July 26, 2008

Capacity, Schmapacity

P1010054 I am wrapping things up in Utica. Yesterday, we moved Strong Like Water to its temporary resting place in front of Sculpture Space. It will be moving in the first week of September to Peekskill.

There was rigging involved, and I know Michael Konrad's dying to see rigging pictures.

I have images of yesterday's move. But they are all slightly horrifying. I don't believe I will show them, because I'd rather not be immortalized on the internet as a total fucking idiot. The crane was too small. The crane operator was overly confident. I didn't step up and stop things, which is what I think I should have done.

I might be overreacting. Nobody got hurt, the truck is fine, the sculpture is fine, and I think I managed to keep my adrenal glands from making matters worse. In some ways, I got the perfect dry run: a serious-yet-low-stakes leadership lesson that touches on many of this blog's most popular themes: increasing negative capacity without losing optimism; believing what's happening instead of what you know; trusting that things have a way of working out.

I need a couple of days to process what happened, but will probably write about it at length. If anyone has a story about a serious lesson they learned, I'd love to hear it.

July 22, 2008

The Long Slow Procession

These images are pretty self-explanatory. Today I strapped the sculpture on a bunch of dollies, and we dragged it outside today using my colleague JT's vegetable-oil powered volvo.

Wheeledbefore

Trusseddetail

Strapin

Tailendcaremerging

Stillincameraout

Crowning

Almostthere

Outdetail

Done

Bohemia Now

Billy

When I was quite young, some adult told me that smarts are freedom: the smarter you are, the more you can disregard or work around all those things that people have to do. So I started signing up for a new library card every time I went to the library so that I wouldn't have to return the books, and otherwise started looking at the system, so that I could either beat it or ignore it. And I continued this bohemian existence into early adulthood: racking up lots of parking tickets guilt-free because they were attached to the car's VIN and not me; calling my credit card company to tell them that a check was in the mail every single month, so as not to be charged a late fee for being legitimately late.

When I was growing up, in the age of the Commodore64 and Apple2E, beating the system was not very hard. It was easy to miss at least one class every single day of my high school career (and shuffle through the rest of them stoned), as long as I always got the mail before my mother did and got at least a B- or a C+. I remember a time when it was easy to feign that you never got the piece of paper or argue coherently to an actual person that a rule does not apply in this case.

Saying that the check is in the mail actually used to work.

I am not more cunning than the average artist. Lots of my friends figured out how to dump tens of thousands of dollars of credit card debt without going to hell or even getting in trouble. In fact, more than one professor told me to make whatever I want to make, on credit, and then file for bankruptcy.

Who says you don't get career advice in art school?

Every artist living in a big, expensive city who has the time, space and resources to make art knows a certain amount of black magic. But these gypsy spells don't work like they used to. You can't declare bankruptcy over your MFA anymore. Credit card debt is much more frightening. The healthcare thing is harder to game than it used to be. And the worst part is that you are in everyone's database.

Being an old-school bohemian is fundamentally about asserting your individual superiority over a system. The goal is to take everything you need from the system without having to give it anything like your precious time or actual allegiance. When the system is relatively stupid and inefficient, this is easy to accomplish. But the New Bohemian is either going to have to buy in, or stop thinking in terms of individual needs and desires.

To take one example, banking has become too complex and unfair to understand in an arrogantly facile, fuck you kind of way. The increasingly Byzantine fee structure plays heavily to the Old Bohemian in all of us, who wants freedom from the bank and is happier ignoring one's own bank statement; forgetting that the $1.50 you say yes to at the ATM is only half the story; not adding up every single ATM fee over the course of one month or one year. And the impenetrable FICO score seems designed to snare Old Bohemians in a mid-fivehundreds trap of slightly higher premiums for car and health insurance; occasionally getting turned down for apartments; and of course, higher interest rates for those credit cards you shouldn't even have in the first place.

The old-school liberal, indulgent Bohemian model (you are smart enough to get what you need, live how you want and not pay for it) is now the default, the target of every single lender and everyone else with a computer who wants to take advantage of your basically self-oriented behavior. In a world where one honest confusion with the electric company becomes 29% interest on your Visa, is there such a thing as a person who's smart enough to use the system without falling prey to it ? What does a bohemian look like now?

