Artist as negotiator

Dennis Adams, professor of art at The Cooper Union, has a way of really nailing down works’ gists.
In reverse as well, he is able to begin with an idea, crystallize it into a concept of sufficient scale, and name an artist whose work X in year Y best exemplifies it. In a discussion about public art, he raised a key consideration, one that critics often dismiss and the wider audience will probably not accept for decades more: that is the role of the artist as a politician. He immediately cited Chisto and Jeanne-Claude’s Wrapped Reichstag as the quintessential example thereof. This was not to say that the work had no power other than its political undercurrents: simply the feeling one gets from beholding such a sight brings shivers. It works viscerally and intellectually at the same time. But to conceive such a work it took, one could say, Christo’s entire lifetime, for he was born east of the Iron Curtain and had spent much of his life stateless. It was also just the nascence of a new Germany, nay, a whole new Europe, as the wall which divided two worlds all but ran right through the Reichstag gave the building a very heavy history indeed. It was thus the hundreds of delegates that had to be pandered to; the hour-plus debate; the incessant letter-writing, hallway-pacing, door-to-dooring, phone conferencing, and exhaustive voting (all while straddling the symbolic borderline between two worlds) that really represented the lion’s share of the artists’ efforts. Just the thought of a sole figure milling about a national capital with hundreds of obstructing skeptics negotiating his way to a project behind closed doors feels enough to me (had his efforts been unsuccessful the attempt may have remained influential). It also opens up an entirely new tradition– the politics of art, singled out and independent of the final product. A means to justify the means, with no end in sight.

I have an idea boiling in the morning water now as well, which follows this tradition. It begins as a desire to celebrate filmic images (esp. independent of words). I collect screenshots of films, and store them in a personal space. Then I locate the studio / production company that owns the rights to it, and negotiate their release to the public realm. There is a great deal of tension nowadays between the unreconciled desires for free access to everything on one hand and discreet distribution for a profit on the other. This work would clearly push for the former, as I believe the latter is part of a dying model. Finally, upon each film’s liberation, its respective stills that I have stored are distributed as T-shirts representing the film’s ultimate coming-out. It would also be a fun guessing game: which movie is this screenshot from?

OK, OK fine: Blade Runner, Nosferatu, The Draughtsman’s Contract.

The new warming principle

This may be half-cooked conjecture, due mostly to its scary simplicity, but it bears notice.
To begin with, the reason our hemisphere is colder during winter months is not because the sun is further away than during summer (in fact, due to the ovular shape of Earth’s orbit around the sun, we may in fact be closer in winter) but because of the average angle of the sun normal to the Earth’s surface. As one may notice, the sun doesn’t rise as high into the winter sky. This is because of the Earth’s angle of declination. We do not spin upright as a freshly released top, but at an angle of close to 23.45 degrees. Here’s the perfect animation we’ve always wanted to see. Due to this angle, we in the Northern Hemisphere are tilting away from the sun from October till April. As we have all accidentally experimented at some point in our lives, blowdryers exponentially decrease in effective heating power the further from perpendicular you tilt them. Maximum heat gain occurs when the direction of radiation waves are perpendicular to the incident surface (same is true, by the way, for magnetism). But before I move on to the next paragraph, I remind you that one of the best strategies for passive (that is, without the need of mechanical distribution systems) solar heating is to locate all glazing and heavy materials such as concrete on the south facade of a building. This side gets the most direct sunlight and heats up the most in the daytime.
Until recently, Earth’s surface has remained primarily horizontal. This is an assumption we base the above evidence on. However, the past 5 years that have witnessed the beginning of an urban majority (the percentage of people living in cities as opposed to rural areas has crossed the 50% mark) bring to some the vision of a planet covered completely with cities. What would that mean? Well, it would mean many things. Many scary things. But singling one of those out: it would mean that a majority of the Earth’s surface would now be vertical. Think of the reason our livers are so bumpy on the inside, why cells have cilia, or why trees grow leaves. It’s all to increase surface area. Now imagine the net surface of the city-blanketed Earth. Most of that surface is going to be vertically oriented. Suddenly, the surfaces incident to the rays of the winter sun are more perpendicular than they were 200 years ago (or, closer to 90 degrees), and those areas are actually getting hotter in winter. That would then mean, of course, the opposite in the summer when the sun is high. Most solar radiation is hitting the surfaces at a very low angle, resulting in very little heat gain. Add to that a building’s thermal mass and you have one screwed up season cycle.

