7.23.06: A Scanner Darkly

It’s official, what’s going on Iraq is a civil war.

Malu and I went to see A Scanner Darkly. I tried to untangle the plot for her afterwards — an almost hopeless task, but I suspect that all the plot twists are actually followable — I simply missed a jump or two. I also guessed that the dedications from Dick at the end, just before the credits, were a list of his friends and acquaintances who had died or been permanently damaged by drugs in the late 60s and early 70s. We agreed that the rotoscoped animation was the perfect medium for this story and that Woody Harrelson and Robert Downey Jr. were great. At times I was reminded of The Strangerhood, the machinima made from The Sims game characters — also a bunch of existentially lost stoners who can’t figure out who or where they are.

There are lovely visual metaphors — the scramble suits as the façades one wears at work, the view of Keanu Reeves's baffled face — his “real self”  — inside a suit, trying to sort his life out. Spying on oneself as a metaphor for consciousness and the two halves of the brain at war with each other.

7.22.06: Blowback

Not only have the Bush-‘n-Blair bunch pooh-poohed the proposed UN cease fire between Israel and Lebanon (their argument is to let Israel flush out the Hezbollah baddies, no matter what the toll on the Lebanese people or on that country’s infrastructure — let Israel do its worse for a while) but now the Bush team is also supplying high-tech arms to Israel — hastening the destruction of the Lebanese infrastructure… and probably cementing the hatred directed towards the U.S. by not only the Arab world but by much of the 3rd world populace as well.

Commentators wonder what Hezbollah was thinking when they provoked Israel to a predictable reaction. Israel, whose hawks invoke the Holocaust as a justification for decimation of their neighbors. “We may have been powerless and had few defenders then, but now we have missiles, tanks and technology, and the backing of the Imperial USA, so fuck with us at your peril, we won’t be pushed around any more, never again.” An understandable, if somewhat impracticable, sentiment.

Other commentators have pointed out that previous Israeli invasions and “security measures” all but created — as in gave popular support to — both Hamas and Hezbollah, just as recent U.S. policies in the “war against terrorism” has had the effect of serving as a recruiting poster for anti U.S. causes. Similarly, the “war against drugs” in Latin America — a policy that was perceived locally as an attack on poor rural farmers rather than on drug kingpins — might also be seen as the seed that grew into the current wave of anti-American leaders and popular sentiment. The blowback isn’t always immediate or an exact mirror of the policy or action — it sometimes takes years to manifest and may pop up in wildly unexpected forms.

7.16.06: Questions

Hezbollah has retaliated and launched missiles reaching Haifa. The Israeli death toll therefore has now reached 24…the Lebanese toll is now up to 130…and rising…rising fast.

Beirut:

One would think that if Hezbollah is indeed a rebel unauthorized organization the Lebanese government (lots of world wide news trumpeting the democratic elections a year or so ago) would and could stop missiles being launched from within their own country. Maybe the fact that the attacks are the responsibility of Hezbollah makes the blame distant, disavowable. “Let them be the guilty ones though we all might possibly sympathize.” Maybe with these massive Israeli air strikes — the destruction of the Beirut airport, bridges, the naval blockade, and the suburbs on fire — well, it might make the possibility of the Lebanese government stopping or restraining Hezbollah by force into an unpopular move? Each side seems almost to have an interest in creating and maintaining the existence of their enemies — as if the enemy confirms one’s own existence; an enemy gives us a reason and incentive to struggle against. Without our enemies we are just pathetic groups eking out an existence — with enemies we have noble purpose.

Here’s a blog from Beirut, with music and bombs: mazenkerblog.blogspot.com
And another blog from NYC: israelblog.org

Here’s Tel Aviv

and Beirut

Haifa:

7.15.06: Why? What were they thinking?