There seem to be two potential models: the hacker and the corporate activist. The hacker is a liberal, modernist figure, preserving his own individual superiority over the system by knowing how to literally beat it. There is probably a hacker out there, or even a large handful, who truly knows how to fix their FICO score. And they are working on the downlow and anonymously, with good reason. Not only is what they're doing illegal...

...it would stop working if everybody did it.

The corporate activist--folks like the Reverend Billy or The Yes Men who are generally using political theater to illuminate the power the system has over people--are also engaged in illegal activity, but it's social, and more important, it's basically conservative. I find this reversal in ideological polarity (mentioned often by Pretty Lady) interesting. The Reverend Billy and his Stop Shopping Chorus are definitely working in opposition to the existing system. They are illuminating the totalitarian nature of a Starbucks by preaching in a Starbucks and getting arrested. But their message has nothing to do with their own personal indulgence. Instead, their bohemian model is based on a David Brooksian sense of personal choice and personal responsibility. They're not just saying that Starbucks is bland and oppressive. They're saying that you sheeple are choosing to spend $4.50 on a coffee.

The Reverend Billy is not saying that you don't need things in the self-interested, faux-enlightened way Dean Moriarty didn't need things. He's saying that we all should look at the label at the back of each of our necks and repent for the pain we individually caused a thirteen-year-old girl in Bangladesh, and then stop what we are doing for the sake of that girl as well as our own pocketbooks and our own happiness. Save your money. Don't indulge in credit. Buy fewer articles of clothing. Buy the things you actually need from people in small stores. Buy things that were made in less hurtful ways. Yeah, there's a familiar hippy-dippy lesson in there that you should find happiness somewhere else. But there's none of that Slouching Toward Bethlehem disconnect between the immediate good feeling of "turning on" and the actual pain of being homeless and sick on someone else's floor, surrounded by people who are too high to take care of you.

What he's saying is that happiness can not be found in consumption, but it can be found in not causing pain to others or yourself in the first place.

This is a radical shift in bohemian consciousness. It's not just that your personal choices are incredibly important. They are important because they affect other people. This differs from the lessons in radical selfishness I learned from Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg, who informed everyone else I think I ever listened to, including but definitely not limited to, in no particular order: Chris Burden, Marina Abramovic, Kim Deal, Patti Smith, Louise Bourgeois and Hunter S. Thompson.

Radical pragmatism. Radical responsibility. Radical consideration of others. This is a list of phrases that we have been trained to think of as smug, boring and intellectually weak. But it's interesting that these phrases happen to be relevant to the actual problems of now: climate change; middle east on fire; corporate feudalism. Will the words "conservative" and "liberal" actually change meaning? Will Bush Jr. be castigated as the liberal he actually is, or as the conservative he claims to be?

I don't know, but if we don't choke on the earnestness or die of an irony deficiency, this could be a radicalism that actually addresses what needs addressing right now.

I have written about the problem of individualism at length, and have never been a fan of the way irony is overused in the production of culture, and have never been afraid of my own potential for earnestness... until I wrote this post. Jeeezus save us. It looks as if--if we are all very good--we could wind up overcoming modernism not by overcoming the systems that restrain the individual, but by overcoming the individual itself.

July 21, 2008

Plaything

A bunch of people came through tonight on a tour. They had kids. And kids know a jungle gym when they see one! Kids2 Then, after some beers and discussioning about how relentlessly the tires hug the ground, I decided to see if I could flop it over on its side. Startlift I got pretty far, lots of underside exposed... Myback And it turns out it would look much more interesting if it were slumped up against a wall. Front Side One last half-hearted attempt to pull all 4500 lbs over... Pull And to end a circularity to the evening... more hot jungle gym action. Jt Props to Climbmaster JT and Photographer Elissa "Not Erissa Yet" Cox

July 15, 2008

Strong Like Water--Click For Full-Size!