Before:

After:

This core concept of the sun’s angle relative to a majority of the surfaces in our microclimate adds spice to the already-proven and maligned urban symptom of heat island effect.
There’s my morbid hypothesis.

 

Subliminal 9-11, the curious explanation of why I don’t wear watches

A story, this time:

I discovered very intimate evidence that our brains are always aware of the time– and not just by casts of a net or any such wide margins, but down to the very minute. And it is only exhaustively heightened by images. In this peculiar case it was an instance of realizing something that had been present all along as opposed to an uncovering. The former turns out to be more haunting, and, of course, more interesting to analyze in retrospect.
One Saturday I happened in on my parents re-watching an episode of Columbo, Double Exposure, from 1973. In this one, the murderer manipulates his victim with clever use of subliminal cuts placed in a short film– single frames which the eye detects but does not consciously process, in other words, that one does not “see” (thus confirming our long-held suspicion of advertisements). The whole premise is rather nebulous, but we entertain the horror of it just to allow Columbo one more thing.
I had sat down, engrossed. But by pure coincidence (or was it) I realized it was after 9pm and I had to go. Exactly 11 minutes after 9. (My father loves being dramatic, and pretends to freak out every time he sees the clock read that for the past decade.) With thoughts of subliminal cuts still fresh on my mind, I thought there had to be something related between them and the seemingly increased amount of times the clock says 9:11 whenever I check it. It’s strange, after all, that a number that 15 years ago was fairly arbitrary (“nine-eleven,” as opposed to “nine-one-one”), should in any way become less objectively arbitrary and actually increase in gravitational pull, as it were, towards it, after some incident. The explanation for that would be fairly clear: it’s not to do with the number itself, but the amount of times it’s been printed and spoken (and thus– read, seen, and heard) since then. I wish it were easier to dig up, but surely there must be some statistics on the number of times “9/11” has been mentioned or printed by the media since that day.

Since then, those three numbers and four syllables have become so charged that merely uttering them opens up a whole series of unconscious responses in our brains. And this is where I make a bold assumption: I think our brains try and force us to bring those responses. Why? Perhaps our minds will do anything to feel more at one with the world around us (that is– having stimuli to react to). Or maybe it carries a unifying spirit, a combination of anger and camaraderie that binds some of us together and paints others as enemies. A quasi-religious, wholly human trait. To make sense of the world, we need friends and enemies. We create good and bad, right and wrong, to guide us. So our brains use this simple tactic of somehow making us that bit more nervous, reminding us to check the time, in order to identify patterns and paint a picture, which speaks thousands of words to us, organizing and giving purpose to these isolated responses relative to a collective whole.
Surely the media has thought this through already….
It’s not hard for the brain to know what time it is. Forget the internal mechanism, I’m talking about down-to-the-minute accuracy. Think of all the places and times that two numbers with a colon in between occurs in your field of vision. Between waking up and sitting down at work, I see my bedside clock, my laptop screen, VCR, clock in the kitchen, New York 1, NPR, cell phone (about once every 5 minutes), microwave, church bell tower, train ticker, useful little news screen in my elevator, even my work telephone. Each display the time, and these are all within one hour. Of course my brain is going to know when 9:11 is. I also happens to fall right on one of the most stressful times of the day: the beginning. I realized, horrified, on the train platform, that even with the train display and the courteous robot PA voice, people still lean out to check for themselves if the next train REALLY IS far away and still out of sight. I couldn’t bear the stress of checking the time the second I emerge from the train station. What difference will it make? I’m going to walk the same distance at roughly the same speed anyway. I had to return to my Scandinavian roots: where some clocks are made that look like this:

The idea being that you don’t ever need to know EXACTLY what time it is, to the second. In fact, maybe even the minute hand is excessive. One need just to look at the clock and realize, “Oh, it’s time to eat.” or “Oh, it should be getting dark soon.” And here I had always wondered what those silly log clocks were for, with that one short hand that never seemed to move.