Israel has bombed Lebanon’s airport and instituted a naval blockade, essentially holding the entire Lebanese people hostage. Hezbollah, the renegade militant organization with reputed assistance and encouragement from Iran and Syria, had previously launched some missiles into Israel and had captured a few Israeli soldiers to use as barter and leverage for the soldiers or civilians abducted by Israel previously. These Hezbollah capturings follow the capture of a single Israeli solder in Gaza a few days earlier and massive retaliation and move into Gaza territory by Israel as a response on that front.

Reportedly some Lebanese are pretty pissed off at Hezbollah, who may have liked nothing better than to “set things off”, and in this case they seem to have been granted their wish. The inappropriately massive Israeli response has been condemned by the EU and others, but in a funny way it may have reinforced the Lebanese disavowal and disenfranchisement of Hezbollah, which is the desired effect, according to Israel. We’ll see if that doesn’t change to support as the bodies add up. Beirut, once the Paris of the middle east, is still a vacation spot for Arabs, but probably not this summer — which will mean a big loss of revenue for a country just pulling itself together.

(Still thinking about those dogs in Argentina. How some can’t resist periodic incursions into others’ territory, despite the inevitable and painful repercussions. How dogs form temporary alliances. How they often bluff, or attempt to bluff, those with greater strength.)

A dangerous game. Israel’s inappropriately large response (73 Lebanese civilians dead at last count) may have the desired effect of alienating the Lebanese people (and the Palestinians) from the radicals in their midst, but it may also serve to rile up and provoke the surrounding nations who would like nothing better than an excuse to attack Israel. Israel naturally feels that they have the tacit unspoken support of the mighty U.S. should any such larger scale attack occur, and this is probably true. For now. And Israel has superior military arms, technology and strength. (The U.S. looked the other way as Israel developed the bomb.) But with oil getting scarcer and scarcer one wonders how long those U.S. promises to protect Israel will hold out. The U.S., it will be remembered, did NOT welcome Jewish refugees fleeing the Nazis with open arms — they were often turned away. Many went to Argentina. (Many of the members of La Portuaria have Jewish ancestry.) Odd that Argentina would also welcome fleeing Nazis in later years — or maybe that was the ultimate act of neutrality. Anyway, the U.S. has found ways to reverse its promises and commitments in the past, and oil may be a powerful and sad pragmatic incentive to do so in the future.

Hezbollah leader: "You wanted open war. We are ready for an open war."

I remember years ago during a lovely Seder dinner in Sydney with a friend’s extended family there was talk of “bombing them all”. It reminded me of the quote from Gen. Westmoreland in the Vietnam era urging the U.S. to bomb the Vietnamese back to the Stone Age.

7.6.06: Art, Money, Industry and Landscape — Marfa, Texas Pt. 2

[Continued from Part 1]

Where to begin with an attempt at detangling the threads of recent Marfa history? The presence of the Art Mob, lead by the early 70s arrival of the late NY artist Donald Judd, is pervasive now, but everyone asks why? How?

As far as I can piece together the Marfa area had gone through a 12-year drought when Judd bought a house. Therefore real estate was incredibly cheap and plentiful. The town was on the verge of closing the door and turning off the lights — many large structures, banks, supermarkets, savings and loans — all abandoned. So here is an artist that had passed through this way previously, and had also admired the spacious desolate landscape in Baja. He had purchased a whole building in SoHo previously — this guy was a smart cookie — where his own work and that of his friends was on semi-permanent display. The notion that he could control and aestheticize the manner of presentation, the context, well it all must have been attractive. My guess is that the wide-open spaces of Texas offered the lure of more such opportunities. Judd had had a Whitney retrospective (that included no early work) in 1968, so by most standards he was a pretty successful artist. His work by then was pretty much what it was going to be — boxes. Here are some from ‘69.

So, the idea of installing this kind of stuff in the middle of nowhere is natural, right? Well, it wasn’t that unusual at that time — various land artists and others were creating huge installations in the U.S. deserts, appropriating the wide open spaces as some kind of symbol or metaphor.

