From 1a0c6ea68f9d00bf3814ef722eb72b891ba58284 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: fosevv Date: Sun, 4 Apr 2021 21:30:18 -0400 Subject: [PATCH 1/2] refac: text-consts to obj, strip eval(), Prettier-reformat --- script.js | 222 +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++--------------------- texts.js | 166 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++-------------- 2 files changed, 244 insertions(+), 144 deletions(-) diff --git a/script.js b/script.js index f28f022..1d35302 100644 --- a/script.js +++ b/script.js @@ -3,150 +3,198 @@ let histack = []; // handle nav between levels via browser back arrow $(() => { - if (history && history.pushState) { - - history.pushState({level: 1}, ''); - histack.push(1); - - $(window).on('popstate', () => { - const prev = histack.pop(); - if (prev == 2) { toggletab('hide', true); } - else if (prev == 3) { toggletab('hide2', true); } - else if (prev == 4) { togglefull('hide', true); } - }); - } -}) + history.pushState({ level: 1 }, ""); + histack.push(1); + + $(window).on("popstate", () => { + const prev = histack.pop(); + if (prev == 2) { + toggletab("hide", true); + } else if (prev == 3) { + toggletab("hide2", true); + } else if (prev == 4) { + togglefull("hide", true); + } + }); +}); // hide / show first-level folders toggletab = (id, flag) => { - if (id == 'hide') { - $('#content').scrollTop(0); - $('#content')[0].innerHTML = ''; - $('.overlay').css('display', 'none'); - if (!flag) { history.back(); } - } - else if (id == 'hide2') { - $('.overlay2').remove(); - if (!flag) { history.back(); } - } - else { - const selected = eval(id); - let two = ''; + if (id == "hide") { + $("#content").scrollTop(0); + $("#content")[0].innerHTML = ""; + $(".overlay").css("display", "none"); + if (!flag) { + history.back(); + } + } else if (id == "hide2") { + $(".overlay2").remove(); + if (!flag) { + history.back(); + } + } else { + const selected = TEXTS[id]; + let two = ""; - if (id != 'Photography') { - history.pushState({level: 2}, ''); + if (id != "Photography") { + history.pushState({ level: 2 }, ""); histack.push(2); } - if (id == 'Art') { - $('#content')[0].innerHTML += '
Photography
'; + if (id == "Art") { + $("#content")[0].innerHTML += + '
Photography
'; } - if (id == 'Photography') { - $('body').append('
'); - two = '2'; - history.pushState({level: 3}, ''); + if (id == "Photography") { + $("body").append( + '
' + ); + two = "2"; + history.pushState({ level: 3 }, ""); histack.push(3); } - if (id == 'Contact' || id == 'Statement') { $('#content')[0].innerHTML = selected; } - else { + if (id == "Contact" || id == "Statement") { + $("#content")[0].innerHTML = selected; + } else { for (let i = 0; i < selected.length; i++) { - $('#content' + two)[0].innerHTML += '
' + selected[i] + '
'; + $("#content" + two)[0].innerHTML += + '
' + + selected[i] + + "
"; } } - $('.overlay' + two).css('display', 'block'); - $('.title' + two)[0].innerHTML = id; + $(".overlay" + two).css("display", "block"); + $(".title" + two)[0].innerHTML = id; } -} +}; let blurb = false; let pics = true; // toggle top-level galleries togglefull = (id, flag, n = null) => { - if (id == 'hide') { + if (id == "hide") { if (pics) { - $('.pic-container').remove(); + $(".pic-container").remove(); } if (blurb) { - $('#blurb')[0].remove(); + $("#blurb")[0].remove(); blurb = false; } - if (!flag) { history.back(); } + if (!flag) { + history.back(); + } - $('#content-full').scrollTop(0); - $('.overlay-full').css('display', 'none'); - } - else { - const title = id[n]; - let selected = title.replace(/\s/g, ''); - if (selected == '120') { selected = '_120'; } - else if (selected == 'Tiana/Time') { selected = title.replace(/[\/]/, ''); } - const captblurb = eval(selected); - const l = sizes[selected]; - - history.pushState({level: 4}, ''); + $("#content-full").scrollTop(0); + $(".overlay-full").css("display", "none"); + } else { + const title = TEXTS[id][n]; + let selected = title.replace(/\s/g, ""); + if (selected == "120") { + selected = "_120"; + } else if (selected == "Tiana/Time") { + selected = title.replace(/[\/]/, ""); + } + const captblurb = TEXTS[selected]; + const l = TEXTS.sizes[selected]; + + history.pushState({ level: 4 }, ""); histack.push(4); - if (selected == '_120') { selected = '120'; } + if (selected == "_120") { + selected = "120"; + } pics = true; - $('#content-full').append('
'); + $("#content-full").append('
'); if (Array.isArray(captblurb)) { for (let i = 0; i < l; i++) { - $('.pic-container')[0].innerHTML += '
' + captblurb[i] + '
'; + $(".pic-container")[0].innerHTML += + '
' + + captblurb[i] + + "
"; } - } - else { + } else { if (captblurb.length > 0) { - $('#content-full').prepend('
' + captblurb + '
'); + $("#content-full").prepend('
' + captblurb + "
"); blurb = true; } if (l) { for (let i = 0; i < l; i++) { - $('.pic-container')[0].innerHTML += '
'; + $(".pic-container")[0].innerHTML += + '
'; } - } - else { - $('.pic-container').remove(); + } else { + $(".pic-container").remove(); pics = false; } } - $('.overlay-full').css('display', 'block'); - $('.title-full')[0].innerHTML = title; + $(".overlay-full").css("display", "block"); + $(".title-full")[0].innerHTML = title; } -} +}; // display fullsize images with options for cycling thru images fullsize = (i, ii) => { - const s = i.split('/'); - const si = sizes[s[s.length - 2]]; - $('body').append('
'); -} + const s = i.split("/"); + const si = TEXTS.sizes[s[s.length - 2]]; + $("body").append( + '
' + ); +}; // move left or right through fullsize images move = (d, s) => { - const p = $('#fullimage')[0].src.split('/'); - let i = +p.pop().split('.')[0]; - - if (d == 'left') { - if (i > 0) { i -= 1; } - else { i = s + ((i % -s) - 1); } + const p = $("#fullimage")[0].src.split("/"); + let i = +p.pop().split(".")[0]; + + if (d == "left") { + if (i > 0) { + i -= 1; + } else { + i = s + ((i % -s) - 1); + } + } else { + i = (i + 1) % s; } - else { i = (i + 1) % s; } - $('#fullimage')[0].src = p.join('/') + '/' + i + '.jpg'; -} + $("#fullimage")[0].src = p.join("/") + "/" + i + ".jpg"; +}; let light = true; // toggle light -> dark mode mode = () => { - let f = (light) ? 'styles-dark.css' : 'styles-light.css'; - let b = (light) ? 'icon/White-Bomb.png' : 'icon/Black-Bomb.png'; - $('#css').attr('href', f); - $('#mode').attr('src', b); + let f = light ? "styles-dark.css" : "styles-light.css"; + let b = light ? "icon/White-Bomb.png" : "icon/Black-Bomb.png"; + $("#css").attr("href", f); + $("#mode").attr("src", b); light = !light; -} +}; diff --git a/texts.js b/texts.js index e81bbdb..e0c9088 100644 --- a/texts.js +++ b/texts.js @@ -1,57 +1,109 @@ -// number of photos in each gallery -const sizes = { - Painting: 9, Drawing: 8, Sculpture: 4, StreetArt: 8, - DollHouse: 20, Dreaming: 12, EsheteWoldeyilma: 13, _120: 9, Portraits: 10, StillLife: 15, Street: 10, - Chapbook: 6, Zine: 7, FilmTranslation: 5, - DigitalDistancing: 9, Tiled: 7, TianaTime: 11, Screensavers: 4, CSSParser: 2 -} - -const Tech = ['Digital Distancing', 'Tiled', 'Tiana/Time', 'Screensavers', 'CSS Parser']; -const Design = ['Zine', 'Chapbook', 'Film Translation']; -const Writing = ['How to Say Goodbye to a Stranger', 'We Have Seen the Best of Our Times']; -const Art = ['Painting', 'Drawing', 'Sculpture', 'Street Art']; -const Photography = ['Doll House', 'Dreaming', 'Eshete Woldeyilma', '120', 'Portraits', 'Still Life', 'Street']; - -const Contact = '