“Can you miss a plane by 5 seconds?”
The second hand is something of an invention, something we need just to indicate that time is passing.
This was all too much for me.
So I stopped wearing a watch.

*[Reference]

Spend enough time chatting with literary folks, i.e. professional readers and writers, and you may (as you can bet your ass I did) get frustrated with the many sophisticated forms that reference has adopted– there are asterisks, there are endnotes, there are headers and footers, there are bibliographies, and there are (let’s not forget) parentheses. And more. I put this simple question forward to Charlotte once: what is the difference between referencing something in a footnote and in parentheses? Further, what’s so taboo about simply inserting a paragraph starting with “As an aside….” and forgo footnotes entirely? The answer was disarmingly honest: the concession that these various forms are more than just aesthetic choices, but beyond the empirical realm they each hold their own unique tones and rhythms. And because of this, a good writer needs to be very much in aware of the nuances associated with each and make decisions according to how she wants her essay to sound and flow. It’s not all that different in the end from any other aesthetic choice. There is the danger, of course, of excessive referencing, where her own work may get lost, and as a good DJ may string together dozens of perfect pieces of music, it may be well composed but ultimately bring nothing new to the table. Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves skirts on this surface, mocking it, but luckily I was glad to come to the personal conclusion that the book was in fact just a love story cleverly hidden at the center of a hedge maze of a myriad of otherwise fascinating references. The references themselves manage to construct a new entity. Forest Gospel has a couple of images. Artistically, it is what began with the audacity of Duchamp, formalized with the constructivist likes of Karl Waldmann and continued to the singular Robert Rauschenberg. In a very short while, creating works out of preexisting material was entirely legitimized.

Oftentimes we find ourselves, as creators, at odds between extremes– streaming either towards conceiving of something purely of our own, something unique, or towards ‘creating’ something ‘plucked’ from the surrounding world, with as little interference on your part as possible. Both are legitimate. Both present debatable ideas. Both are also impossible.
As I have already stated, there is no such thing as pure creation, out of nothing. (Our definition of concepts like space clue us in on this: O. F. Bollnow refers to Aristotle and the German language [“Raum”: creating a clearing, esp. from a forest and esp. for settlement.] to produce proof that space is not at all infinite and objective, as Newton said, but rather more like an infinitely thin membrane which surrounds life. Lived space. Space experienced. Human space.) Every work arrives at this stage; when it needs to decide: footnote or parentheses, and address this duality, as it has entered the collective eye of the audience and they will inquire of it eventually.

The amen break

This video will provide the anchor, at which I will tug every once in a while to make sure I am not drifting into the blue.

Creation has always, since its birth, included reference and copying under its umbrella of legitimate bringers of form. Many times in the history of the western world have people rediscovered an interest in the worlds of antiquity (rediscovered) and begun reviving aesthetics therefrom, so much so that it changed the course of the status quo. If artistic progress were a road, would these revivals be considered a U-turn? A backing up? An empty tank of gas? I think they are neither, for these carry a negative connotation. As I said, certainly every work that has been created ever since ever has had some precedent. In a morbid, very Lacanian sense, art, as the “self,” can never not have precedent. As a necessary aside, this finding of a point of no precedent (something more interesting than the Big Bang) is another chain of thoughts. As Nate Harrison mentions late in the recording, even the first fire witnessed by man wasn’t without preexisting conditions. We should be thankful for these conditions, because they are what give us limitations, real or imagined, and which provide that fantastic freedom-within-constraints which is so vital to the human imagination.*

Nate Harrison starts to skirt the surfaces of a crisis around 7:06. He mentions “fetishization” at 7:26. Hooray.
At a meeting today, the question came up of “do we make this building actually mobile, and moveable, or do we make a solid piece of architecture that implies or symbolizes time, and change, at a less perceivable rate, and those who can readily read architecture will see the implicit gesture?” I said, “Think of hundreds of years ago when architects were probably considered idiots for dreaming of moving buildings. They had to come up with inventive ways of indirectly expressing it without being literal.” (We do after all use adjectives like ‘swooping’ ‘soaring’ ‘floating’ and others for old buildings even though they don’t actually. This is the power of the imagination, both as a force that creates these illusions and as a lens which allows for the interpretation of those adjectives in the final product.) The first thing we learn about Queen Hatshepsut’s Temple is its apparent emergence from (and camouflage with) the mountains behind it. Of course it isn’t literally doing that but the evocation is strong.