So, this thing is wrapping itself up sooner than I thought, mostly because it's about to hit two tons, and 4500 lbs is about my limit for a self-financed project. It's 9 feet tall, about 22 feet long and 8 feet 2 inches wide at the base (the lumber splays out in front a little past 9 feet)

Strong1

It's truly safe now, what with all that weight holding the lumber together. In fact, it's amazing solid it is. You could play on it all day, and so could your friends.

Strong5

I've got about thirty tires left to add, and might get ten or fifteen more if I want to make something look a little more full here or there. But I really can't add more or it becomes a chore to lift. It's basically going to look like this.

Strong2

I'ts got some nice passages. The rhythm of the lines becomes kind of entrancing. Even though I told myself that I would never work with tires again, I am really inspired to do something much, much larger along these lines. A forest of 12"x12" timbers (the orange-and-white striped kind they use when they work on the street) with a tire forest floor the size of a soccer field. Wouldn't that just be magical?

Strongdetail1

The plan is to finish it up in the next day or two, spend a little time cutting screws and doing other detail work. Then the real fun starts. We are going to put it on dollys and drag it outside with a big truck, give it a good scrubbing, and start practicing the lift!

Structurally, it's a two-ton futon full of sticks. The rigging will be very interesting, and this time I am basically on my own. Mark diSuvero's guys are not here to save me from my ignorance.

Wish me luck, and look forward to lots and lots of rigging pictures!

July 11, 2008

Put Your Hands Together

Warning: This Post May Not Make Good Linear Sense. While I will endeavor to be specific, it's not directly riffing off an article I read or a show I saw or even a bad day I had. It's more like there's something in the air that is asking to be examined. It's the whole situation.

I saw WALL-E a couple of days ago. And as a hardworking garbage-transformer with a heart of gold myself (with a good-looking and technologically advanced soulmate no less), I strongly identified with the protagonist. This was good for me, because the only other character I have ever really identified with while I work is Fred Sanford.

But this is not about me moving up in the world and finding more wholesome role models, no disrespect to the honorable memory of Mr. Foxx intended.

I can't possibly be the only person who left WALL-E in a state of deep cognitive dissonance. It was a moving and sweet children's film, and at the same time it was a total fucking indictment of our consumerist culture and the waste we create. I was out of coffee, so stopped in the Price Chopper while my eyes were still adjusting to daytime. And when I entered the store, I am pretty sure I was changed forever by the total visual assault of crap. Future garbage. Stacked on shelves the way WALL-E would stack cubes of stomached garbage into pyramid-skyscraper hybrids. A whole acre of it.

I felt nauseated. And I stood there and wondered how I would feel if I were seven. Or four. And I closed my eyes and said a prayer. I prayed that every single child who saw WALL-E would become a total pain in the ass for at least a year if not forever, pointing out every single piece of garbage and every single tire and every single piece of future-garbage the way I used to opine at length about each of my mother's cigarettes as she smoked them.

I drove to the movie, but I almost walked, even though it's a far walk--about a half an hour. Gas is expensive, and my small Sculpture Space stipend does support me here, but it does nothing for all the expenses I left in Brooklyn. There is a car here, but I work hard not to put any gas in it, and am not jerky enough to plan my driving around when other people put gas in it. Instead, I've been enjoying walking places and being efficient. Thinking of it as part of the residency. Food is expensive too. The floods, I think, are going to make everything even more expensive.

And there's this election. I was following the Obama/Clinton soap opera like, well, like it was a soap opera. And now I am replacing that blow-by-blow attention to the drama with increasing conviction that Obama will win in a landslide, because McCain actually looks like he's not really there. He looks, physically, like an actual memory. Like what a real ghost is probably like. Separated forever from the context but hovering just next to it. Asserting weakly that it is not of the past. That it knows what the internet is.

Terry Gross has been running back-to-back stories about how messed up personal finance has gotten. About credit cards and the mortgage industry and the evil of the 401(k). And these stories are just fucking gripping because they are not about money as much as they are about a total loss of control. A total misunderstanding of what the game is. It's as if Wall Street is using human beings like batteries, like the Matrix. Making your smartest-seeming financial decisions stupid. Shoehorning every single American into a house, whether they can afford one or not. Compounding fees that drain the retirement plan you fund yourself, and doing it in a way you can't see or calculate. Stealing fifteen dollars at a time, but doing it all the time.