b. 1998: Brooklyn, NYC

Yale 2021: B.A. Computing & the Arts


Email: jackadam@aya.yale.edu

Instagram: @jack.adam

LinkedIn: Jack Adam


website custom by myself

'; -const Statement = '

As a technologist and artist, I’m interested in technology’s human element. Instead of classifying technology by the ‘goals’ or ‘tasks’ it can perform, I make work that seeks to reimagine its many ‘purposes’. Though my work is largely digital, it is motivated by physical processes. My methodology employs looking, tracking, and recording. I hope that this process of discovery helps us realize collectively the possibilities of technology for good, bad, and trivial.

As the world becomes more virtual, I’ve grown increasingly unsentimental toward my digital life, and rather unnerved by the lack of distance between the second and third dimensions. I see images as tools that break down and bring to light the gray area between the worlds of the mundane and of the obscure, and image-making as a bridge between these two.

As the dimensions drift, digital distance becomes palpable. In this narrowing gray area, I see my desires—for intimacy, imagination, self-actualization—as states of being, and I seek to capture them as objects.

I apply this same framework to technology. Do we desire our devices and how they empower us? Do we like our data, the look and feel of it? Do we recognize our digital selves and what they let us believe?

'; - -const Painting = ['After Keith Haring, 2019
30 x 30 in.
Acrylic on canvas
STATEMENT', -'Lovers, 2019
22 x 29 in.
Acrylic, ink on foam board', -'Evidence for a Large Exomoon Orbiting Kepler-1625b, 2018–2019
35 x 47 in. (each 35 x 23.5 in.)
Wall paint, acrylic paint on wood panels', -'A Flag Belongs, 2018
26 x 45 in.
Paper, ink, embroidery on unprimed canvas', -'Untitled, 2018
16 x 12 in.
Ink with bamboo pen on cardstock', -'Birth, 2017
30 x 24 in.
Acrylic paint, ink, paper, spray paint on canvas', -'Election Day, 2016
20 x 14 in.
Ink with bamboo pen on cardstock', -'Charlie-Gibbs Fracture Zone, 2018
23 x 29 in.
Wall paint, spray paint, acrylic paint on wood panel', -'El techo de tu cuarto, 2018
18 x 48 in.
Glass paint and block printing ink on paper' -]; - -const Sculpture = [ -'Fixing a Hole, 2019
48 x 16 in.
Candle wax on wood', -'Cerulean (Light), 2019
33 x 22 in.
Acrylic, wall paint, thread, nails, superglue on canvas', -'Sidetable, 2019
18.5 x 24 in.
Pine, ash, brass, resin', -'Solar Storm Above the Spanish Empire, 2018
49 x 14 in.
Dye, embroidery, blood, paper ticket on unprimed canvas' -]; -const DollHouse = 'Doll House explores voyeurism through scenes of surreal domesticity at night. Produced across two states and in twelve homes, it is a phantasmagorical illustration of privacy in the twenty-first century and, through this, it attempts to define the fabricated lives that we live.

Associated Exhibition with Head On photo festival 2016
Breathing Colours Gallery, Balmain, NSW, Australia'; -const StreetArt = 'Yashica-A, 1959–69
Polaroid SX-70, 1972–81
Argus C-Four, 1951–57

#whoshotwho on Instagram'; -const Dreaming = 'Dreaming is a series of abstract, theatrical representations of experiences and emotions.

Exhibited in Interlude Project with Five Myles Gallery, November 2015 – Febuary 2016'; -const EsheteWoldeyilma = 'Regally draped in blanket and cloth, Eshete Woldeyilma is a patchwork king. Nearly everyone in my Brooklyn neighborhood of mild-mannered businessmen and stay-at-home moms has seen him, but few have taken the time to speak with him. I didn’t meet Eshete myself until 2013, when I stopped him in the middle of the street and asked to take his photograph. After perusing the developed roll of film, I quickly became dissatisfied by how detached and impersonal the images were, and how my relationship to my subject was nothing more than that of an onlooker or bystander. Nonetheless, I remained fascinated by Eshete’s sturdy form caught in the silver grain, and I so I resolved to do better. I would change my approach to get the photographs I wanted. Since then, I’ve been following Eshete’s movements with the seasons and photographing him in his nook on Columbia Street, where the concrete meets the New York harbor, and rusty cranes loom heavy in the sky.

As we spent time in places such as the now-closed Community Bookstore, I started noticing the uncomfortable and churlish looks we received from those I had considered members of my community, once even from the father of a family I babysat for. I am not one of the silver-spoon-in-mouth children of gentrification; my family has lived in South Brooklyn since 1939. My grandmother didn’t leave her family in Puerto Rico because she thought Brooklyn looked like the hip place to be, and she didn’t fight for a ZIP Code; she bought property where the banks were afraid to sell. I met Eshete at a time when I was struggling to see a community of people around me with stories similar to those of my family. Like my grandmother, Eshete came to America in search of a better job, and a better life. He fled Ethiopia in 1997, and used to have an apartment on Columbia Street until he was evicted in 2010.