We know for a fact that the Eiffel Tower isn’t about to launch itself into outer space, but it certainly gives that vertical thrust of a feeling, even from a distance.

Then, of course, we get the buildings that are too wannabe-moving without actually being moving. When I see Frank Gehry’s buildings, I am starkly disappointed upon realizing that it doesn’t do what it looks like it can, because the illusion is so sought after perfecting that my imagination gets screwed with and upon entering and seeing right angles, familiar materials and construction methods, I am angered that I was led on like a baby getting boo-boohed and gah-gaahed.

This kind of architecture pays no heed and plays no tag with the human imagination, as architecture should. The spectacle is glorified and the ideas are so juvenile that I am left to wonder whether this architect really considers the wholeness of the building, the relation of inside to outside, of plan to elevation, of assembly to detail.

Architecture is an art that is primarily immobile. Still is. Granted, mobile buildings have been built and the result can be fantastic. But technology is still prohibitively expensive to accommodate such construction and entertaining these ideas of buildings that embody these verbs literally as opposed to evoking them poetically should, for all intents and purposes, not leave the napkin. Near the end of our meeting today, we agreed that there’s a give-and-take– the more moving parts the building has, the less iconic and sculptural it becomes. We are not there yet. We cannot build buildings in our likeness. But that’s one reason why we have this fantastic imagination thing.

A tug at the anchor chain…

The reason I brought up buildings is that it is a direct analogy of the sampler and what it did to music in the 80s. Instead of evoking and referencing styles and songs and other artists indirectly through one’s own creations, you could now reference things directly. Use musical quotation marks. I’m afraid there is something of the human imagination that is left behind when we abandon that purity of creation and shift to direct recycling. It of course traces its roots back to quotation in the textual sense, which may have been the first time (and the easiest) that someone appropriated someone else’s work as their own. But I can think of an earlier example– the first teacher.
Teaching, and handing something down is an artform no matter what the substance, is inherently about copying and repetition. Repetition, in fact, to the utmost extreme. The closer you get to the original, the better, and the more effective the teaching. It is also the struggle to attain the unattainable [an ideology], as with each passing-down there is an iota that changes and is subjected, again, to the onslaught of the imagination, and in the larger sense, to our brain’s tireless thinking of thoughts. In the failure to pass something on verbatim and as an exact duplicate one discovers the glory of the conscious mind. Teaching is the backbone of progress. Imagine the history of human creation compressed into one human life. Imagine you were taught nothing. How would you communicate? When would you learn to use tools? Express your ideas? Teaching and the faculty of passing down information has become all but an instinct (a logical offspring of the instinct driving communication), and it is a fabulous example of the significance of the new extremes homo sapiens must take stands between: between faith to the story and faith to lucid communication.

Nate Harrison sounds to life the anchor and calls this, at 11:10, “the spirit of a pledge to new forms.” And later, “of potentials for new connections and meanings.” I would love to pose some core questions about why we search for meaning. But that’s a sort of second volume. So later.
The large number of questions posed at the end only reflect the unresolved state of the piracy and free speech debate, which SOPA and PIPA have just thrown to front stage. And ends the recording with a pedagogical technique befitting its topic: a quotation. One that rings true and is one of those truths that’s like the darned sun and just won’t go away every time we pray the glare away. Kozinski really hit the nail on the head with his “accretion” comment. And, any judge whose final comments in a high-profile case (contesting Barbie’s status as a sex object….) are “the parties are advised to chill” gets a huge plus in my book of don’t-take-anything-too-seriously-ism.

*See post entitled [Reference]