Judd, amongst others, got the support of DIA, an arts organization with lots of Texas oil money. Heiner Friedrich and Philippa de Menil created the Foundation in 1974… the de Menils are associated with Schlumberger, a company that RENTS the use of a very important drilling bit. At least that’s the story I heard. Mama de Menil collected surrealist art and beyond — her collection is housed in a lovely museum in the trashy tacky town of Houston. Her children’s art interests extended to minimalist art, land art and contemporary theater. Possibly at the urging of the artists they began to “support” certain artists in a big way — funding their work and permanent installations of their work. In NYC, for example, there is Walter DeMaria’s earth room and broken kilometer more or less permanently installed and maintained in the valuable real estate of SoHo. I remember hearing about their artist support when I moved to NY in the mid 70s. Medici levels of support doesn’t begin to describe how it seemed — it seemed like these artists were being bankrolled for whatever they wanted to do and were going to be given salaries for life — at least that was the rumor. Nice work if you can get it.

So, it seems Judd was supported in his quest to buy up buildings in Marfa and created both permanent installations and a kind of living version of his art — his homes, studios and offices were physical extensions of his aesthetic, an attempt to manifest his philosophy into his daily life — and that of his family. (See Eastern State Penitentiary entry below for more on architecture as will.)

Judd pretty much, for all intents and purposes, bought the whole town. Yes, there are some huge ranches around — I was introduced some someone whose family’s ranch stretches almost to Midland Odessa — that’s about 150 miles. Like owning from NYC to the Catskills. But many many buildings in and around the town were bought by Judd (with the help of DIA, I presume.) These were then scrapped clean of all décor and reduced to their industrial essence. An aesthetic that pervades the DIA exhibition spaces to this day. It’s an extension of the Moholy-Nagy and Bauhaus idea that industrial production and architecture is more pure — the decoration is usually left off as these structures are purely utilitarian — they are beautiful in their pragmatic scientific purity. Though Judd does recognize in his writings — he was an art critic in the early 60s — that these structures that are usually seen as being authorless, they do in fact have designers, engineers and authors behind them — he suggests that the great suspension bridges be named after their designers — or at least have the designer/engineers credited. Like the modernist architects of the early part of the century, these massive structures and frill-free applications of emerging technology were espoused as the way of the future. (Moholy-Nagy and his wife did a lovely photo book documenting “anonymous” American industrial architecture — grain silos, dams, factories — as did Le Corbusier, he of the funny glasses. Photo books as manifestos.)

Anyway, Judd and many others pushed these ideas to their limits — the “hand” of the artist was eliminated — the work was fabricated by “factories” using industrial technology — the artist merely submitted drawings and approved (or not) the finished piece. The work was outsourced, as we would say today. This way of working was an extension of the notion of “art as idea” that began in the early part of the 20th century and was applied by Warhol (I remember how shocking it seemed to many that AW didn’t actually silk screen some of his own paintings) and by conceptual artists in the 60s whose work consisted simply of written instructions. The surfaces, especially of Judd’s pieces, were made by machine, or at least simulated that perfection; the edges razor-sharp, the colors flat or non-existent and the look was inhumanly perfect. There were no fingerprints, smudges or smears. Furthermore, to add to the effect, these works were, and are often are, shown in former industrial spaces — SoHo lofts, white cubes around the world and the spaces in Marfa.

To some all this machine worship was heresy, to others it was inevitable and the only proper artistic reflection of contemporary society. As with anyone accused of heresy, many of these artists became a little touchy and defensive about their work — understandably — as they were being accused of being con artists, slick operators or lazy bums who didn’t make their own art. But being supported by the deep oily pockets of DIA sure must have lessened many of those hurt feelings.