My conversations with Eshete could often be repetitive as we discussed the changing neighborhood, with its old-timers passing away, and the mom and pop shops closing, but regardless, my visits began to last longer, and I began to photograph him more closely, and more candidly. I believe that when you draw, paint, or photograph an individual, you are not capturing their form, but their energy. By candidly photographing Eshete, I am refusing to curate his existence or to impose my views upon his story.

On a Friday night, three years after we all met, Eshete and I stroll into a diner, accompanied by Jeneane, who teaches in the city and visits Eshete often. As we enter, the staff eagerly welcomes Eshete and he responds with a booming “Heellooo!” and a presidential wave. We are cordially offered the table in the front window, and Jeneane orders the usual burgers for the table. Eshete, trying not to shout, attempts to recount the brutality from the police, and the never-ending, steadily-escalating abuse from the neighborhood. When a second waiter approaches our table to catch up on Eshete’s story, I begin to realize that the true members of my community are those gathered around our table, all of whom can effortlessly overlook Eshete’s appearance and circumvent the easy stereotypes.

Eshete is not someone I would consider to be “regular” or “average,” but now I’m able to appreciate his uniqueness; it’s of a type rarely found in my neighborhood. His ostracization has worn away at his English, but I’ve found ways to use photography to bridge that gap. In order to understand him, I’ll keep taking his photograph. As I’ve continued to document his story, the camera has allowed me to foster a friendship that I wouldn’t otherwise have had access to, and as a result, I’ve finally created the images I couldn’t find back in 2013.'; -const _120 = 'An attempt to capture intimacy.
48 hours on the streets of NYC traveling by skateboard and by foot.' - -const Chapbook = 'Hauser and O\'Brien is the \'final\' vignette from William S. Burroughs\' Naked Lunch (1959).

This chapbook was typeset in Arhnem for ART 264, Fall 2019 at the Yale University School of Art in New Haven, Connecticut.

Edition of 9 – inquire for price.'; -const FilmTranslation = 'This book charts a one-minute clip from George A. Romero\'s Night of the Living Dead (1968). Specifically, it tracks facial expressions, sounds, and actions that create sounds.

Each panel\'s width is proportional to the length of the shot, and its lightness corresponds to the amount of light in the shot. Background noises and non-diegetic sounds are set near the bottom of the page, whereas dialogue and other sounds are set towards the top.

Typeset in Univers and Weidemann for ART 264, Fall 2019 at the Yale University School of Art in New Haven, Connecticut.'; -const Zine = 'Enclosed is a series of ten journal entries that consider the relationship between technology and physical distancing, and document the process of developing my senior project in Computing & the Arts, titled Digital Distancing.

The blue and green lines are computer-generated visualizations of location and time data extracted from smartphone images and plotted as paths in space.

This zine was typeset in Suisse Int\'l for ART 368, Fall 2020 at the Yale University School of Art in New Haven, Connecticut.

Edition unlimited – inquire for price.'; - -const HowtoSayGoodbyetoaStranger = 'This essay first appeared in The Indypendent on May 5, 2020. Read it on their site or read it on mine.

For two decades I’ve lived on this short block in Downtown Brooklyn and I can remember nearly every moving truck that I’ve seen come and go. My mother grew up only several blocks away and so I was taught from a young age that knowing your neighbors is as important a responsibility as any.

Since quarantine began, my block, like many others across the city, has participated in a nightly celebration for essential workers. For the first few uncertain nights, my family crammed into our front windows, shoulders touching as we clapped and hollered, struggling to be seen and heard through the trees which grow in our front yard’s shallow dirt plots. We were without a target but were determined to be present. Even if our enthusiasm wasn’t matched by our neighbors, we were prepared to be — as usual — just a bit scrappier and more old-school than most.

As the celebration continued to spread, new faces emerged daily, bringing their pots, pans and cooped up voices to the street. For a glorious, lawless, uplifting three minutes, we began doing what seemed impossible: creating community in isolation.

These days, community feels like an ever-fleeting concept, gone with the families run away to their weekend homes. It’s been a month since I’ve interacted with another member of my generation and so I become giddy when I think of strolling through the neighborhood and being met by beaming, uncovered, familiar faces. Like much of my dreary life in quarantine, I’ll admit that the clapping has become somewhat of a routine. Daily at around 6:50 I feel an enlivening urge to put on a shirt and push up the windows. I’d grown content with this routine until one evening the celebration began without me.

A young woman directly across the street was leaning confidently out of her window, sounding the alarm with a cowbell and howling at the sky as the hour hand struck seven. I could be contained no longer and threw open the front door, bursting onto the stoop where, barefoot and in baggy sweatpants, I jumped up and down, shaking my novelty maracas toward her window. I felt as if my ship had finally spotted land on the horizon. Only after everyone else had retreated into their windows and doorways did she and I share an enthusiastic parting wave. The woman shouted that she’d see me tomorrow. It was a date.

From that evening on, sharing the celebration with my new friend became a sort of responsibility. When I’m late to kickoff, I feel as if I’m standing her up. And when I’m early, I feel as Romeo must have when he was beneath Juliet’s balcony. No matter which of us arrives first, we always leave together.

But now that the rigid oak trees on our block have softened with springtime growth, her face is obscured — until the wind rushes past her fifth-story window and I catch a glimpse of a smile and her walnut-brown hair.

Sometimes it seems that the more we know about this virus, the less certain we are about how our lives will look over the coming months. I’ve made peace with the fact that I can’t change the news. But I’m not sure over what else more I can relinquish control. The more we know about this virus, the less I know what to rely on.

I’ve said goodbye to friends outside airport terminals and on doorsteps — friends with whom I thought I’d be back on campus with by now, friends I should’ve hugged more tightly. As much as I thought it wouldn’t bother me to lose sight of my new friend’s eager face, it’s begun to haunt me with a sense of hopelessness. When we clap, we celebrate our shortcomings and the things we cannot lose: our pots, pans, unsteady spirits — for these are all we can be sure of.

Under other circumstances, I might be unwilling to tell a story without knowing how it ends. Right now, I feel quite content doing so, because uncertainty is one of the few things of which I’ll never have to let go.

The hour hand is just past seven and my hands are still sore from clapping against the howling wind. Lockdown has to end eventually, right? And won’t we lose interest in this whole clapping thing soon enough, too? So long as I stay between these four walls, I know what to expect from my day and from my block. But when we open up, everything will again be uncertain — novel, difficult, and uncertain. As things are, we’ve said far too many goodbyes, and I’m not ready to say ‘goodbye’ to another stranger.

When I was younger, on the first morning of a new school year, my mother would ask me how I felt.

