The subject matter in Lia Purpura’s “Autopsy Report” is well-suited for the visual language Purpura employs in her essay; in it, the human body—already a familiar subject—is compared to a wide and wild variety of images. Ribs become “ice-shelves, sandstone” (1), the body she inspects “turns to marble before us” (3), and layers of fat seem “yellow as a cartoon sun, as sweet as sweet cream butter” (6). These comparisons are rather unexpected, as things which might normally be considered off-putting or distasteful or —the innards of the human body—are made to seem rather ordinary, and, at times, even elegant.

The perspective of the narrator does much to direct the attitudes of the reader toward the subject material, as well. For example, Purpura describes how she laughed when first introduced to a row of bodies. That she is taken by the “weird gestures” of the bodies, which “looked entirely staged” (3) causes the reader to view the scene as less gruesome as they adopt the viewpoint of the narrator. Visual language in “Autopsy Report” works to soften the harshness of real autopsies. Images of a human organs assembled on a table, of a brain being held firmly to prevent its “jiggling,” or of bullet holes tearing open a chest are not ones commonly associated with heaps of fruit and constellations. Purpura’s decision to do so is a bold one that allows her to tackle a difficult and rather grisly topic in an appropriate and accessible manner.

The first thing I noticed about video essays—from a general standpoint, at least—is what I felt was a bit of a disjunct between the number of separate media being used. Written essays, being one medium, are the smoothest essays in regards to communication, if only because of our ability to go back and clarify certain points. Audio essays use sound effects in a way that is meant to enhance the dialogue. But video essays, on the contrary, force your senses to compete for attention as two sometimes difficult-to-connect  stories unfold before you: one for your eyes, and another for your ears.

Steven Chen’s Grandpa has perhaps the most startling contrast between what is being said and what is being shown, at least at its beginning. The surreal dinner being had would be a shocking scene speaking volumes on its own; the boy at the head of the table, dressed in and painted blue, exudes loneliness and stands out in his silence while surrounded by rambunctious conversation from his red-dressed companions. Moreover, it was interesting to me that the conversation being had at the table was in Cantonese, and the four men and women painted and dressed in red appeared to be caucasian. This image clearly illustrate’s Chen’s internal conflict between his split Asian and caucasian ancestry, and the way he faces his own confusing heritage.

When we discussed using music and sound effects in audio essays in class, one point that was brought up was the importance of avoiding using sound as a way to cover up flaws or weaknesses in an essay—essentially, the importance of using effects in a way meant to enhance what is being said, as opposed to repeating it or reinterpreting it. Chen, I believe, does this well with the mix of video imagery and dialogue. His use of old-time footage of his own family creates a closeness to the subject matter, a very personal intimacy with his grandparents, even though he himself feels an enormous distance between himself and the Cantonese half of his family. Chen claims near the end of the video that he does not seek answers, but instead seeks discussion and dialogue between himself and the relatives with whom he has not yet been able to communicate more than superficially. I feel that Chen’s video keeps up a sort of dialogue with itself in the way that Chen explores his own desire to learn about his family while creating an artistic project that, in being created, brings Chen closer to his grandparents.