Judd proceeded to buy property and tidy it up. Here is the former Fort Russell on the outskirts of town that he bought and turned into a massive permanent installation of immaculate (a perfect word for this stuff) aluminum cubes — no two alike but all almost alike, which is a metaphor, I would suggest. The Fort, established in 1911, was used as a based to “protect” Texas from Pancho Villa. Between wars it was a base for the Mounted Command, whose task was to stop Mexican immigration. Nothing much changed there. During WWII it became a kind of Guantanamo of West Texas. It was used to house German prisoners of war — some “renditioned” from North Africa and elsewhere and relocated to the Fort in the middle of nowhere, out of sight out of mind — certainly out of public and media view. Not much change there either.

Some massive sheds house 100 of the aluminum cubes…

…and massive concrete cubes dot the surrounding fields — like remnants of some abandoned huge highway overpass construction. A comparison that would not be sneered at, but most likely seen as a compliment. The area of buildings that comprises the former fort extends almost a mile, so that gives you some idea of the scale of this “installation”.

Another set of 12 buildings (each a pair tied by a narrow hallway — 12 buildings!) — house a Dan Flavin fluorescent light installation. Ostensibly it is one piece. Yow. These guys think big. Judd and Flavin were good friends — and neighbors in NY — but even though Judd named one of his kids Flavin the two artists had a falling out (no one could provide details) and the light bulb installation, though designed and proposed years earlier, was only installed after both artists were dead.

I have to admit that despite the scary inhuman perfection of many of Judd’s pieces the aluminum cubes are pretty luxurious and even sensuous. I wonder if these guys eventually allowed or admitted sensuality into their work consciously. I imagine they themselves always thought it was present — though maybe it was not apparent to most viewers — but some of these later pieces by both artists have a kind of awe-inspiring and even religious beauty that might be seen as antithetical to their own rigorous purist (Protestant Zen?) philosophies. Maybe the artists had transcended themselves and their own blinkered self-imposed rules.

Here are a couple of the Flavin pieces.

A far cry from the boring industrial sets of his white fluorescent bulbs that occupy a massive part of the DIA Beacon building, these seem more related to Jim Turrell and Bob Irwin’s light and space pieces. Otherworldly, transcendent. Turrell’s, Irwin’s and Flavin’s pieces of this type are popular; people are drawn to them and pass word on about them to others, like an “aesthetic experience” theme park ride you “have to see”.

In another building there are vitrines with Carl Andre’s concrete poetry displayed. Typewritten poems on various subjects that to me are lovely, joyous and playful — I like them much more than his sculptures.

move us to the cool chalk-like what clarity
over all tortures where once great centuries
danced celtic with gaiety bleeds on thy mouth
of me in paradises

In the process of buying up half of Marfa Judd helped the town reclaim their water rights — a not entirely altruistic move that had the side effect of allowing the town to revive, as it is doing now. This was no small matter. Water is everything around here. There are aquifers up near Balmorea, at least 40 miles away to the north, but I don’t know what lies beneath Marfa.

Besides the massive permanent exhibits of his own work he caused to be made here Judd had numerous houses and buildings scattered around town that house smaller exhibits, early work, furniture collections, and of course, his own house, studio and family quarters.

The earlier work to be seen in some of these buildings was also, except for one set of organic abstract paintings, fairly minimal — a word he didn’t accept — but even in the most Spartan of these one could see traces of the artist’s hand, traces which would soon be eliminated.

The living quarters abound with examples of Judd’s self-designed furniture. Hard-edged wooden plank tables and chairs that seem profoundly uncomfortable, but echo his art completely. The earlier furnishings are rougher — they seem imaginative and thrifty solutions to utilitarian and aesthetic problems. Later pieces became more polished, but were still made of humble materials like plywood.