“Anxious,” I might say. “Nervous.” She would try to calm me, explaining that I was feeling excited. Since then, I’ve come to characterize most of my anxiety as being of the “first day of kindergarten” type. Go ahead, ask me how I feel today. Just like September, we’re again on the cusp of a great change in our lives. Soon we’ll all learn how to write our names, how to count. We’ll decide what stays and what goes: handshakes, six feet of distance, masks.

Uncertainty has always been a part of life and lockdown has only amplified that. But this uncertainty is an opportunity for change, much like a new school year or a first date. For the first time in my life, I think I am learning to feel excited, not anxious, about the uncertainty before me.

Even so, there are days when I am hopeless. Just once, I’d like to pull the wool over my eyes and believe that I’m a crucial cog in this big, unprecedented situation. And maybe in a small way, inside the ecosystem of my block, I am essential. The clapping is always there for me and I pledge to be there for it — for the woman across the way, whom I hope to one day know, for the children caught by surprise at the clamor as they scooter by, and for all my neighbors I’ve yet to meet. Come autumn, when the withering oak leaves start to pile up along the curb, I’ll be waiting. We’ll all emerge together and look in awe at one another, an orange glow on our faces as the sun rises on a town reborn.'; -const WeHaveSeentheBestofOurTimes = 'BROOKLYN — January 2021.

During the last week of his life, my grandfather refused to eat. His demise felt familiar. It felt like this was the second or third time I’d watched him die. Though I couldn’t have known it then, by the time I left elementary school and his decade-long battle with dementia was beginning, much of our relationship was already in the past.

Some universal experiences make even the most stoic feel as though they’ve died a bit. Loss is atop that list. Though who am I to make such generalizations: at the age of twenty-two, I have only experienced loss once before. My grandfather lived to be ninety-five, but I think he was dying all the time. My grandfather, I think, experienced loss quite often—namely, he lost himself. I don’t invoke the phrase “to lose oneself” lightly, for fear of associating his dementia with a spiritually-motivated road trip. People return from road trips and vacations with stories to tell and with proud declarations of greater personal clarity. Sometimes, they find what they were looking for and never return. Sometimes, they keep looking for the rest of their lives.

Because this series of little losses overshadows my memory of him, I’m not sure I’d ever be able to tell the grand story of his life. I could make an exhaustive list of all the days when he lost bits of himself, or I could simply accept him as the reserved, stationary man that I knew. No matter how many disparate memories I pull together, they’ll never quite do him justice. But I’ll try, because I feel I must.

One such storied day is when the Yankees won the World Series and a parade was held in the Canyon of Heroes. Excited bodies moved through the streets as the Brooklyn Bridge and the FDR Drive came to a standstill, leaving my grandfather stranded amidst the celebration. My mother says that he was always a quiet man, but that he spoke even less after that day.

Another day, two years before I was born, his wife, the grandmother I never knew, passed away from cancer. I’ve heard many times the story of how my great aunt came from Puerto Rico to be with her sister, how she spread laughter and joy throughout the hospital. The whole family shared lunch around her bed as she passed.

Maybe most consequential is the day my grandfather could no longer lead his troop of Boy Scouts. After that, he would perform small tasks around the camp. Today, he was buried in his uniform.

There are certainly more of these days to be listed, but they feel insufficient. I don’t entirely trust myself to tell a story that I have only ever seen as being in the process of ending. I feel the bind of the narrator, caught between two kinds of storytelling: objective, biographical writing and subjective self-pity. This balancing act is not new to me: I struggle to divorce any story from myself and my fragile sense of mortality. But I enter the bind, anyway, because I mourn my grandfather and his story, though I realize the inadequacies of the small stories we shared. Many of his hopes, fears, and losses I will never know.

In this time of great loss, when it is the whole man and not only parts of him that have gone missing, I hold one physical piece of proof that our stories overlapped, that despite his confused countenance when I greeted him, there are certain stories we share. The proof is an aged piece of paper stamped with heavy black letters that reads: IF YOU ARE IN THE GARAGE THEN REMEMBER TO PICK UP JACK. When my grandfather hung this sign, I was attending elementary school around the corner from his house, and he was an avid builder, fixer, and maker who spent hours a day working in his garage—apparently often losing track of time.

Despite the singularity of this memory, it fills me with pessimism. Maybe it isn’t the moments of our lives which form the bases of our stories, but the wars, crises, bubbles, and bursts. Maybe it’s unreasonable to think that we have the framework to tell a story without knowing when it’ll end—but we try, because we feel we must. And we hope that death is no more consequential an event than birth, or any of life’s joys.

Part of this sacred commitment to storytelling is to ensure that future generations understand those who came before them. I may not have met those whose dedication to finding opportunity and prosperity shuffled families onto boats and across oceans, but these stories nonetheless fill me with awe. I want to feel emotions so potent that I am compelled to give up everything I have; I want to feel compelled to trek across the globe for the love of people I am sure I will never hold.

We’re told to “live every moment as if it’s your last” and yet sometimes I wonder if we have seen the best of our times. That question is unanswerable, and such a fact brings about in me a fear of attachment. Food rots, skin droops, fabrics unravel, people move away, and utensils fall behind the stove. Saying goodbye is a constant process like the weathering of stone. Every day you reintroduce yourself to your greatest fears. Every day you try to live in the present.

The present is this gray January in 2021. I’ve returned home for an indeterminate amount of time. When I stroll through my neighborhood, I’m met by younger versions of myself leaning against brick walls or sitting on fire hydrants, carrying groceries or a backpack, burning daylight or savoring the last moments of a sunset over the Promenade. These memories feel disappointingly disparate, like each happened in different realities that briefly overlap to reveal footprints on the bluestone sidewalks. I wish each of these memories could form a cohesive narrative, some linear progression from which I could write a story of myself. I wish I could walk in peace alongside these memories, to not be haunted by the notion of an overarching story, but to be kept company by my past selves. I wonder if my grandfather saw past versions of himself looming as he lost his memory. I wonder if he felt haunted by them, if he wanted them to return to his body, or if he simply watched their shadows on the walls.

When I show friends around Brooklyn, I’m often embarrassed by wanting to share the most mundane memories, but these are the stories that stick because of the feelings they create. Wars and crises will burst through the front pages of newspapers and just as quickly fade from view because they are not felt in the body. Despite the little losses our bodies incur daily, it is our stories that keep us alive through time.

Because of this, I believe that the story of the last time I saw my grandfather will be one that sticks. The story goes like this: my mother and I sat with him in his sun-filled bedroom and we watched a Sandra Bullock film with too many commercials. It was perfect.'; - -const TianaTime = 'Tiana/Time is a virtual art exhibition and catalogue designed for a global audience.