It's literally inhuman. And that Seymour Hirsch article--that Seymour Hirsch article made me ball my hand into a fist and beat it against my heart! Covert operations are starting in Iran--Bush and Cheney asked Congress if they could go do a little exploratory killing--and Harry Reid and Nancy Pelosi are not planning to do anything other than wring their hands and say okay.

And in response to this I start to wring my hands. I wring my hands over all the evil we are wreaking, over how deeply correct it was of Pixar to portray us as boneless and infantilized. I wring my hands because we are trapped by our greed and shortsightedness. Because things are getting so bad that they might get too bad even for SuperObama to fix. Especially since he's neutering himself over FISA.

I'm still only a day or two out from that experience of seeing WALL-E, and the more distance I get from it, the safer I feel in saying that it was profound and relevant and artful. And it behooves me at this point to remember that the other big summer blockbuster I have seen this year was also surprisingly serious, and surprisingly complex.

tYou Don't Mess With The Zohan took some risks. If there is one thing that is not funny, it is the Palestinian/Israeli conflict. In fact, if you pressed me for a short list of tropes Americans should be either too ignorant or too embarrassed to laugh at, my list would be:

*The Israeli Army as cultural institution and signifier of Jewish Manliness, and the fact that the words Jewish Manliness are just funny, and whether or not that's anti-semitic. *Tel Aviv as disco-beach-backwater-paradise *Fatah: Terrorist Organization or Legitimate Government? *All Arabs Look Like Terrorists

But there we all were in that theater, laughing our fucking asses off at every single hummus joke. And that gives me hope. Hope is where it should be in this. It is in art. Art can not just imagine a world in which Palestinians and Jews square off together to fight a common enemy. Art can do that re-imagining by reducing The Peace Process to a gooey love story, terrorist jokes, a hacky sack tournament and a Mariah Carey cameo, with a sex+scatology+hummus finale.

I know that I am gushing about The Zohan, but bear with me. What I am saying here is real. I am saying that there are two summer blockbusters addressing real crises, with courage and sensitivity. It takes gigantic balls to make every single human in your movie so fat that they are incapable of standing, or to find humor in an altercation between an Israeli soldier and a frightened Palestinian.

This leaves me wondering where exactly my balls are, and hoping that I can cowboy up once I have found them. I mean, if Hollywood can tackle Envirogeddon and Peace in the Middle East, surely I can muster up a little something relevant.

It beats handwringing.

July 06, 2008

Virtual Studio Visit!

Enough with the petty violence against Tom Friedman and whining about high school not being genuine after all. It is time once again for a Virtual Studio Visit!

Let's see... If everything works out as planned, it's going to go next to the Hudson River. Working title is River Like A Muscle, but I know that the syntax of that sucks. That it winds up being pornographic.

I'm a good writer, you'd think this would make it easy for me to title my work!

P7090063

Right now it's about halfway. It's about 8 feet tall, 16 feet long, and about 6 or 7 feet wide. It can't get much bigger, but I want it to get much, much bigger. Don't you?

P7090059

Of course, it's tires, but unlike the Middlebury piece, it has no armature or structure of any kind, so its relationship to the ground should (hopefully) keep changing as more tires squeeze things around more.

You can see how at first I was too conservative and put the railroad ties too close together, so that they snuggled eachother in tight pretty quickly. There's very little movement left there. But then I started figuring out that the payoff is in leverage. The height of the tie + the distance the tires have to flex over = total movement.

Ideally, there should be a lot of Total Movement. But there are practical concerns. Right now, it's not safe. Yet. (It will be, but there is still too much Total Movement...) And there's getting it on a truck. I don't want to pay for another oversize load, so it simply must stay under 8' wide and 30' long.

July 05, 2008

Hot, Flat and Crowded

I stopped reading Tom Friedman closely when he started being such a fucking tool about Iraq. Not because I can't tolerate people with whom I don't agree, but really for the sake of my own blood pressure. The way he kept bending over backwards to frame the war as a potential happy accident was just intellectually dishonest.