Many of these table and chair sets were large, there is seating at each table for a dozen at least, implying that there were often guests, barbecues and drinking. There were beds — a mattress enclosed by a plywood box — in many of the buildings, allowing Judd to slip off to dreamland wherever he found himself. Towards the back of the house were the children’s rooms: immaculate little chambers, the little beds tucked under an alcove. By crouching under the alcove one could raise one’s head through a hole and see the children’s closets and storage — where the mess was hidden. I was reminded of Eastern State, but never mind — the kids, I was told by some friends who know them, are well adjusted and have turned out fine.

Across from the buildings above in this compound there is the library — a massive former industrial structure (naturally) with the books on building-length shelves grouped by subject and arranged within their subjects by peculiar organizing systems — artists’ monographs were arranged by artists’ date of birth, for example.

Here is a man who lived by his convictions, who turned — possibly as we all do, unknowingly  — his philosophy, his aesthetics and his work into his life. There was no border between the two — at least not on the evidence available here. Mechanical, industrial or Zen, or all three?

Inhuman, post-human or spiritually transcendent? I sense the utopian ambitions of the 50s and 60s here, paired with a spiritual yearning and Protestant need for control. No sloppy hippie shit here. Libation and self-denial, simultaneously. Push and pull. A bundle of contradictions if you ask me, but fascinating.

People from distant parts are moving here. The “Pizza Foundation” restaurant (a pun of the various art foundations in town) is staffed by RISD graduates. Collectors pass through, there are dinners and drinks and late nights. MoMA runs a film program here (they’re thinking of moving to a drive-in to be built on Barry Tubb’s property.) Visiting artists — some invited by the art foundations — stay for a while and create editions and strange new works. The ranchers welcome the influx of cash, but it’s a bizarre coexistence. The real estate prices have rocketed up — especially for the charming and elegantly proportioned old buildings and houses that remain. The prices may be low by Houston or NY standards, but they’re becoming prohibitively high for locals.

On the 3-hour drive back to Midland-Odessa to catch the plane to NY I pass a church — even the churches look Spartan and industrial in this landscape.

7.4.06: The Landscape — Marfa, Texas Pt. 1

This town was named after a minor Dostoyevsky character and now it is known primarily for the Marfa Lights — strange aurora borealis like phenomena on that occur on the edge of town — and the permanent installation of a lot of work by minimalist sculptor Donald Judd.

I’d never been to this area, so when my friends Terry and Jo Harvey Allen announced that they’d be having their biennial wedding anniversary blowout here it seemed like a great opportunity to see them — and all the singer-songwriter and artist friends of theirs who will arrive. It’s also a chance to see the spectacular landscapes around here. Here is a view from Big Bend National Park:

I flew into Midland-Odessa, the twinned oil towns about 160 miles north of Marfa. I’d never seen them and anticipated viewing some oil field culture residue….lots full of drilling equipment in disarray, metal building manufacturers, “Bush Country” T-shirts, bobbing oil pumps scattered across the landscape and flatness. Lots of flatness:

I stopped at the Odessa Meteor Crater, a 600 foot wide, 20 foot deep depression just 5 miles off the highway. I was underwhelmed, but I guess when the landscape is as featureless as it is around here a 20-foot depression is a big deal.

Past Pecos the landscape began to change — dramatic igneous formations stuck up here and there, hills appeared on both sides of the road with remnants of lava forming spiny ridges along their tops. Here were prehistoric seas, swamps, jungles and volcanoes.

Marfa is in a dry flat area in between these outcroppings that you reach after winding through various hills and canyons. In some ways it is a typical small Texan town with a beautiful old central courthouse, a train track running through the middle, grain and cattle loading facilities…but that’s where the ordinariness ends. The main street here is lined with super contemporary Spartan-looking art galleries and the offices of at least 3 art foundations. There is a “good” restaurant with white tablecloths and a tasteful bookstore and coffee and wine bar wedged in between the post office, the barbershop and the NPR station offices.