Presented in three parts, the exhibition can be viewed live, chronologically, or as an archive. Over the course of 24 hours, the live gallery cycles through the exhibition\'s 180 images, picking the current image based on a user\'s time zone. The chronological gallery includes poetry and audio alongside the images which are divided into 9 segments corresponding to the time of day they were captured. The archive divides images by the country in which they were captured, and allows users to query these categories using tags such as "People," "Water," and "Architecture."

The exhibition opened on May 1, 2020 amid the Covid-19 outbreak in the U.S., and at the end of a remotely-conducted spring semester at Yale University. At a time when our peers and colleagues were spread across the globe, and the digital capacity of our university was stretched, the exhibition sought to respond to the moment.

Check out the code or view the full project.'; -const DigitalDistancing = 'Digital Distancing is a senior project in Computing & the Arts at Yale University.

The project considers the relationship between distance and technology in the era of social distancing in order to define a framework for understanding ourselves through our data. It is comprised of a journal, a pair of data collection and extraction tools, and visualizations of this data.

Check out the code or view the full project.'; -const Tiled = 'Tiled is a text abstraction tool for ART 469, Spring 2021 at Yale University. The tool both figuratively and literally considers the shape of language.

Check out the code or view the full project.'; -const Screensavers = 'A pair of endlessly looping screensavers that reflect on time, distance, and the process of looking.

Passing City Skyline

Rainy ASCII Window'; -const CSSParser = 'CSS Parser is a tool that identifies, removes, and/or defines unused classes and IDs in .css files.

The tool prompts a user for paths to .css and .html files before printing the undefined classes and IDs in each file. It then prints the unused classes and IDs with their corresponding file names and line numbers. Finally, the tool re-writes the given .css files without these unused classes and IDs, adding definitions for previously undefined style rules.

Check out the code.'; - -const Drawing = ''; -const Portraits = ''; -const StillLife = ''; -const Street = ''; +const TEXTS = { + // number of photos in each gallery + sizes: { + Painting: 9, + Drawing: 8, + Sculpture: 4, + StreetArt: 8, + DollHouse: 20, + Dreaming: 12, + EsheteWoldeyilma: 13, + _120: 9, + Portraits: 10, + StillLife: 15, + Street: 10, + Chapbook: 6, + Zine: 7, + FilmTranslation: 5, + DigitalDistancing: 9, + Tiled: 7, + TianaTime: 11, + Screensavers: 4, + CSSParser: 2, + }, + + Tech: [ + "Digital Distancing", + "Tiled", + "Tiana/Time", + "Screensavers", + "CSS Parser", + ], + Design: ["Zine", "Chapbook", "Film Translation"], + Writing: [ + "How to Say Goodbye to a Stranger", + "We Have Seen the Best of Our Times", + ], + Art: ["Painting", "Drawing", "Sculpture", "Street Art"], + Photography: [ + "Doll House", + "Dreaming", + "Eshete Woldeyilma", + "120", + "Portraits", + "Still Life", + "Street", + ], + + Contact: + '

b. 1998: Brooklyn, NYC

Yale 2021: B.A. Computing & the Arts


Email: jackadam@aya.yale.edu

Instagram: @jack.adam

LinkedIn: Jack Adam


website custom by myself

', + Statement: + "

As a technologist and artist, I’m interested in technology’s human element. Instead of classifying technology by the ‘goals’ or ‘tasks’ it can perform, I make work that seeks to reimagine its many ‘purposes’. Though my work is largely digital, it is motivated by physical processes. My methodology employs looking, tracking, and recording. I hope that this process of discovery helps us realize collectively the possibilities of technology for good, bad, and trivial.

As the world becomes more virtual, I’ve grown increasingly unsentimental toward my digital life, and rather unnerved by the lack of distance between the second and third dimensions. I see images as tools that break down and bring to light the gray area between the worlds of the mundane and of the obscure, and image-making as a bridge between these two.

As the dimensions drift, digital distance becomes palpable. In this narrowing gray area, I see my desires—for intimacy, imagination, self-actualization—as states of being, and I seek to capture them as objects.

I apply this same framework to technology. Do we desire our devices and how they empower us? Do we like our data, the look and feel of it? Do we recognize our digital selves and what they let us believe?

", + + Painting: [ + 'After Keith Haring, 2019
30 x 30 in.
Acrylic on canvas
STATEMENT', + "Lovers, 2019
22 x 29 in.
Acrylic, ink on foam board", + "Evidence for a Large Exomoon Orbiting Kepler-1625b, 2018–2019
35 x 47 in. (each 35 x 23.5 in.)
Wall paint, acrylic paint on wood panels", + "A Flag Belongs, 2018
26 x 45 in.
Paper, ink, embroidery on unprimed canvas", + "Untitled, 2018
16 x 12 in.
Ink with bamboo pen on cardstock", + "Birth, 2017
30 x 24 in.
Acrylic paint, ink, paper, spray paint on canvas", + "Election Day, 2016
20 x 14 in.
Ink with bamboo pen on cardstock", + "Charlie-Gibbs Fracture Zone, 2018
23 x 29 in.
Wall paint, spray paint, acrylic paint on wood panel", + "El techo de tu cuarto, 2018
18 x 48 in.
Glass paint and block printing ink on paper", + ], + + Sculpture: [ + "Fixing a Hole, 2019
48 x 16 in.
Candle wax on wood", + "Cerulean (Light), 2019
33 x 22 in.
Acrylic, wall paint, thread, nails, superglue on canvas", + "Sidetable, 2019
18.5 x 24 in.
Pine, ash, brass, resin", + "Solar Storm Above the Spanish Empire, 2018
49 x 14 in.
Dye, embroidery, blood, paper ticket on unprimed canvas", + ], + DollHouse: + 'Doll House explores voyeurism through scenes of surreal domesticity at night. Produced across two states and in twelve homes, it is a phantasmagorical illustration of privacy in the twenty-first century and, through this, it attempts to define the fabricated lives that we live.

Associated Exhibition with Head On photo festival 2016
Breathing Colours Gallery, Balmain, NSW, Australia', + StreetArt: + 'Yashica-A, 1959–69
Polaroid SX-70, 1972–81
Argus C-Four, 1951–57

#whoshotwho on Instagram', + Dreaming: + 'Dreaming is a series of abstract, theatrical representations of experiences and emotions.