But I don't discount the man completely. Friedman's been writing about the environment as a political and economic force for quite some time. And he's been doing it with that same sunny optimism that make me want to bruise his fat neck when it comes to Iraq. Friedman's hefty helpings of American Can-doitude make more sense when he's talking about the environment. There's room for earnestness and wonder in this topic. There are no industrial revolution "Curveball" characters leading us to believe that coal and oil are good ideas in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Global warming is a genuine mistake that we can genuinely fix.

His new book may have a flat-footed title, but it looks like it's going to be good. If you occasionally worry that we are all going to a new hell on earth that we are baking special for ourselves and that will be ready much sooner than we think, then video excerpts of Friedman at the Aspen Ideas Festival are certainly worth your time.

July 03, 2008

A Recipe For Genuine Angst

  1. Find yourself into a slightly godforsaken place. A place that makes you feel like a bored teenager. That reeks of the ultimate failure of the industrial era--the now-commodified past of PBR cans and trucker caps and all that janky formalist sculpture made out of OSB and 2'x3's.

No. Don't just find yourself there like you really are a bored teenager. Compete to put yourself there on purpose, so that you can do great things. Put yourself there so that you can have two whole months of uninterrupted time with your genius self.

(It's okay to gag when you admit that you really did think that you're important enough that you needed to spend two months alone with yourself.)

  1. Work too much without taking a break and put yourself into a pretty dank, self-centered mood.

  2. Designate a day off, and start reading Hal Niedzviecki's latest effort, Hello, I'm Special, the (tedious) thesis of which basically points over and over again to the fact that you probably became an artist and went on this stupid residency in the first place because of a larger culture that rewards individuality and self-expression to such a pathological degree that the very notion of individualism has turned in on itself and become "the new conformity."

Okay. It's one thing to admit that this book is making me cranky because it's telling me something I don't want to know about myself--that you don't go spend two months on your vision unless you do think you're pretty special. I can separate that tiny angst from the larger rant.

I want to know why it has become acceptable to write a "smart" book about how stupid everything is. It's not just this Niedzviecki fellow. He stands shoulder to shoulder with Al Gore, Morris Berman, Jeanette Winterson and my favorite 9-11 conspiracy theorist, Eric Larsen.

(Note to Eric Larsen: Conspiracy theories are about as weak, logically, as proclaiming all young people stupid. Please. Stop with the emails.)

All these writers are operating out of a weak, hopeless place. They are all saying that we used to be something, but now are less. Less bright. Less capable of democratic discourse. Less writerly. And once again, I cannot buy it! Al Gore deserves the Nobel Peace Prize. But when he argues that we are no longer a reasoning people--that television is inherently bad for democracy because it is images and not words, he makes a very cynical assessment of a people that he sees as incapable of adapting to their technology. When Winterson and Berman adopt a monastic attitude and say that they should keep doing a craft that nobody values anymore, they miss the point of craft and tradition. I mean, Jeanette Winterson has made me cry reading her books--she's a talented author. But don't you think it's important to vault over craft and tradition to a new promised land and you take your audience there? That you don't cluck your tongue over other people not getting it? That it's more generous to either goad them into following or lead them by the hand, because of course they don't get it? Because it's new?

Grieving for a richer past is an official academic pastime now, and Hal Niedzviecki is grieving for my richer countercultural past, which makes it even worse. The Generation X past of actually being able to be a rebel. Those last few years before New Wave and Punk became Alternative and got their own radio stations and uniforms available at the Old Navy. Before you could seek out any niche counterculture you wanted on the internet. I am familiar with the rant. It goes a little something like this:

You know, back when I was your age, I had to go all the way to the thrift store and sort through all sorts of uncool things to find the right trenchcoat to wear in the middle of summer with a thousand earrings in my ears and a whole can of hairspray in my hair. And I had to steal my mother's truck or get on the bus if I wanted to go to the one cool record store near the University to thumb through real limited release LP singles of Love Will Tear Us Apart and Meat Is Murder that really came from England.

And now, Hal says, it's come to this: While I was off investing in real differences, everyone else just became "different" or "special" by cultural fiat. Everyone gets a hallmark card that proclaims their iconoclastic status. And this makes Hal throw up in his mouth a little bit.