My hotel — El Paisano — was where the cast of the film Giant stayed. I did not get the James Dean room or the Liz Taylor room. The lobby has 4 gift and tchotchke stores and a room with memorabilia of the famous film shoot. This month another film is shooting nearby. A period film directed by PT Anderson (Boogie Nights, Magnolia) starring Daniel Day Lewis and others. I run into the soundman that worked with me on True Stories many years ago in Dallas and is now working on that film.

It was during the prep for True Stories that I met Jo Harvey and Terry. They were recommended to me by Joan Tewkesbury, screenwriter of Nashville and a number of other films. I had approached Joan out of the blue for advice and thoughts, which she willingly gave. I knew I wanted my film to wear its narrative very lightly, and I saw Nashville (and some other Altman films) as very successful examples of this.

She said I HAD to see Jo Harvey’s performance work and listen to Terry’s music, which I did. We became friends and over many get-togethers in Santa Fe and elsewhere I got to know some of the Allens’ circle of friends — many of whom are also artists or singer-songwriters. Their New Year’s Eve parties would often end, as is common for Texas musicians (and Brazilian ones too) with a guitar being passed around and everyone who wrote or sang taking a turn and singing a song, often until late into the wee hours. (This tradition was continued here around the Thunderbird hotel fireplace, where most of the others stayed.)

It took me a bit to get used to this homey approach to music and performance. New Yorkers are sadly more “professional” in their attitude towards their art. We usually perform for money under controlled circumstances. We see ourselves as artistes whose performances are as controlled as we can manage them. (More on control later.) The camaraderie amongst musicians does exists up here in NY, but can you imagine a house party where Madonna picks up a guitar after dinner and serenades the drunken guests with a new song, and then passes the guitar to David Bowie? Not likely, I imagine, though who knows? But amongst Texans it’s the normal course of events. When I fist encountered and participated in these campfire sings I realized the meaning and resonance of these things goes deeper — to some extent this is a way of resisting the century-old trend of produced and commodified entertainment and culture.

We tend to see our culture and entertainment as something made by “others”, by “professionals”, which we then buy, attend, consume or purchase. It has been removed from us, our own culture. It’s made by those with distant professionals with the requisite levels of skill. craft and polish. When it was discovered that there was money to be made in marketing and packaging what was once locally produced and amateur popular music (and everything else) it slowly was insinuated that it was weird and uncool to make it at home with your friends — how unprofessional! It became considered strange and unlikely to create your own entertainment and to leave the TV off (as well as being unprofitable.) But in quite a few places this never took hold — Texas, Brazil, and Spain I can personally vouch for as examples of cultures where this process of creation and performance continued being transparent and public (well, amongst friends.)

A slightly more organized version of this would be presented this Friday and Saturday nights at a local bar here that is either called Ray’s or Joe’s depending on who you talk to. All the wedding anniversary hangers-on and stray visitors to town were invited, and the small cover charge went to a local clinic. (17K raised — enough to keep them afloat for the next year.) Terry did tell me to bring a guitar, so I was prepared. Again I felt a little the odd man out amongst the Texas singer songwriter royalty — Joe Ely, Guy Clarke, Will Sexton, Nora George, Ryan Bingham, Terry, Colin Gilmore, Bukka Allen, Butch Hancock and some others I didn’t know — some of whom sang later around the fire — but having joined this circle a number of times on various New Year’s eves and at other small benefits we can join on each other’s songs with something like comfort and ease.

Part of the attraction here is the local scenery — the landscape is big, harsh, desolate and spacious. The locals didn’t seem very interested, but some of us were determined to visit Big Bend National Park, which is only a couple of hours’ drive away. The Rio Grande cuts a swath through an area of mixed geology — more igneous extrusions, limestone uplifts with canyons cut through, sandstone formations, geologic folding and bending. (The Midland Odessa area is known locally as the Permian Basin, so geological terms are not as academic here as in many other places — geology will tell if there is oil underground or water for your cattle — it is destiny around here.)