Exhibited in Interlude Project with Five Myles Gallery, November 2015 – Febuary 2016', + EsheteWoldeyilma: + "Regally draped in blanket and cloth, Eshete Woldeyilma is a patchwork king. Nearly everyone in my Brooklyn neighborhood of mild-mannered businessmen and stay-at-home moms has seen him, but few have taken the time to speak with him. I didn’t meet Eshete myself until 2013, when I stopped him in the middle of the street and asked to take his photograph. After perusing the developed roll of film, I quickly became dissatisfied by how detached and impersonal the images were, and how my relationship to my subject was nothing more than that of an onlooker or bystander. Nonetheless, I remained fascinated by Eshete’s sturdy form caught in the silver grain, and I so I resolved to do better. I would change my approach to get the photographs I wanted. Since then, I’ve been following Eshete’s movements with the seasons and photographing him in his nook on Columbia Street, where the concrete meets the New York harbor, and rusty cranes loom heavy in the sky.

As we spent time in places such as the now-closed Community Bookstore, I started noticing the uncomfortable and churlish looks we received from those I had considered members of my community, once even from the father of a family I babysat for. I am not one of the silver-spoon-in-mouth children of gentrification; my family has lived in South Brooklyn since 1939. My grandmother didn’t leave her family in Puerto Rico because she thought Brooklyn looked like the hip place to be, and she didn’t fight for a ZIP Code; she bought property where the banks were afraid to sell. I met Eshete at a time when I was struggling to see a community of people around me with stories similar to those of my family. Like my grandmother, Eshete came to America in search of a better job, and a better life. He fled Ethiopia in 1997, and used to have an apartment on Columbia Street until he was evicted in 2010.

My conversations with Eshete could often be repetitive as we discussed the changing neighborhood, with its old-timers passing away, and the mom and pop shops closing, but regardless, my visits began to last longer, and I began to photograph him more closely, and more candidly. I believe that when you draw, paint, or photograph an individual, you are not capturing their form, but their energy. By candidly photographing Eshete, I am refusing to curate his existence or to impose my views upon his story.

On a Friday night, three years after we all met, Eshete and I stroll into a diner, accompanied by Jeneane, who teaches in the city and visits Eshete often. As we enter, the staff eagerly welcomes Eshete and he responds with a booming “Heellooo!” and a presidential wave. We are cordially offered the table in the front window, and Jeneane orders the usual burgers for the table. Eshete, trying not to shout, attempts to recount the brutality from the police, and the never-ending, steadily-escalating abuse from the neighborhood. When a second waiter approaches our table to catch up on Eshete’s story, I begin to realize that the true members of my community are those gathered around our table, all of whom can effortlessly overlook Eshete’s appearance and circumvent the easy stereotypes.

Eshete is not someone I would consider to be “regular” or “average,” but now I’m able to appreciate his uniqueness; it’s of a type rarely found in my neighborhood. His ostracization has worn away at his English, but I’ve found ways to use photography to bridge that gap. In order to understand him, I’ll keep taking his photograph. As I’ve continued to document his story, the camera has allowed me to foster a friendship that I wouldn’t otherwise have had access to, and as a result, I’ve finally created the images I couldn’t find back in 2013.", + _120: + "An attempt to capture intimacy.
48 hours on the streets of NYC traveling by skateboard and by foot.", + + Chapbook: + "Hauser and O'Brien is the 'final' vignette from William S. Burroughs' Naked Lunch (1959).

This chapbook was typeset in Arhnem for ART 264, Fall 2019 at the Yale University School of Art in New Haven, Connecticut.

Edition of 9 – inquire for price.", + FilmTranslation: + "This book charts a one-minute clip from George A. Romero's Night of the Living Dead (1968). Specifically, it tracks facial expressions, sounds, and actions that create sounds.

Each panel's width is proportional to the length of the shot, and its lightness corresponds to the amount of light in the shot. Background noises and non-diegetic sounds are set near the bottom of the page, whereas dialogue and other sounds are set towards the top.

Typeset in Univers and Weidemann for ART 264, Fall 2019 at the Yale University School of Art in New Haven, Connecticut.", + Zine: + "Enclosed is a series of ten journal entries that consider the relationship between technology and physical distancing, and document the process of developing my senior project in Computing & the Arts, titled Digital Distancing.

The blue and green lines are computer-generated visualizations of location and time data extracted from smartphone images and plotted as paths in space.

This zine was typeset in Suisse Int'l for ART 368, Fall 2020 at the Yale University School of Art in New Haven, Connecticut.

Edition unlimited – inquire for price.", + + HowtoSayGoodbyetoaStranger: + 'This essay first appeared in The Indypendent on May 5, 2020. Read it on their site or read it on mine.

For two decades I’ve lived on this short block in Downtown Brooklyn and I can remember nearly every moving truck that I’ve seen come and go. My mother grew up only several blocks away and so I was taught from a young age that knowing your neighbors is as important a responsibility as any.

Since quarantine began, my block, like many others across the city, has participated in a nightly celebration for essential workers. For the first few uncertain nights, my family crammed into our front windows, shoulders touching as we clapped and hollered, struggling to be seen and heard through the trees which grow in our front yard’s shallow dirt plots. We were without a target but were determined to be present. Even if our enthusiasm wasn’t matched by our neighbors, we were prepared to be — as usual — just a bit scrappier and more old-school than most.

As the celebration continued to spread, new faces emerged daily, bringing their pots, pans and cooped up voices to the street. For a glorious, lawless, uplifting three minutes, we began doing what seemed impossible: creating community in isolation.

These days, community feels like an ever-fleeting concept, gone with the families run away to their weekend homes. It’s been a month since I’ve interacted with another member of my generation and so I become giddy when I think of strolling through the neighborhood and being met by beaming, uncovered, familiar faces. Like much of my dreary life in quarantine, I’ll admit that the clapping has become somewhat of a routine. Daily at around 6:50 I feel an enlivening urge to put on a shirt and push up the windows. I’d grown content with this routine until one evening the celebration began without me.

A young woman directly across the street was leaning confidently out of her window, sounding the alarm with a cowbell and howling at the sky as the hour hand struck seven. I could be contained no longer and threw open the front door, bursting onto the stoop where, barefoot and in baggy sweatpants, I jumped up and down, shaking my novelty maracas toward her window. I felt as if my ship had finally spotted land on the horizon. Only after everyone else had retreated into their windows and doorways did she and I share an enthusiastic parting wave. The woman shouted that she’d see me tomorrow. It was a date.

From that evening on, sharing the celebration with my new friend became a sort of responsibility. When I’m late to kickoff, I feel as if I’m standing her up. And when I’m early, I feel as Romeo must have when he was beneath Juliet’s balcony. No matter which of us arrives first, we always leave together.

But now that the rigid oak trees on our block have softened with springtime growth, her face is obscured — until the wind rushes past her fifth-story window and I catch a glimpse of a smile and her walnut-brown hair.