What makes me throw up in my mouth is the argument itself. Sure I feel that specific Generation X pain. It does make me feel a little sad that my niece, or my husband's teenage cousins, will never feel that same thrill that I felt the first time I found the Frankenchrist album in its physical manifestation, and knew that it was going to change my life but had no idea how, or what it even sounded like. It saddens me that they are never going to freak out their parents by doing something to their hair. That everyone's going to think it's cute when they "rebel."

So the young people I know will never have that long trip home from the record store, with people staring at them for wearing so many heavy, black items of clothing in the summertime. Or know what savoring a record--looking at the art on the bus before you get it home, and reading all the liner notes during the first listen--feels like. This is individuality as I learned it. It's that one-to-one relationship with things that you go to great lengths to find because these things distinguish you from others. That does seem to be what Hal is mourning. But is this loss worth any handwringing at all? Are we sure it isn't an opportunity?

And if there is a problem with too much individuality

(I bought the book because I happen to think that there is)

then isn't its utter meaninglessness as a concept within our society a good thing? And shouldn't academics, artists and intellectuals be looking forward to the new horizons that stretch beyond our (obviously failing) cultural experiment with mass individuality?

June 25, 2008

Teleportation

Star_trek0 I've been listening to a lot of podcasts lately. So I've gotten two separate chances to hear Michio Kaku argue that we will be teleporting humans before the 23rd century.

In case you are not up to speed on this, scientists can now teleport (or "beam") a particle as far as 600 meters. Kind of. You don't get the actual particle on the other side. The original, as far as I can tell, is annihilated. You get an exact replica. Travel is to teleportation, then, as snail mail is to fax.

The physicists working on this (in Switzerland?) say that they are finally conquering this problem of matter, and that is where my ears perk up. I have a deep gut sympathy for the words problem of matter, but I have organized my whole life around the idea that it's the one thing that I can't really conquer. It's the one truth that's larger than I am, that I can't make up, slide around or vault over. Matter sits outside of me, telling me exactly what I want from it by obstinately refusing to assume my desires on its own. And when I work with matter, my desires necessarily fall away and become compromises. Anyone can collaborate with matter to astounding effect, but there are limits.

You can't uncut a piece of wood.

The problematic nature of matter is a powerful check on human ego. It certainly keeps me much more modest than I am naturally disposed to being, and not just because loving matter means wearing rather dumpy work pants most of the time. I had a bad studio day yesterday. I spent fourteen hours making a very heavy turd, and it was because I fell into the trap of thinking that I have more than a vote. I was working from the inside of my head and trying to get what's inside out--trying to stick with the plan instead of listening to what's actually happening.

That's why I am so curious about what's going to happen with this teleportation thing. The idea came to the producers of Star Trek for very practical, problem-of-matter reasons. They didn't want to incur the extra set-building costs that shots of the Enterprise landing on all these planets entailed. It made financial sense to make the teleportation set and be done with it.

(That's the matter I know and love, creating obstacles that become brilliant ideas you never could have thought up on your own!)

And perhaps I am taking Kaku too literally when I conflate the Star Trek idea and what these Swiss scientists are imagining. I'm imagining them taking this patently silly TV show idea that is all about overcoming an infinite number of sets, and holding on to the idea inside the mind and working to make it real. I'm imagining this because that would be so human--because that's the direction we like to imagine our ideas flowing. Not from TV show to particle accelerator necessarily, but from the inside of the mind to the real world.

But bad shit tends to happen when we think that way. This is the vector (idea to reality) that creates craziness like The Final Solution. Our insane Middle East strategy. Bound feet and corsets. Donald Judd. I am no luddite and I am not anti-intellectual. But I do believe in matter, and I believe in emergence, and I believe strongly that we are not as smart as we think we are. All this leads me to believe that the best intellectual vector points in the opposite direction: from reality to idea.

So I feel pre-emptively sorry for the first teleported human, who will ignore the cautionary tale of Mike Teevee and put his matter in the hands of a machine that will annihilate him and attempt to reassemble him somewhere else. Based on my own, unscientific studies of matter, I have a hunch that he won't ever be quite right afterwards. That at least part of his consciousness is in his matter, and that it sits there in a way that is irreducible to information.