A few of us head out at 7:30 and when we arrive there’s no one in the park — a big 8 entries today according to the gate lady — who seems sad when we drive on. We go for a bike ride from Castolon to Santa Elena canyon mouth and back. 

It’s getting hot by the time we head back. Mike, from whom we hired the bikes in Terlingua, tells us of the changes since the border has been tightened up by Homeland Security and the recent wave of immigration paranoia. (That’s Mexico on the left wall of the canyon.) In many places the river is a lot wider and shallower than this, so it’s often no big deal to cross it. Global warming and drought — and water siphoned off for irrigation — have affected the river level — the river is almost pathetic at times. In the recent past it was usual for folks to cross the river for lunch in the town of Santa Elena (8km downriver from the canyon) or other little Mexican towns that had sprung up across the river up to sell gifts, supplies and lunches. For the most part that has ended due to increased “security” and the towns are now mostly dead. In many cases roads from both sides converged on opposite shores of the river — there being no auto bridge — and little bits of commerce were made. Now these roads are surreal outposts — like viewing stations at the former Berlin Wall — where people can look at the other side but can’t meet. (Apparently, there are some little settlements at the end of some dirt roads outside the park where one can still walk across on a rickety bridge to Mexico — I guess the Border Patrol conveniently ignores some spots — a mountain inside Big Bend state park is called Contrabando Mountain, which maybe admits more than many might like.)

500 National Guard troops are due in this area soon, a presence that will be strange and tense for many who live and work around here. There are Border Patrol stops on the 2 roads north out of the park — we were stopped and they looked at my Green Card. I noticed that they had employed a former Mexican immigrant to help stop further Mexicans from entering. Mike said that someone recently spotted a back SUV with official looking guys hanging down where the river spills out of the canyon into some cottonwoods and floodplain. It was discovered they were doing a feasibility study for the wall that now exists on the western portion of the U.S./Mexico border. Imagine a massive wall slicing through the scenery.

A photo of the wall from Ron Moak’s hiking blog:

and some of his thoughts:

Some 2650 winding trail miles to the north stands the Canadian border. Unlike this place, the Canadian border is ten yard wide clear cut that undulates its way across endless ridges along the 45th parallel. No walls, no patrols, no motion detectors and most important no fear. Just a friendly sign welcoming hikers to Canada. Why aren't there walls to keep those hokey loving Canadians out? Is it because, for the most part, they talk, look, act and think like us?

We head up to Chisos basin, which is pretty spectacular.

This is not the basin — this is the return road — the basin looks more like Zion National Park — because of its higher altitude the basin is cooler and greener.

Back to Marfa.

7.3.06: Eastern State Penitentiary, Rizzoli, Juana Molina

The Price of Good Intentions

Went on a location scout to Eastern State Penitentiary in Philadelphia (for background elements for the scene in Here Lies Love with Aquino in the old Philippine prison at Ft. Bonifacio.) Eastern State was a prison until fairly recently but was built in the early 1800s and was the largest building in the U.S., second only to the Capitol for many years. It is massive, a giant walled castle. Viewed as a marvel of enlightened policy, it was on the must-see list of Charles Dickens, ranked alongside Niagara Falls.

Now it’s designated a “historical ruin” so there is simultaneously an effort to stabilize its crumbling walls and ceilings and to use it as a site-specific art installation joint. (Janet Cardiff and George Bures Miller have a piece installed in which machines tap on walls and fixtures that is disturbingly similar to my Playing The Building piece.)

Here’s a typical room — though typical rooms don’t have barber’s chairs.

This is like some dystopic nightmare image. Room 101 from 1984? Or something from a NIN music video?

Anyway, back to the enlightened policy. The prison was an expression of Quaker philosophy — that humans are innately good and that it is outside influences that make people lose their way and do bad things. Society, family, bad friends, drugs and drink, movies and cheap novels, comic books…whatever, if you could separate the divine essence from the evil earthly stink and tarnish, the good — being a human’s default mode in this view — would eventually overpower the bad, and voilà! The poor sod has been rehabilitated, with no coercion, torture or even reasoning necessary!