Sometimes it seems that the more we know about this virus, the less certain we are about how our lives will look over the coming months. I’ve made peace with the fact that I can’t change the news. But I’m not sure over what else more I can relinquish control. The more we know about this virus, the less I know what to rely on.

I’ve said goodbye to friends outside airport terminals and on doorsteps — friends with whom I thought I’d be back on campus with by now, friends I should’ve hugged more tightly. As much as I thought it wouldn’t bother me to lose sight of my new friend’s eager face, it’s begun to haunt me with a sense of hopelessness. When we clap, we celebrate our shortcomings and the things we cannot lose: our pots, pans, unsteady spirits — for these are all we can be sure of.

Under other circumstances, I might be unwilling to tell a story without knowing how it ends. Right now, I feel quite content doing so, because uncertainty is one of the few things of which I’ll never have to let go.

The hour hand is just past seven and my hands are still sore from clapping against the howling wind. Lockdown has to end eventually, right? And won’t we lose interest in this whole clapping thing soon enough, too? So long as I stay between these four walls, I know what to expect from my day and from my block. But when we open up, everything will again be uncertain — novel, difficult, and uncertain. As things are, we’ve said far too many goodbyes, and I’m not ready to say ‘goodbye’ to another stranger.

When I was younger, on the first morning of a new school year, my mother would ask me how I felt.

“Anxious,” I might say. “Nervous.” She would try to calm me, explaining that I was feeling excited. Since then, I’ve come to characterize most of my anxiety as being of the “first day of kindergarten” type. Go ahead, ask me how I feel today. Just like September, we’re again on the cusp of a great change in our lives. Soon we’ll all learn how to write our names, how to count. We’ll decide what stays and what goes: handshakes, six feet of distance, masks.

Uncertainty has always been a part of life and lockdown has only amplified that. But this uncertainty is an opportunity for change, much like a new school year or a first date. For the first time in my life, I think I am learning to feel excited, not anxious, about the uncertainty before me.

Even so, there are days when I am hopeless. Just once, I’d like to pull the wool over my eyes and believe that I’m a crucial cog in this big, unprecedented situation. And maybe in a small way, inside the ecosystem of my block, I am essential. The clapping is always there for me and I pledge to be there for it — for the woman across the way, whom I hope to one day know, for the children caught by surprise at the clamor as they scooter by, and for all my neighbors I’ve yet to meet. Come autumn, when the withering oak leaves start to pile up along the curb, I’ll be waiting. We’ll all emerge together and look in awe at one another, an orange glow on our faces as the sun rises on a town reborn.', + WeHaveSeentheBestofOurTimes: + "BROOKLYN — January 2021.

During the last week of his life, my grandfather refused to eat. His demise felt familiar. It felt like this was the second or third time I’d watched him die. Though I couldn’t have known it then, by the time I left elementary school and his decade-long battle with dementia was beginning, much of our relationship was already in the past.

Some universal experiences make even the most stoic feel as though they’ve died a bit. Loss is atop that list. Though who am I to make such generalizations: at the age of twenty-two, I have only experienced loss once before. My grandfather lived to be ninety-five, but I think he was dying all the time. My grandfather, I think, experienced loss quite often—namely, he lost himself. I don’t invoke the phrase “to lose oneself” lightly, for fear of associating his dementia with a spiritually-motivated road trip. People return from road trips and vacations with stories to tell and with proud declarations of greater personal clarity. Sometimes, they find what they were looking for and never return. Sometimes, they keep looking for the rest of their lives.

Because this series of little losses overshadows my memory of him, I’m not sure I’d ever be able to tell the grand story of his life. I could make an exhaustive list of all the days when he lost bits of himself, or I could simply accept him as the reserved, stationary man that I knew. No matter how many disparate memories I pull together, they’ll never quite do him justice. But I’ll try, because I feel I must.

One such storied day is when the Yankees won the World Series and a parade was held in the Canyon of Heroes. Excited bodies moved through the streets as the Brooklyn Bridge and the FDR Drive came to a standstill, leaving my grandfather stranded amidst the celebration. My mother says that he was always a quiet man, but that he spoke even less after that day.

Another day, two years before I was born, his wife, the grandmother I never knew, passed away from cancer. I’ve heard many times the story of how my great aunt came from Puerto Rico to be with her sister, how she spread laughter and joy throughout the hospital. The whole family shared lunch around her bed as she passed.

Maybe most consequential is the day my grandfather could no longer lead his troop of Boy Scouts. After that, he would perform small tasks around the camp. Today, he was buried in his uniform.

There are certainly more of these days to be listed, but they feel insufficient. I don’t entirely trust myself to tell a story that I have only ever seen as being in the process of ending. I feel the bind of the narrator, caught between two kinds of storytelling: objective, biographical writing and subjective self-pity. This balancing act is not new to me: I struggle to divorce any story from myself and my fragile sense of mortality. But I enter the bind, anyway, because I mourn my grandfather and his story, though I realize the inadequacies of the small stories we shared. Many of his hopes, fears, and losses I will never know.

In this time of great loss, when it is the whole man and not only parts of him that have gone missing, I hold one physical piece of proof that our stories overlapped, that despite his confused countenance when I greeted him, there are certain stories we share. The proof is an aged piece of paper stamped with heavy black letters that reads: IF YOU ARE IN THE GARAGE THEN REMEMBER TO PICK UP JACK. When my grandfather hung this sign, I was attending elementary school around the corner from his house, and he was an avid builder, fixer, and maker who spent hours a day working in his garage—apparently often losing track of time.

Despite the singularity of this memory, it fills me with pessimism. Maybe it isn’t the moments of our lives which form the bases of our stories, but the wars, crises, bubbles, and bursts. Maybe it’s unreasonable to think that we have the framework to tell a story without knowing when it’ll end—but we try, because we feel we must. And we hope that death is no more consequential an event than birth, or any of life’s joys.

Part of this sacred commitment to storytelling is to ensure that future generations understand those who came before them. I may not have met those whose dedication to finding opportunity and prosperity shuffled families onto boats and across oceans, but these stories nonetheless fill me with awe. I want to feel emotions so potent that I am compelled to give up everything I have; I want to feel compelled to trek across the globe for the love of people I am sure I will never hold.

We’re told to “live every moment as if it’s your last” and yet sometimes I wonder if we have seen the best of our times. That question is unanswerable, and such a fact brings about in me a fear of attachment. Food rots, skin droops, fabrics unravel, people move away, and utensils fall behind the stove. Saying goodbye is a constant process like the weathering of stone. Every day you reintroduce yourself to your greatest fears. Every day you try to live in the present.

