe mirror that shows you a heatmap of your body. It would reveal the places that are under stress or quietly deteriorating even if you haven’t noticed anything wrong yet.

The unknown problem in this sense is that some physical problems don’t show symptoms until it’s too late especially chronic ones like fatigue, tightness, or even emotional pain stored physically.

This idea comes from my own anxiety around health. I hate the feeling of not knowing when something is building up in my body. Sometimes I’ll feel fine one day and then suddenly wake up sick, or drained, or in pain. That unpredictability makes me feel disconnected from my own body creating trust issues with myself. As if im like I’m missing the warning signs. It happens with getting sick, with fatigue, and definitely with my period. It’s like my body knows what’s coming, but I don’t and I wish I had a way to see or feel it sooner.

The Unseen Pain Map would solve that. It wouldn’t diagnose, but it would visualize. Maybe the mirror glows orange on your shoulders because you’ve been clenching from stress. Maybe your stomach pulses red from tension before it becomes nausea. It’s about catching the subtle patterns we ignore or don’t even notice.

The line that really stuck with me from Benjamin’s reading was: “That which withers in the age of mechanical reproduction is the aura of the work of art.” I’ll be honest that when I first saw the word “aura,” I didn’t immediately think of art history. I thought of people. To me, aura is something spiritual and powerful. It’s when someone radiates a specific energy perhaps like a color, a glow, or a presence that goes beyond logic. There are people (and even fictional characters) whose aura makes them unforgettable, sometimes magnetic because of their high charisma or, sometimes terrifying.

Reading Benjamin’s take helped me realize that this same idea applies to art. Aura is what gives a painting or sculpture its sacredness. It’s that feeling when you stand in front of an original piece and you just feel… something. Something bigger than you. But when that piece is printed on a million posters or turned into a meme, that aura fades. It becomes normal and disposable unlike witnessing it in front of your eyes.

This really made me think about how I interact with art and media now. I see beautiful things online all the time, but they rarely “touch” me. Maybe it’s because I didn’t “arrive” at them; they were just handed to me by an algorithm. Nothing feels earned, and that changes the experience.

The author of this reading Benjamin made me ask myself about how seeing something over and over makes it more accessible, or less meaningful? It made me think about how aura may be about rarity which is something that this world may be lacking due to our technological progression making rarity hard to find. Especially now, with the rise of AI-generated art, it feels like anything can be produced instantly. But if anything can be made by anyone, at any time, does anything still feel special? The more we copy and mass-produce images, the more I wonder if we’re drifting even further from the kind of aura Benjamin was trying to preserve.

One passage from this reading that really stuck with me is McLuhan’s contrast between Renaissance art and the world of electronic media. This was really interesting to me because I never realized how media changes not just how we see things, but how we experience our role as a viewer. Renaissance art puts the viewer in a safe, distant place. It’s like you’re an outsider looking into a perfect scene from the edge of a piazza (which I had to look up because I wanted to see what that kind of space actually looks like from a third-person perspective). That “vanishing point” style created a visual world that made you feel like a detached observer.

But McLuhan says that today’s media doesn’t let us stay on the outside anymore. It pulls us in all at once. It reminds me of scrolling on TikTok or watching live news. Depending on what we see, there’s no clear line or break. No pause. No distance. We’re not just watching something happen. It feels like we’re part of it. That can be exciting, but also a little scary, especially when it’s something upsetting like a tragedy or internet drama.

Sometimes I notice that when I see something emotional or dramatic online, I carry it with me. It’s like my brain can’t tell the difference between watching and experiencing. That feeling of being pulled in all at once can be really exhausting. I think that’s part of why people burn out from the internet like we’re exposed to so much, so fast, and there’s no room to process. McLuhan’s idea helped me understand that this isn’t just random. It’s designed this way. This passage made me realize how deeply media design impacts how we feel and function. It’s not just about content. It’s about how we’re positioned as viewers if that makes sense.

After watching all the videos, I walked away with a deeper appreciation for how personal and experimental animation can be. One animation that stood out to me was “Rejected” by Don Hertzfeldt. It was hilarious, chaotic, and even a little disturbing. But in a way that stuck with me. Th awkward silences, random gore and weird humor reminded me of the mobile game like “Dumb Ways to Die ” and the youtube channnel “ExplosmEntertainment” as well as the animated series “Happy Tree Friends”. I liked how it didn’t take itself too seriously but still said something about media and madness.

Another favorite was “Logorama”, where all the characters were mostly known brand mascots. Seeing Ronald McDonald as a villain and the Michelin men as cops was both funny and unsettling. It was such a clever take on consumerism and how brands dominate our lives. The oil explosion at the end was quite eye opening in the sense like that was a literal collapse of capitalism.

“BEAUTY” by Rino Stefano was the complete opposite in tone. It was calming, gorgeous, and poetic. Watching art come to life with minimal motion felt like a whole meditation session. It made me think about how animation doesn’t have to be loud to be powerful.

Lastly, the Brooklyn Subway Zoetrope blew my mind because I’ve actually passed by it as a child and never realized it was animation. Seeing something familiar in a new way made me think about how animation is everywhere in real life not just in cartoons. I will be sure to look out for that again.

I listened to Yoko Ono’s Intro (Toilet Peace, Telephone Peace, Unidentified Noise) on the Ubu archive. I have to admit, I was really uncomfortable. The piece started with the sound of toilets flushing in strange, unnatural sequences. Instead of feeling peaceful or silly, it made me tense and uneasy. The flushing was exaggerated and repetitive, and it almost felt like something bad was about to happen.

After that came screechy, dissonant sounds that didn’t resemble anything familiar. It was harsh and piercing, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was listening to something out of a horror movie. I kept imagining some monster appearing behind me. I definitely did not enjoy this piece, but I think that’s part of what Yoko Ono intended? Which I think was to push the listener out of their comfort zone and make them question why certain noises feel unsettling.

I guess from that sense it can be seen as a form of art but not really an enjoyable one. Connecting it back to Russolo, I can see how noise can trigger strong emotions, even if they aren’t pleasant. He talked about how noise brings us back to life and surprises us, and this piece did exactly that.

Reading Russolo’s “The Art of Noise” made me think about sound in a completely new way. I never realized how much modern life is filled with noises that we usually ignore, and how those noises could actually be used as art. I connected to his excitement about industrial sounds and the raw energy they carry. His descriptions of sounds from the city like the engines rumbling, doors sliding, crowds murmuring made me want to listen more closely to the world around me, instead of tuning it out. It made me think about how I should stop using my headphones for one day to be more present listening for sounds I usually do not pay attention to because I prefer my music from my phone when commuting.

What I really liked was how bold he was in saying that we’re “fed up” with traditional music and that noises could be more interesting than hearing the same symphonies over and over. I admire that rebellious energy. I also loved the idea that noise brings us back to life, because it’s raw, unpredictable, and part of our real environment.

What I didn’t like was how harsh he was about traditional music. Despite the authors point of view, I think there’s still beauty in classical sounds, even if they’re familiar.

Today, I heard a sound as I was walking home from a claw machine arcade place. I had never noticed before. It came from an ambulance, but not the usual default sharp, high-pitched wail I usually expect. Instead, it was a deep, drawn-out “oooo” that stretched through the street? The noise didn’t just reach my ears, I felt it in my body (it kind of irritated me). It felt thick, as though the sound waves were heavy.