In order to achieve this remarkable effect one had simply to remove the tarnished soul from all — and we mean all — outside influence, and the shine would magically return. All prisoners were therefore in solitary confinement, always. Sorry, no family visits, no friends and no hanging with other prisoners. Rare trips outside the cells necessitated hooded head coverings, like the U.S. does now. Wow. Sounds bad, huh? Yes, the insanity and suicide rate was pretty high. (That sounds like Gitmo, too.)

Well, there was an upside. Part of the enlightened policy demanded that all prisoners be provided with good decent meals, water, toilet facilities, hygiene, heated rooms (this when central heat did not exist) and even fresh air — every cell had a teeny walled-in yard, with walls high enough to prevent views of anything but the sky. Most other prisons were Dickensian cesspools — large rooms, unclean (you can imagine) with every offender thrown in together.

So, on balance, how many, what percentage, actually did better due to the heat, meals and hygiene and how many went bonkers?

Funny how what we now judge to be partially enlightened ideas can now seem almost as wrongheaded and harmful as that which they proposed to replace. How could anyone not see that the human is a social animal, that separated from other people the human is not a whole creature — we are completed by our families, friends, co-workers. Without interaction we are like routers with nothing coming in our out — we are just potential.

The hermit or monk on the mountaintop is therefore no longer human — which could be a source of insight for some, but mostly an insight into transcendent shit, not into our lives and loves.

Also amazing how a building is a physical expression and manifestation of a philosophy. Super clearly in the case of this structure — the walls, the rows of cells along spokes radiating from a central axis. (It is NOT a panoptical — the circular form of other prisons in which every cell can be seen from a central tower — the Bush/Cheney surveillance and monitoring networks are the information equivalent of that.) I wonder if all buildings are in some ways manifestations of the prevailing mindset. Of course they are. They’re practical, too, keeping us warm and dry…but beyond that they are thoughts and presumptions from neural impulses to brick and steel and glass.

There is an “outsider” artist, Achilles Rizzoli, who draws massive “portraits” of people rendered as massive edifices. Huge elaborate fantasy buildings, the drawings have titles like “A Portrait of Mrs. Dolores Clairbourne” or something similar. From Wikipedia: “The drawings include ‘portraits’ of his mother (whom he lived with until her death) and neighborhood children ‘symbolically sketched’ in the form of fanciful neo-baroque buildings. Some of the buildings commemorated events in Rizzoli's life, including his first glimpse of a vagina at age forty.”

Went to Bowery Ballroom to catch a show of Psapp, Juana Molina and José Gonzáles.

Juana’s audience seems to be growing — more people have heard of her than when she was opening for me on my tour a year and a half ago. Of course there were quite a few Argentines in the audience too, which helped fill the room.

I went to the dressing room to say hi and pass on a copy of Arboretum, my soon to be distributed (McSweeney's) book of tree diagrams. Juana was sporting a sort of unibrow made out of a brown pipe cleaner. I remember on tour her wearing Birkenstocks, the ultimate in uncool, yet with her it didn’t matter. Tonight she wore an extremely modest velvet no-fashion dress, like something one’s aunt might have worn in the 50s. High neckline and slightly puffy sleeves. She’s slightly peculiar and extremely intelligent. She’s performing solo, but with a sizable keyboard rig that she plays and creates loops and loops on top of loops using a free hand and pedals. There’s a tangle of cables coming out the back — how she can keep it all straight is beyond me. At one point she was having some problem with her monitor and she didn’t stop the song but began singing to the monitor engineer the instructions of what she wanted.

The audience seemed a peculiar mixture of young and slightly older hipsters — many of the women dressed nicely, as if for a summer evening out. As if they were heading to the theater or something.