The present is this gray January in 2021. I’ve returned home for an indeterminate amount of time. When I stroll through my neighborhood, I’m met by younger versions of myself leaning against brick walls or sitting on fire hydrants, carrying groceries or a backpack, burning daylight or savoring the last moments of a sunset over the Promenade. These memories feel disappointingly disparate, like each happened in different realities that briefly overlap to reveal footprints on the bluestone sidewalks. I wish each of these memories could form a cohesive narrative, some linear progression from which I could write a story of myself. I wish I could walk in peace alongside these memories, to not be haunted by the notion of an overarching story, but to be kept company by my past selves. I wonder if my grandfather saw past versions of himself looming as he lost his memory. I wonder if he felt haunted by them, if he wanted them to return to his body, or if he simply watched their shadows on the walls.

When I show friends around Brooklyn, I’m often embarrassed by wanting to share the most mundane memories, but these are the stories that stick because of the feelings they create. Wars and crises will burst through the front pages of newspapers and just as quickly fade from view because they are not felt in the body. Despite the little losses our bodies incur daily, it is our stories that keep us alive through time.

Because of this, I believe that the story of the last time I saw my grandfather will be one that sticks. The story goes like this: my mother and I sat with him in his sun-filled bedroom and we watched a Sandra Bullock film with too many commercials. It was perfect.", + + TianaTime: + 'Tiana/Time is a virtual art exhibition and catalogue designed for a global audience.

Presented in three parts, the exhibition can be viewed live, chronologically, or as an archive. Over the course of 24 hours, the live gallery cycles through the exhibition\'s 180 images, picking the current image based on a user\'s time zone. The chronological gallery includes poetry and audio alongside the images which are divided into 9 segments corresponding to the time of day they were captured. The archive divides images by the country in which they were captured, and allows users to query these categories using tags such as "People," "Water," and "Architecture."

The exhibition opened on May 1, 2020 amid the Covid-19 outbreak in the U.S., and at the end of a remotely-conducted spring semester at Yale University. At a time when our peers and colleagues were spread across the globe, and the digital capacity of our university was stretched, the exhibition sought to respond to the moment.

Check out the code or view the full project.', + DigitalDistancing: + 'Digital Distancing is a senior project in Computing & the Arts at Yale University.

The project considers the relationship between distance and technology in the era of social distancing in order to define a framework for understanding ourselves through our data. It is comprised of a journal, a pair of data collection and extraction tools, and visualizations of this data.

Check out the code or view the full project.', + Tiled: + 'Tiled is a text abstraction tool for ART 469, Spring 2021 at Yale University. The tool both figuratively and literally considers the shape of language.

Check out the code or view the full project.', + Screensavers: + 'A pair of endlessly looping screensavers that reflect on time, distance, and the process of looking.

Passing City Skyline

Rainy ASCII Window', + CSSParser: + 'CSS Parser is a tool that identifies, removes, and/or defines unused classes and IDs in .css files.

The tool prompts a user for paths to .css and .html files before printing the undefined classes and IDs in each file. It then prints the unused classes and IDs with their corresponding file names and line numbers. Finally, the tool re-writes the given .css files without these unused classes and IDs, adding definitions for previously undefined style rules.

Check out the code.', + + Drawing: "", + Portraits: "", + StillLife: "", + Street: "", +}; From 0508a463b603de492eaee7c88d0f51b06e25d797 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: fosevv Date: Sun, 4 Apr 2021 21:31:52 -0400 Subject: [PATCH 2/2] refac:convert some html strings to JS --- script.js | 90 +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++------------ 1 file changed, 71 insertions(+), 19 deletions(-) diff --git a/script.js b/script.js index 1d35302..27847d3 100644 --- a/script.js +++ b/script.js @@ -8,11 +8,11 @@ $(() => { $(window).on("popstate", () => { const prev = histack.pop(); - if (prev == 2) { + if (prev === 2) { toggletab("hide", true); - } else if (prev == 3) { + } else if (prev === 3) { toggletab("hide2", true); - } else if (prev == 4) { + } else if (prev === 4) { togglefull("hide", true); } }); @@ -20,32 +20,33 @@ $(() => { // hide / show first-level folders toggletab = (id, flag) => { - if (id == "hide") { + if (id === "hide") { $("#content").scrollTop(0); $("#content")[0].innerHTML = ""; $(".overlay").css("display", "none"); if (!flag) { history.back(); } - } else if (id == "hide2") { + } else if (id === "hide2") { $(".overlay2").remove(); if (!flag) { history.back(); } } else { const selected = TEXTS[id]; + if (id == undefined) return; let two = ""; - if (id != "Photography") { + if (id !== "Photography") { history.pushState({ level: 2 }, ""); histack.push(2); } - if (id == "Art") { + if (id === "Art") { $("#content")[0].innerHTML += '
Photography
'; } - if (id == "Photography") { + if (id === "Photography") { $("body").append( '
' ); @@ -54,12 +55,31 @@ toggletab = (id, flag) => { histack.push(3); } - if (id == "Contact" || id == "Statement") { + if (id === "Contact" || id === "Statement") { $("#content")[0].innerHTML = selected; } else { for (let i = 0; i < selected.length; i++) { - $("#content" + two)[0].innerHTML += - '
{ '.png">' + selected[i] + "
"; + */ } } $(".overlay" + two).css("display", "block"); @@ -80,7 +101,7 @@ let pics = true; // toggle top-level galleries togglefull = (id, flag, n = null) => { - if (id == "hide") { + if (id === "hide") { if (pics) { $(".pic-container").remove(); } @@ -95,20 +116,22 @@ togglefull = (id, flag, n = null) => { $("#content-full").scrollTop(0); $(".overlay-full").css("display", "none"); } else { + console.log("trying " + id + " >n? " + id[n]); const title = TEXTS[id][n]; let selected = title.replace(/\s/g, ""); - if (selected == "120") { + if (selected === "120") { selected = "_120"; - } else if (selected == "Tiana/Time") { + } else if (selected === "Tiana/Time") { selected = title.replace(/[\/]/, ""); } + console.log("full > selected: " + selected); const captblurb = TEXTS[selected]; const l = TEXTS.sizes[selected]; history.pushState({ level: 4 }, ""); histack.push(4); - if (selected == "_120") { + if (selected === "_120") { selected = "120"; } @@ -157,17 +180,46 @@ togglefull = (id, flag, n = null) => { // display fullsize images with options for cycling thru images fullsize = (i, ii) => { + //JEC: PS the double-ii here isn't used const s = i.split("/"); const si = TEXTS.sizes[s[s.length - 2]]; - $("body").append( - '
' - ); + ); */ }; // move left or right through fullsize images @@ -175,7 +227,7 @@ move = (d, s) => { const p = $("#fullimage")[0].src.split("/"); let i = +p.pop().split(".")[0]; - if (d == "left") { + if (d === "left") { if (i > 0) { i -= 1; } else {